Evening sky.

We must’ve gotten at least four or five inches of snow in the last half-day or so. But with morning temperatures above freezing, you could feel it melting. Or hear it, at least. And see the drips falling from every tree branch and roof edge. The birds seemed undaunted. Stepping out early with Jack, in fact, I heard the titmouse, some chickadees, the house finches across the road, the house sparrows in the hedges of the Claddagh Motel, a song sparrow singing from somewhere, and a blue jay hollering from the middle distance. Also saw fourteen Canada geese flying in a low line off in the southern sky—and a herring gull floating over toward Clam Cove.

Birch.

But then I ended up handcuffed to my desk for so long that my body felt stuck in a sitting position and I thought I felt blood pooling in my thighs. Not good. Finally dragged myself up, stretched, and hauled ass (with Jack) to Beech Hill.

Warm enough that a hooded sweatshirt was plenty. Dim and overcast, with pretty deep wet snow. Two vehicles in the parking lot—but no footprints at all on the trail. I figured they must’ve walked up the road to the gate (and it turned out they had). The slog up proved great exercise. The sun actually attempted to poke through the thick gray of the southern sky—and even succeeded, barely, a time or two. Heard a mourning dove near the road, but it had an odd call: typical opening note, fairly typical next note, but then the subsequent coo-coo!, rather than falling in pitch, bent upward slightly. Very strange.

Ascending in the wake of three fresh human tracks—whoever was up there, dog, and I were apparently the only ones to hike the hill today—I heard crows. A wall of low white clouds hung over the bay beyond Chickawaukie Lake to the south. The heavy moving machinery has been gone these past couple days—got to wet and thawy to gain good traction—but managed a good job of removing rock piles.

Beech Nut.

We met a solitary guy coming down. “Nice day for a hike,” he said. He was right. And soon after, a couple of women approached. I stopped and chatted with them a while about birds and ticks and dogs on and off leashes.

I’d seen (and Jack had sniffed) some small tracks along the edge of the trail coming up. Foxes, I figured. But in the snow around Beech Nut lay a zig-zag of what looked like the footprints of a large bird. I have no idea what that might’ve been. Crow? Raven? Gull? Great blue heron? The sun broke through the clouds just a bit, casting a lovely eerie yellow light over the dark landscape.

Returning, I heard a rapid call from down the eastern slope that sounded sort of like it came from a cross between a robin and a cardinal. Could not ID it. The crazy-voiced dove was still calling by the road. Then, back at the parking lot, I heard a high-pitched squee!—almost like the call of a waxwing, but not quite. A kinglet? Brown creeper? I could not say.

Several robins and mourning doves flitted here and there as we drove home. Much of last night’s snow had melted by then, but still I felt compelled to shovel. And I doubt it’ll be the last time I do that this season.

Mystery tracks.

Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5:30 p.m., I hiked the open trail.

1. Mourning dove
2. American crow

Elsewhere

3. Tufted titmouse
4. Black-capped chickadee
5. House finch
6. Song sparrow
7. House sparrow
8. Canada goose
9. Blue jay
10. Herring gull
11. Ring-billed gull
12. American robin

Jack.