Northern shrike (singing).
It all began with last night’s woodcock serenade. Then I slept—might’ve dreamed about woodcocks, not sure—and awoke to a sun-splashed morning that promised temperatures high enough for a vigorous bike ride. Truth be told, it was in my mind all day, my bike-ride-to-be. But still I managed to get a little work done.
Northern shrike.
Outside, the house finch sang. A house sparrow chirped in an evergreen bush at the door to the motel across the road. A titmouse called. I managed to last until nearly 3 p.m. before I took dog upstairs, donned my clown garb, and set sail on two wheels along Route 1.
Glorious. Endorphins. Rock doves in Rockland, gulls overhead, roadside crows, even a goldfinch. I pedaled and meditated and pumped and daydreamed. Nothing like living in the moment, with fast breathing and a high pulse rate.
But that was only the beginning, because Jack and I still had Beech Hill to hike. Which we did, starting at about a quarter to five. We started at the wooded trail—our favorite (albeit shunned over most of the winter in favor of the easier open trail)—and began our slog through the sweet mud and between the bare branches of hardwoods jam-packed with potential energy. Before we’d gone a hundred yards, I heard the sudden, bright song of a purple finch coming from the top of a tree behind us. Then a mourning dove, then crows. the sun angled down from ahead of us, and we met a man walking two dogs. Along the upper wooded trails, I kept my eye out for the first fox sparrow, but none appeared. Then, as we emerged into the upper fields, a solitary bird flapped oddly away toward the east and perched high in a tree. I didn’t recognize its style of flight, could really ID it by sight. So I snapped off a few distant photos to check later.
Pussy willow.
We’d continued a little ways toward the summit when I heard an unfamiliar whistling behind me. We stopped. We turned. I didn’t recognize the call—which, considering I’ve hiked Beech Hill at least a thousand times in the past few years, piqued my interest. So we began to retrace our steps back toward the fields (although Jack didn’t really get it, wasn’t really buying in). A few stop-and-go paces later, I realized the song I was hearing belonged the bird I’d seen a minute before. We followed a hedgerow toward the sound, and there still perched the bird. Then I got a decent look through my binoculars.
It was a shrike. A northern shrike. Crazy.
We crept along the hedgrow in hopes I might get a better photo. I’d never heard a singing shrike before—a lovely, whistly sort of sound, reminiscent of a muted, delicate sort of catbird call. Sweet, in a way (which struck me as ironic, considering shrikes are meat-eating songbirds that dine on mice and small birds and whose habit is to impale their prey on thorns and barbed wire). This was the kind of moment that thrills me: an unexpected natural sighting, a new discovery, a gift from the gods. Never mind that spring is peeking around the corner. Just follow the glaring signs. Daffodils rising, pussy willows budding, earthworms churning in the new, soft mud. Woodcocks arriving. As I we got nearer, I snapped off a few photos—just as a mature bald eagle flapped by on enormous wings out toward the bay beyond the tiny shrike. Thilling.
Eventually, the northern shrike flitted off to the crown of a tree farther down the slope, and I decided to leave it alone. Leave it alone to head on up toward its far-northern nesting region. I wonder if I’ll ever hear the song of a shrike again.
We reached the summit, Jack and I, then headed down the open trail a ways before turning back. Down in the bottomlands, there were chickadees and the calls of American robins—our resident birds, with worms in mind, not the Canadian birds that moved through a week or two ago and fueled up on staghorn sumac.
Back home, tonight, no woodcocks that I could hear. But Jupiter and Venus set not a knuckles-bredth apart—closer than I’ve ever seen them.
Tiny winged insects. Sandals without socks. Thrill upon thrill upon thrill.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 4:45 p.m., I hiked the wooded trail (and then some).
1. Purple finch (voice)
2. Mourning dove (voice)
3. American crow (voice)
4. Northern shrike
5. Bald eagle
6. Black-capped chickadee
7. American robin (voice)
Elsewhere
8. American woodcock
9. House finch
10. House sparrow
11. Tufted titmouse
12. Herring gull
13. Rock pigeon
14. Ring-billed gull
15. American goldfinch
16. Northern cardinal
Tags: American crow, American goldfinch, American robin, American woodcock, bald eagle, black-capped chickadee, herring gull, house finch, house sparrow, mourning dove, northern cardinal, northern shrike, purple finch, ring-billed gull, rock pigeon, tufted titmouse
