Alder flycatcher.

I didn’t get out today at all until it came time for my daily hike with Jack. (I might have, if I had my bike here, but that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea, rib-wise.) A busy day, lovely weather out there. Felt good to head up the wooded trail.

Black-and-white warbler.

Right away, I heard the voice of a raven. A clipped croak. And then, from another direction entirely, a similar croak. I know they’ve had a nest in the trees somewhere down the northern slope—no doubt these were the heirs to that domain. And then a goldfinch flew over. And then I heard chickadees, and then a crow. Four birds and we hadn’t traveled a hundred yards: an auspicious beginning, considering the time of year.

On up the trail. Heard the note of a white-throat, the mew! of a catbird. And then, coming around a berry laden curve in the trail, I heard the high-pitched complaints of what sounded like a collection of young birds. We stopped, I scanned—and there, perched in plain sight, sat a solitary alder flycatcher. Just sitting there. (The high-pitched voices were coming from the thicket beneath it.) Grabbed a bunch of photos. Saw movement in a tree beyond the flycatcher, and flitting there was a black-and-white warbler. Female. Silent. Saw another silent warbler, too—it looked like it might’ve been a yellow, but I couldn’t be sure.

On up the trail. At the loop junction, I heard more chickadees and so we stopped again so I could scan (as I’ve learned to do) for other species. Sure enough, a young catbird popped up. And above and beyond it, a red-eyed vireo appeared, apparently simply an dispassionate observer.

Red-eyed vireo.

A minute later, as we approached the section of fence at the corner of the fields, the highlight of today’s hike unfolded. I’d heard another catbird and had crouched for a possible photo, when a siren sounded suddenly from down toward South Street. Immediately, a chorus of high howls erupted. Dogs? No—coyotes, a family of ’em, singing to the left of us. But one was also singing to the right of us. I cast about the eastern slope of the hill, just below Beech Nut, but couldn’t see the wayward song dog, but he was up there, separated for some reason from the rest of his little pack. Bright afternoon, and listening to a chorus of coyotes. Jack was remarkably calm about the whole thing.

Then we noticed another hiker a little ways off in the field, also looking toward the singing coyotes. Turned out to be John, from Atlanta, who had never been to Beech Hill and mistook the farm road for the trail. The three of us chatted while hiking to the summit (turned out we’d both been treated for Lyme disease), where we had a nice conversation with Mary, from New Mexico, whom we met at the hut. Mary took some photos of Jack.

On our way back down, I heard a flicker and a pewee, and Jack alerted to a large flock of turkeys scuffling up the hill.

But tonight it’s the chorus of coyotes that sticks in my mind.

(For my ruminations about the song of the eastern wood-pewee, visit today’s post in The Maine.)

Beech Hill List
Beginning at 4:45 p.m.,  I hiked the wooded trails.

1. Common raven (v)
2. American goldfinch (v)
3. Black-capped chickadee
4. American crow* (v)
5. White-throated sparrow (v)
6. Gray catbird
7. Red-eyed vireo
8. Alder flycatcher
9. Black-and-white warbler
10. Common  yellowthroat
11. Eastern towhee (v)
12. Northern flicker (v)
13. Eastern wood-pewee (v)
14. Wild turkey

Elsewhere

15. Herring gull

v = Voice only
*Also elsewhere