Moosic Mountain

Last May seven of us stood atop Moosic Mountain listening to the thin, quick, ascending notes of a singing prairie warbler. It was mid-afternoon after hours of pouring rain and the mountain was still swathed in fog.

A heath barren in the Eales Preserve on Moosic Mt.A heath barren in the Eales Preserve on Moosic Mt.

A heath barren in the Eales Preserve on Moosic Mt. (Photo by Bruce Bonta)

Six of us, Mike and Laura Jackson, George Mahon, Sam Dietz, Bruce and I, had traveled three and a half hours from west-central Pennsylvania to explore at least a portion of this 32-mile-long mountain northeast of Scranton in Lackawanna and Wayne counties. At its tallest point–2,323 feet– it is the highest place on the Pocono Plateau. Described by biologists as having “one of the best examples of ridgetop heath barrens in the northeastern United States,” much of it is a mixed forest of small tree species–primarily pitch pine and scrub oak–with an understory of huckleberry, blueberry, rhodora, sheep laurel and other small shrubs.

Outside nearby Jessup, thousands of acres of this unique landscape are preserved at The Nature Conservancy’s 2,250-acre Dick and Nancy Eales Preserve, the 5,756-acre State Game Lands # 300, and the connecting 2000-acre Moosic Mountain Tract in Pinchot State Forest.

Rhodora in bloom at the Eales Preserve

Rhodora in bloom at the Eales Preserve (Photo by Bruce Bonta)

We spent what was left of the afternoon walking a small portion of the Eales Preserve, listening to and watching the many bird species as well as enjoying the flora under the direction of David Trently, a local birding guide and expert on the nature of this unique mountain. It was the third weekend in May and the lovely, rose-purple flowers of the rhodora shrub were in bloom. Another small shrub, sheep laurel, which is in the same genus as mountain laurel, was still in deep pink bud, while the lowbush blueberry shrubs displayed their white and pinkish, bell-shaped blossoms. Here and there small shadbush trees, which in our area are usually blooming by the second or third week in April, were still covered with white flowers, at the same time that clumps of pink lady’s slipper orchids were in bud.

Beside a small pool, we knelt to look closely at the dark red, sticky, opening sundew leaves that this carnivorous plant uses to close and trap insects for food. Then we stopped to admire the bright orange of a red eft, the terrestrial, sub-adult of the red-spotted newt, resting on a lichen-covered rock. We also heard the rattling trill of a calling gray tree frog. When we reached a meadow, Trently told us that one of the rare species at the Eales Preserve was a Leonard’s skipper, a large, reddish-brown butterfly with bright white spots that appears in late August and feeds on grasses.

But there was no doubt that the Eales Preserve was mostly bursting with birds during their peak of migration, and as members of the Juniata Valley Audubon Society, we were pleased at the variety we saw and heard despite the misty, moisty day. Since prairie warblers like scrubby, successional habitats, we were not surprised to hear them, but we were surprised to find one perched in a tree with three scarlet tanagers and a black-and-white warbler, the latter two species common breeding birds in the mature deciduous forests of central Pennsylvania.

A chestnut-sided warbler

A chestnut-sided warbler (Photo by Yankech gary on Flickr Creative Commons license)

Chestnut-sided warblers, also breeders in scrub and low second growth forests, were expected when we heard and then saw their golden-topped heads and chestnut-colored sides, and we were delighted to learn that the yellow-rumped warblers, with golden crowns in addition to their bright yellow rumps, nested in the Preserve.

In fact, almost all the birds we saw there were breeding including a singing, black-necklaced Canada warbler, a buffy-spectacled Swainson’s thrush, nine black-masked, pointed crested, cedar waxwings, a flashy, black and white, rose-breasted grosbeak, a black and orange American redstart, a black masked, common yellowthroat, a black-throated green warbler, and a black and orange Baltimore oriole, two magnolia warblers, two rusty-brown veery thrushes singing their breezy, ethereal, downward scale song in the surrounding forest and too many eastern towhees to count. It may have been a chilly 56 degrees, but the humidity and the brilliant colors and songs of so many birds seemed reminiscent of their southern winter homes in tropical and subtropical forests.

A bay-breasted warbler

A bay-breasted warbler (Photo by Andy Reago & Chrissy McClarren on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

In addition to the singing of the veeries, I was thrilled by the sight of a bay-breasted warbler, the only non-breeding bird species we saw that day. This large, handsome male warbler has a black face, a buff patch on either side of his neck, and a reddish-brown patch on the top of his head and another on his throat and either side of his white breast. This species breeds across the boreal regions of Canada. I used to see these warblers during migration on our mountain but I hadn’t seen one in years. Apparently, their numbers fluctuate from year to year depending on outbreaks of spruce budworms and other caterpillars.

Altogether, we counted 33 bird species on the Eales Preserve during only a mile or so of walking atop the high, relatively flat, mountaintop terrain. This property has 12 miles of trails open to hiking and biking, and we regretted that we couldn’t explore more of it. Still, we were glad that in 2001 the Pennsylvania chapter of The Nature Conservancy had stepped in, with the help of local activists, to purchase this unique area that had been slated to become a business park. Since then, the Eales generosity has allowed the Conservancy to continue to expand the preserve and conduct prescribed burning that is necessary to maintain the fire-dependent natural community.

A prairie warbler

A prairie warbler (Photo by Kenneth Cole Schneider on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Early the following foggy, windy morning, we drove to SGL # 300. On this gamelands there were many singing prairie warblers, and we had an excellent view of one singing from the top of a dead snag. In the scrub oak habitat interrupted and cinnamon ferns were unfurling and Canada mayflower was in flower. It was still red eft weather and we found four on the gravel road and two more on rocks. Spring peepers called and spotted salamander egg masses floated in Robinson Pond, a manmade wetland/marsh impoundment of about 50 acres with cattails, phragmites, pole stage birch trees, and steeplebush shrubs.

Watching and listening for birds in the fog at SGL 300, left to right, Mike Jackson, David Trently, Laura Jackson, the author

Watching and listening for birds in the fog at SGL 300, left to right, Mike Jackson, David Trently, Laura Jackson, the author (Photo by Bruce Bonta)

As we walked along the network of gated roads, we found starflower, wild oats, and dwarf ginseng in bloom. But it was the birds that delighted and amazed us, singing vigorously in a habitat that shifted from patches of more mature trees to shrubby scrub oak and pitch pine. We saw and heard many of the same species we had seen at the Eales Preserve—black-and-white warbler, veery, yellow-rumped warbler, rose-breasted grosbeak, black-throated green warbler, for instance—but in a large planting of small birches field sparrows sang, a black and yellow magnolia warbler, which prefers to breed in low conifers, perched and posed in a red pine tree, and a black-throated blue warbler sang in the mature forest along with a scarlet tanager and an ovenbird.

Once again the bay-breasted warblers were my birds of the day. This time four were perched together in gray birches and were close enough that we could clearly see that three were either the duller colored immatures or females and the fourth was a brightly-hued male.

Even with seven pairs of eyes and ears alert to every bird species, we were grateful for Trently’s superior birding skills, especially when we heard what sounded like a scolding red squirrel but turned out to be an uncommon call of a common yellowthroat.

The tracks of a black bear

The tracks of a black bear (Photo by K Young in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

In fact, we saw no mammals on Moosic Mountain during our two days, although it is known to have a population of snowshoe hares as well as the usual black bears, bobcats, coyotes, and deer. We did spot fresh tracks of a black bear in the muddy road of SGL # 300 and those of deer. We also had none of the views at 2240 feet that visitors on clear days rave about.

Only when we dropped down to Lake Ariel did the sun break through and deliver a new suite of birds in the brushy trail near the lake and the lake itself, for example, bald eagle, red-shouldered hawk, ruby-throated hummingbird, belted kingfisher, yellow-bellied sapsucker, alder and least flycatchers, blue-gray gnatcatcher, warbling vireo, and barn swallow.

Then it was time to leave. In spite of the weather we had enjoyed our time on Moosic Mountain and our intimate looks at 53 bird species including 12 species of warblers.

 

A Visiting Porcupette

“Mom, there’s a porcupette in your herb garden,” our son Mark said.

A porcupine in our field

A porcupine in our field (Photo by Dave Bonta on Flickr)

I hurried out to see it. The little creature was tucked in against our brick chimney and flapped its tiny tail when I put my hand near it. Apparently, it had climbed up the slope from the overgrown flat area below.

The porcupette seemed young to be out and about on its own, especially in midday, because there was no sign of a mother porcupine. Still, we knew of at least one adult porcupine living under the guesthouse and spending its daylight hours high in a large white pine tree a few hundred feet along our access road.

I wondered if the porcupette was hungry and put some lettuce leaves close by for it, but the youngster remained huddled against the chimney for several hours and never touched the food.

A porcupette on a post

A porcupette on a post (Photo by the California Department of Fish and Wildlife on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

I had not seen a young porcupine before and could not judge how old the porcupette was. Even though it was April 9, we had had another cold blast from the Arctic, and since my herb garden was on the south side of the house, the porcupette may have wanted warmth instead of food.

The following day there were two fresh inches of snow on the ground. Once again the porcupette appeared near midday and huddled against the chimney for the rest of the day. But late in the afternoon, an adult porcupine waddled up the slope and, when I went outside to look, she climbed a black walnut tree near the chimney. She never went near the pup, but I assumed she was the mother.

According to Uldis Roze, who wrote The North American Porcupine, often mother porcupines don’t defend their offspring. Furthermore, Roze claims that usually, during its first six weeks of life, a porcupette is too weak to travel long distances with its mother. She stays near her offspring by day, sleeping in a tree, while the youngster remains hidden in a ground den or in the hollow base of a tree. Then at night the mother comes to her pup to nurse it.

At birth a porcupette is well-developed and weighs about a pound. It is completely covered with black fur and quills, the latter stiffening in an hour. Our porcupette looked a little larger than one pound but, as usual with wild animals, I chose not to interfere with it by attempting to weigh it. Also I knew that its tail of quills was fully functional.

However, if the porcupette was older than six weeks, that meant it had been born in mid-February. This seemed unlikely since a female porcupine is pregnant for seven months, which would mean she had been bred in mid-July instead of the usual mid-October to mid-November breeding period of Pennsylvania porcupines. Even if she had bred as early as mid-September, her youngster would have been as young as a week when we first saw it. Maybe, like human babies, the porcupette had mixed up its days and nights. Whatever the case, it looked as if neither mother nor baby had followed the usual porcupine playbook.

A close-up pf a porcupine on our property

A close-up pf a porcupine on our property (Photo by Dave Bonta on Flickr)

A female porcupine mates once a year during an 8-to-12-hour period, but the lead up to it is fraught with screams even if she is sitting next to a prospective mate on a tree branch who has been lured there by following a vaginal mucus mixed with urine odor she has emitted.

During one porcupine courtship Roze witnessed near sunset in New York’s Catskill Mountains, the female retreated, turned her back and slapped him with her tail. He retreated and she sat facing him while still on the branch. She then began eating a twig she had snapped off. Again, he approached her and she kept feeding. She squawked at him and he retreated once more. He tried to touch her gently and she turned around and screamed. He backed off and tried to approach her as he made a chuckling sound, but she continued eating. Finally, they ate quietly side by side until it was too dark for Roze to see any more.

Roze concluded, “I realize I have not been admitted to a mystery. Despite years of study by naturalists, many aspects of porcupine reproduction behavior still retain this quality of half-revelation.”

A porcupine in a hemlock tree on our property

A porcupine in a hemlock tree on our property (Photo by Dave Bonta on Flickr)

That “half-revelation” was experienced by Kurt Engstrom on October 6, 2006, during archery deer season on SGL#176 near State College. Kurt is a friend of ours who keeps a detailed journal of all his hunting experiences. He was in his deer stand in the early morning and beginning at 8:00 a.m. intermittently until 10:00 a.m. he heard “moaning and chirping coming from the ridge, maybe 80 yards away. Finally, at 10:15 a.m., I had to go find what was making the noise. Approaching the noise, I found a large porcupine on the ground and then [saw] the second one about 7 feet off the ground in a small tree growing at a 45 degree angle out of the ground. The one in the tree [was] smaller and turned facing down the trunk at the one on the ground.” Female porcupines are smaller than the males and she was the one making all the noise that Engstrom had heard.

At that point, he gave up hunting for the day. Had he stayed around he might have seen what a few researchers have–the actual mating of the two prickly creatures. It happens on the ground after he has thoroughly wet her down with his urine. She may shake herself and retreat if she’s still not ready or she may acquiesce if she is. She raises her hind quarters and curves her tail back over her quill rosette which allows him to briefly mount her and mate. Between rest periods they repeat this sequence until either one tires, climbs a tree, screams at its mate, and ends their mating phase. He goes off and she is on her own as a single mother-to-be.

Although her pregnancy lasts seven months, during the winter she conserves her energy by spending most of her time in a den. The fetus remains small, but during the last month of pregnancy, when spring food of tender new leaves is available, the fetus doubles in size before it is born, usually in May or June.

The mother nurses her offspring for 127 days probably, Roze says, because her leaf diet is poor and she needs this extended nursing period. Once, before dawn, Roze listened to a mother nursing her pup. …”it was a musical affair… Both….were vocalizing continually, the baby in a higher register, the mother answering in contralto…the music continued uninterrupted for 30 minutes…”

A porcupette in coastal Maine

A porcupette in coastal Maine (Photo by Chiot’s Run on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Whatever the age of our porcupette, it appeared around noon on April 12 and clambered through our old discarded Christmas tree lying on its side near our bird-feeding area, and then it climbed a black walnut tree sapling. It went nearly to the top, gnawed a little on the bark, and headed back down, rear end first and front legs clinging to the tree trunk as it slowly descended to the ground. It walked over to a pile of ash logs and disappeared at 1:00 p.m.

Later that day, near five in the afternoon, I glanced out the kitchen window and saw it sitting in a branch sticking out near the top of a large split black locust tree that had fallen over the previous year.

The following day the porcupette was out on the back slope by 7:15 a.m. eating grass. Then it walked back to the broken-off black locust tree and climbed up to the new, young sapling growing out of it. I could see where it had gnawed off small patches of bark. It did more gnawing and climbed carefully down and then up again as if it was practicing its climbing skills.

A porcupette eating grass in Pawtuckaway State Park, New Hampshire

A porcupette eating grass in Pawtuckaway State Park, New Hampshire (Photo by Colleen Prieto on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Near dusk we saw the porcupette down slope near the ash branches eating grass for dinner at 7:00 p.m.

At last, on April 14 it was warm and clear. I spotted the porcupette in the juniper tree in my herb garden and had a perfect view of it from the stairway window. I watched as it figured out how to climb down through the maze of prickly branches and trunk which was more complex than the simple black locust it had climbed the previous day. It even tried to go head first but quickly reversed itself and used its sharp claws to cling to the woody surface as it went down bottom first. Once it regained the ground it trundled down slope to the broken-off locust tree and disappeared into its hollow trunk. That was the last we saw it.

We hoped it had joined its mother in the woods, spent the summer with her, and gained its independence when its mother entered her breeding phase. Both had taught us that even animals as common as porcupines have much to teach us about their lives.

 

A Loony Day

“This is probably as close to a red-throated loon as you’ll ever get,” my son Mark said to me.

An adult red-throated loon

An adult red-throated loon (Photo by Mick Thompson on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

We were standing a mere 15 feet from a red-throated loon that was floating on the acre-and-a-half reflecting pool at the Penn State Altoona campus. The loon had been hanging out there since March 30, having arrived during a huge fallout of waterfowl throughout our area in west central Pennsylvania.

I watched as students streamed past the pool, most of them unaware of the star waterfowl surrounded by the usual gang of mallards. But the loon was more like the shunned “other,” a solitary royal on its own amid the commoners that dared not approach it.

The loon had a long way to go before it could begin breeding in low tundra wetlands, bogs or forest ponds from Alaska east to Labrador and Newfoundlnd. Here in the East, red-throated loons spend the winter mostly along the Atlantic coast from Newfoundland to Georgia, but at least a few winter in lakes as far west as Bay Spring Lakes in Tishomingo, Mississippi, according to a February 25, 2018 eBird report that listed one wintering red-throated loon as well as 92 common loons.

A red-throated loon without the red throat patch

A red-throated loon without the red throat patch (Photo by K. Schneider on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Red-throated loons, Gavia stellata, are the smallest and most slender of the five loon species in North America. Breeding adults have pearl-gray heads and necks, which the Penn State Altoona loon had but not yet the rust-red patch on its throat that distinguishes it from other loons—common, yellow-billed, Pacific and Arctic—all of which are variously patterned in black and white. In addition, red-throated loons have long, thin bills that tilt upwards.

Red-throated loons also differ in behavior from their congeners. They can take off directly from land instead of requiring a quarter-mile-long patter on top of a larger body of water such as common loons need. Furthermore, red-throated loons don’t carry their young on their backs, again like other loon species, and they forage for food on lakes and even the sea a distance from their breeding territory unlike their congeners that feed on their breeding lakes.

Here in Pennsylvania red-throated loons are uncommon to rare migrants and previously were seen mostly on the lower Delaware River and Lake Erie. For instance, back in 1997 a momentous 200 red-throated loons migrated over Lake Erie, but the usual yearly count is eight. However, all the impoundments in the High Plateau, Ridge and Valley and in the Piedmont away from the Delaware and Susquehanna Rivers, according to Gerald McWilliams and Dan Brauning in The Birds of Pennsylvania, may also encourage more red-throated loons to migrate through Pennsylvania.

Still, the North American Waterbird Conservation Plan calls it a Species of High Concern because of its population decline in North America and northern Europe perhaps due to oil spills, habitat degradation, or entanglement in fish nets, although scientists are not certain about this and need to do more study of these birds.

Once we had admired the red-throated loon, Mark and I headed to Lake Altoona, which he had previously visited with two environmental ethics students at the beginning of the waterfowl fallout. The weather late in March had been unusually cold and windy with frequent snow and rain, and on March 30 they had identified 26 species, most notably 100 redheads, 40 greater scaup, 40 lesser scaup, 100 horned grebes, 25 long-tailed ducks, 100 red-breasted mergansers, and 30 common loons.

A common loon at Codorus State Park, Hanover, Pennsylvania

A common loon at Codorus State Park, Hanover, Pennsylvania (Photo by Henry T. McLin on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

During our visit on April 6, three students joined us and we found 24 species in all. That afternoon it gradually warmed to a blustery 50 degrees, and it was partly sunny. The waterfowl numbers had declined from March 30 to six redheads, six greater scaup, three horned grebes, 16 red-breasted mergansers, no long-tailed ducks, and only three common loons, but the loons were below the dam breast of the impoundment, a source of Altoona’s drinking water, and were close and easy to see directly beneath us.

Unlike red-throated loons, at least one pair of common loons nested in Pennsylvania as late as 1946 on Pocono Lake in Monroe County. But since then the nearest breeding common loons are in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. They also breed across Canada, New England, and the upper Midwest.

Best known for their weird, maniacal calls and wavering cries, common loons in their breeding plumage of black heads and necks, the latter with necklaces of black-and-white horizontal stripes, and checkered black-and-white backs look as elegant as men in tuxedos. But in the fall and winter their stout, black bills are light gray, and their bodies are gray-brown above and white below.

Along central Pennsylvania ridges they are common migrants, and I have heard them call occasionally when flying over our ridgetop in the spring. In fact, the same day we were looking for waterfowl, hawk watchers atop nearby Tussey Mountain counted 16 common loons flying north. However, common loons almost lost their commonness during the last century. Because they need clear, clean lakes to dive for fish, build their nests, and raise their young, they cannot tolerate pollution, development, and disturbances.

A common loon on a nest at the Seney National Wildlife Refuge in Michigan

A common loon on a nest at the Seney National Wildlife Refuge in Michigan (Photo by Brian Henderson on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

In the mid-twentieth century, breeding loons began disappearing across North America from California and Oregon, the Midwest from Iowa to Ohio, and from eastern Massachusetts and Connecticut. Then, shortly after the Clean Water Act was passed in the 1970s, they staged a comeback, returning to Massachusetts with 45 breeding pairs on 20 lakes throughout the state by 2015. Across the Great Lakes and the northeast they returned to nest in lakes they had deserted decades before.

Best of all, from our standpoint, was the recovery in the Adirondacks. Down to 200 pairs, there are today between 600 and 850 nesting pairs from the Adirondacks to the Finger Lakes. Altogether, the total North American population is about 250,000 nesting pairs.

An adult loon, right, feeding fish to a juvenile

An adult loon, right, feeding fish to a juvenile (Photo by Anita Ritenour on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

While these numbers are encouraging, biologists say that loon numbers are still well below historical numbers. Common loons can dive 75 feet deep and swiftly chase after their fish prey underwater. But they also pick up what appear to be pebbles on the lake bottoms in their gizzards which they need to grind up the fish they eat. Often, the “pebbles” are lead sinkers and jigs from fishing tackle, and when they reach their gizzards, they poison the loons. In only a few days, the loons can’t eat, they are paralyzed, and they die from exposure, suffocation, and starvation.

A study of this problem in New Hampshire from 1989 to 2012 by biologists, with the help of citizen scientists, resulted in a paper that found that 49 per cent of 253 dead loons had died from lead poisoning. In New York a similar study found that lead had been responsible for between 15 to 21 percent of loon deaths.

As Harry Vogel, wildlife biologist and director of the Loon Preservation Committee told writer Lauren Chambliss in an article in the Summer 2018 Living Bird, “It’s a terrible death for these birds. And it is so easily avoidable.”

We continued watching other waterfowl at Lake Altoona including two blue-winged teal, two gadwall, three American wigeons, a tundra swan, 10 northern shovelers, 50 ring-necked ducks, 10 buffleheads, two common mergansers and four pied-billed grebes. Eight Bonaparte’s gulls flew overhead.

My granddaughter Elanor Bonta in waterfowl mode at Canoe Creek State Park

My granddaughter Elanor Bonta in waterfowl mode at Canoe Creek State Park (Photo by Dave Bonta, March 13, 2008, on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

After an exciting hour there, Mark and I drove to Canoe Creek State Park because, as Mark said, “Once you’re in waterfowl mode, you must keep going.”

Canoe Lake is 155 acres, much larger than Lake Altoona, and provides excellent resting and feeding stopover for waterfowl. By the time we arrived, in late afternoon, it had clouded over and the wind blew at gale force, whipping up waves that made it difficult to spot waterfowl.

But we set up our scope and scanned the lake. We located a flock of seven common loons, two gadwalls, three mallards, five buffleheads, 14 red-breasted mergansers, two ruddy ducks, two pied-billed grebes, and 10 American coots. Fifteen double-crested cormorants landed on the water with wings spread like huge bats and two killdeer ran along the sandy beach.

Without Mark’s help, I doubt I would have seen as many waterfowl, but, in addition to the loons, my favorite sightings were the white-cheeked, dark-capped, rusty-red male ruddy ducks, the puffy-headed, black-and-white buffleheads, the crested red-breasted mergansers, and, best of all, the stunning golden crowned horned grebes. The grebes, too, were heading far north to breed on lakes and ponds from the Brooks Range in Alaska east to the western shore of Hudson Bay.

In fact, almost all the waterfowl we saw that day were only passing through the state for places to breed far to the north or west of us. That is why I make it a practice every spring to visit nearby lakes to admire these birds in their gaudy, breeding attire.

 

Winter Visitor

Near the end of January I swept our back porch clean of an inch of snow before spreading bird seed. Immediately a sparrow throng of dark-eyed juncos, white-throated, song, and American tree sparrows mobbed the porch.

A group of chipping sparrows on a feeder

A group of chipping sparrows on a feeder (Photo by Anne Davis 773 on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

But one sparrow looked different from the rest and fed off by itself. Still, with its rusty-red cap it most resembled the four American tree sparrows, but it lacked a tree sparrow’s dot on its breast, gray eyebrow line and gray throat and neck. Instead, the mystery bird had a whitish eyebrow line and white throat and I thought it was a male chipping sparrow.

American tree sparrows are nicknamed “winter chippies,” because of their resemblance to chipping sparrows, but the tree sparrows at our feeding area continually chased off the chipping sparrow, since that is what it seemed to be. They seemed to have no problem figuring out that their almost look-alike was not part of their tribe.

The chipping sparrow on our back porch

The chipping sparrow on our back porch (Photo by Bruce Bonta, January 30, 2018)

I, on the other hand, wanted to make certain of my identification and insisted that my husband Bruce take a photograph of the chipping sparrow to send to our birding son Mark. He, in turn, posted it to the Pennsylvania eBird list, and everyone agreed that it was a male chipping sparrow.

I was pleased that he appeared on a Project FeederWatch day because I had never recorded a wintering chipping sparrow on our central Pennsylvania mountaintop, although they are regular breeders here in spring and summer. According to The Birds of Pennsylvania by Gerald M. McWilliams and Daniel W. Brauning, chipping sparrows are irregular winter visitors or residents where there is suitable cover near bird-feeding stations, but they are “usually found only during mild winters with little snow cover.” In addition, it is rare to find any chipping sparrows here beyond the third or fourth week in January.

But it had been bitterly cold and windy throughout January and the temperature as low as two degrees Fahrenheit below zero. We also had had frequent snow cover. Nonetheless, the chipping sparrow had evidently found shelter in the tall remnants of dried grasses and wildflowers below our porch steps at least for that day. Whether he found enough shelter and sustenance in our 37-acre meadow throughout the mild February or in the farm valley below, I didn’t see another chipping sparrow here until their usual spring appearance in early May.

The chipping sparrow—Spizella passerina—which is Latin for “sparrow-like finch,” was more aptly named by the “Father of American Ornithology” Alexander Wilson in 1810—Fringilla socialis—meaning “social sparrow” because even then chipping sparrows lived near human habitation. Then it was most likely rural homes, farmyards, pastures or orchards. Today chipping sparrows are also found in the suburban residential landscape of parks, gardens, golf courses, open woodlands, and woodland edges along roads and utility lines.

The fourth most widespread breeding bird species in Pennsylvania, the chipping sparrow is only behind the song sparrow, American crow, and American robin in abundance. Even during the days of John James Audubon back in 1841 he wrote about the chipping sparrow that “few birds are more common throughout the United States than this gentle and harmless little bunting.”

A chipping sparrow in Codorus State Park, Hanover, PA

A chipping sparrow in Codorus State Park, Hanover, PA (Photo by Henry T. McLin on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Breeding across Canada to Alaska and throughout most of the United States, chipping sparrow migrants return to Pennsylvania from Central America, Mexico and the Gulf coast of the United States as early as the second week in March although the peak migration here is the last week in April or first week in May. I usually hear the male’s dry, monotone trill before I see him because he maintains his acre of territory mainly through song, but he also uses threat displays, chases, and even fights.

Once he establishes his territory, he courts a female by singing and short chases and they pair up a day or two after she arrives, usually about two weeks after the male does. She solicits copulation by crouching, her head and tail raised and vibrating. They mate several times in succession either on the ground or in elevated places such as fences, tree branches, and telephone lines.

Here on our farm the electric wires are favorite places, and we tend to think of chipping sparrows as exhibitionists. Both sexes engage in what ornithologists call “extra-pair copulations,” and once females are on their nests, scientists have found that some color-banded males copulate with other females on neighboring territories.

A chipping sparrow with nest material

A chipping sparrow with nest material (Photo by Gary Leavens on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

During nest-building and egg-laying by a female, though, the male keeps close as if he is guarding her. She seems to choose the final nesting site in a wide variety of trees and shrubs, but conifers are preferred over deciduous trees. However, crabapple trees are favored next, followed by honeysuckle, various maples, ornamental trees and shrubs, hawthorn, currant and even vines such as English ivy. Wherever she builds her nest, usually it is hidden in foliage three to 30 feet from the ground.

Like most bird species, though, some chipping sparrows don’t follow the nest-building program. For instance, back in 1911, R.F. Miller reported that a chipping sparrow, three years in a row, nested in pepper plants hung up to dry in late summer in a shed on a Philadelphia County farm. Another nest, in Huntingdon County in 1923, was built in the bottom of a hairy woodpecker roosting cavity 10 feet from the ground. And Maurice Broun, the first caretaker at Hawk Mountain Sanctuary, wrote about a chipping sparrow nest 30 feet up in a maple tree overgrown with grapevines and another 50 feet on top of an oak tree.

The cup nest itself is built in four days by the female and is so flimsy you can often see through the rootlets and dried grasses she weaves and then lines with the hair of deer, raccoons, cattle, and humans, and has even been known to yank out hair from horses, her preferred nest-lining material.

She then lays two to seven pale blue to white, lightly streaked or spotted eggs and incubates them for 10 to 15 days. The male feeds her frequently while she is on the nest because she rarely leaves it especially near the end of the incubation period.

The nestlings emerge over a 24-hour period, and the parents immediately eat the eggshells. The male begins feeding their young within an hour of hatching while the female continues to brood her naked nestlings until they develop feathers. She gradually decreases brooding after their fourth day and joins the male in feeding them mostly weed seeds, followed by insects as the nestlings mature.

Eggs and nestlings are preyed upon by black rat, eastern milk, and eastern garter snakes, American crows, blue jays, and domestic cats while adults and flying youngsters are victims of Cooper’s hawks, American kestrels, red squirrels, and domestic cats.

Their nests are sometimes parasitized by brown-headed cowbirds, but often chipping sparrows alarm-call and use threatening displays to deter them and frequently desert nests with cowbird eggs in them. If a cowbird does hatch with chipping sparrow nestlings, both appear to survive.

A parent chipping sparrow feeding an immature bird

A parent chipping sparrow feeding an immature bird (Photo by Indiana Ivy Nature Photographer on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

After a nestling period of nine to 12 days, the young climb to the rim of the nest and then into tree branches and practice short flights. Their parents continue to care for them for three weeks or so, but the male does most of the care if the female is starting a second brood. Then the young gather in flocks of five to 15 birds to forage in weedy places.

Once their last brood is on their own, the adults leave their territory, and parents and offspring join foraging flocks of their own species as well as song and field sparrows, feeding in weedy fields, along fence rows and forest edges. Fall flocks range from 25 to as many as 1000 birds as they move in stages south for the winter along the coast and mountaintops, leaving Pennsylvania as early as mid-September and as late as the third week or later in October depending on the weather.

Because chipping sparrows occupy a wide variety of habitats during breeding and on their wintering grounds, they remain incredibly common birds with an estimated three million breeding males in Pennsylvania alone. So it looks as if we can look forward every spring to the return of these human-adapted birds.