For several years now I have taken part in the midwinter bald eagle survey, hosted by Vermont Audubon. I have had the same route each time–the Winooski River from Waterbury to Lake Champlain. There are over a dozen spots along the river I can stop and scan for eagles, and of course I scan for them from the car when I can. I did see eagle this year, soaring over the river in Jonesville. Along the way I took photos of the river, so here is my 2025 Winooski River portrait.
Last weekend I completed my latest high elevation bird survey for the Vermont Center for Ecostudies‘ Mountain Birdwatch program. Every June people head to the highest points of the northeast to search for bird species that hang out up there. I have been doing it since 2000, so this is my 25th year participating.
I heard about this program because the Green Mountain Club put it in a newsletter or an email. I had already been volunteering for the GMC as a corridor monitor, scoping out this big piece of land next to the Long Trail in Bolton. I enjoyed getting out in the woods for that, so why not one other opportunity to explore the mountains and to help out at the same time? At the time the survey was hosted by the Vermont Institute of Natural Science (VINS). I got in touch and signed up.
My spouse and I lived up the mountain in Bolton then and I was assigned to survey Ricker Peak, between Bolton Mountain and Camel’s Hump. It isn’t on the Long Trail, but there was an old access road that went most of the way there, used by Bolton Valley Resort and whoever maintained the cell tower up there. Because it was so close I could hike right from the house, starting on the alpine ski trails, to get to that access road. It meant getting up early, since that is when the birds are active, but that was not a problem. Have you been up in the mountains when the day wakes? It is magical.
Because these birds nest up high, and because vegetation there is so dense (spruce and fir, mostly), seeing the birds was a rare thing. Mostly it required hearing them. So the training for the survey meant learning bird songs and calls. That is when I learned that birds have songs and calls, and learning both would be helpful. The training required listening to recordings to memorize them. This was 2000, before smart phones, before iPods even, so I recevied a CD in the mail. Mostly I listened in the car until I knew all those bird sounds.
When the program started there were only five focal species, the ones to pay attention to and to mark on data sheets for the study. These were Bicknell’s Thrush, Swainson’s Thrush, Blackpol Warbler, Winter Wren and White-Throated Sparrow. Plus Red Squirrel. Since squirrels will eat bird eggs, bird populations can be affected when squirrel populations jump. I knew the sound of all those critters well. Of course, they were not the only birds I heard so, using other CDs of bird songs, I eventually learned more bird songs and calls. I was too curious not to learn them.
The thing about learning all those bird songs was that it expanded my world. If I went for a hike, or a walk anywhere, I could hear birds singing, often pretty far away. Instead of just the trail in front of me and the woods beside me, I experienced what was beyond what I could see. That Black-Throated Blue Warbler was way off in those maples. It made the woods bigger. And once you start hearing it, it is hard to turn off. The world grows beyond what you can see.
I had several routes over the years, all in Vermont. At one point, however, they decided it made sense to be consistent. Rather than survey any of the peaks that might have those high elevation species, especially Bicknell’s Thrush, the long-term reliability of the data depended on surveying the same places repeatedly. Now there are fewer routes but, if possible, all the peaks in the study get surveyed each year. Ricker Peak didn’t make the cut, so I ended up with a route in the Worcester Range, incredibly beautiful if a tough hike. Now, I have two routes, one on Mount Mansfield and one on Bolton Mountain.
Another change was the timing. At first it was acceptable to do the survey at dusk, since birds are active then as well. The preference was morning, and that was when I did it, but at least dusk was an option. And the morning survey had to be completed between 6:00 and 10:00. That shifted to a 4:00 am start time and eventually each route had a specific start time. When I surveyed the route on Ricker Peak, I would wake up, grab my stuff, and hike up in time to be at the first survey point at 6:00 am. Now when I survey the Bolton Mountain route, I have to hike in the day before and get up before 4:00 am to be at the first survey point by 4:20 am. I wrap things up by 8:00.
Due to some good luck I managed to get the route I just completed on Mount Mansfield. The first point is not far from the visitor center at the top of the toll road. Vermont Center for Ecostudies, who manages the survey, has permission to use the toll road off-hours. They do other bird studies up there as well– with mist nets and all that jazz. I benefit from access to the road. For this route I get up in the wee hours, drive to Stowe, pass through the gate and sign in, then drive up the road. I park in the visitor center lot and hike 15 minutes to the first survey point. This year I was there by 4:00 am just as it was getting light, and started soon after that.
There are some challenging points on the route, but the last three are on the ridge. This time the birds at those ridge points were much quieter than usual, but there is little better than being close to the highest point in the state as the sun comes up. The fog floats in the valleys, Lake Champlain shines, ravens soar over the hills, and it easy to forget all the garbage that is happening in the world. For the first time this year I saw several people by the time I hit my end time at the last survey point–a couple of hikers and several trail runners. Apparently I am not the only one who finds morning in the high peaks enjoyable.
So one more year in the books for this survey. I do wonder how many more years I will continue to do this. I have a couple of sweet routes so one of these days I should pass them on to someone else, someone who will enjoy it, I hope, I much as I do. I feel good about getting up on so many peaks for so many years to help out with this. Hearing a Bicknell’s Thrush sing, which you can only hear way up there, is magic every time. I hope they keep coming back for a long time, whether I am there to hear them or not.
Yesterday I volunteered to look for eagles for Vermont Audubon’s annual eagle survey. My route is the Winooski River, from Waterbury to Lake Champlain. I did see two Bald Eagles, one immature in Williston and one fully mature in Essex. There have been years when I have seen none, so this was a success. It was cold, in the twenties, with a light wind, and a recent coating of snow. I saw some remnants of flooding this fall–plastic jugs half full of oil, lots of branches and leaves, even a complete futon frame. There were a couple of locations I could not go to, closed due to flooding damage, but mostly I had a full survey. Along the way I took a portrait of the river.
Walking out in the field recently has meant crushing the ice-covered grass stalks. I kept feeling like I was killing it, the fragile stems breaking under my boots. But now we have snow! It feels like we have had a hundred days of gray skies and damp air and chilliness. Dreary. Usually I take whatever weather comes. Complaining about the weather is a bit annoying, I have to admit. Why grumble about something that can’t be changed? I have been a bit more sympathetic lately, however. All that gloominess.
However, this past week has brought snow. It snowed heavily for a while–that beautiful white stuff falling to cover the brown and gray. It makes everything lighter. Even at night the world is brighter. Our boots don’t smash the grass but plow through the snow instead. It feels gentler, softer, quieter. The world around us is covered in beauty. The bareness of winter has its own beauty, for sure, but this is magical.
I have been thinking lately of what to plant in our garden. Now it is covered in snow so it will be a while before I can turn the dirt and sink in some seeds. But January is the time to dream of spring. Rosemary and thyme still grow in that cold soil. Last night I had to dig through snow to cut some thyme springs. Hard to believe it is still green. It made a difference to dinner. I managed to plant garlic in the fall and that sleeps, waiting for warmth. And there are all those empty beds to imagine full of plants–tomatoes and carrots and pumpkins and potatoes. What new varieties can I try? It is about time to order some seeds.
The trees are covered in snow. It falls now with more on the way tonight. It does not have to be much. A dusting is enough. Maybe fairy dust is really just snow. The Snow Buntings came back last week. They have been flying around the fields, although they have yet to discover the seed I keep leaving on the ground for them outside our windows. They are like fairies they way they float and appear from nowhere. Snow I tell you–magical stuff.
It was way too mild for a while. Warm, no snow. Even rainy for several days. That is pretty lame when it comes to winter. Last week I drove to Rhode Island for a couple days. Of course it snowed then. It was not a full-on storm but it made for some slow going. Then it cleared and snowed for me again on the way home. When I got to Bolton on I-89, close enough to home to think I would be there soon, traffic slowed, then stopped. Car off the road? Some slipping and sliding? Hard to tell as it was too far beyond the long line of cars ahead. And so I waited. And kept waiting. We all inched forward a few times but mostly just sat there. A few people got out and walked around. One guy stood on his roof to try to see what was ahead. Another guy walked down the hill to take a leak.
A flatbed came up from behind and so everyone pulled to the side to let it pass. Then another came, led by a state trooper. And we waited. I have no idea how long I was there. I did get out to stretch once. Luckily I had gotten gas and some coffee back in Barre, so I was pretty set. Eventually we did get moving and I finally passed a pickup getting pulled onto one of those flatbeds. The thing was completely burnt–fire ate it right up. Another car was on the other flatbed, front end all smooshified. I found out later that no one was hurt. That could have been bad.
The weather has been seasonal since then. Yesterday and today were cold and windy, like way windy. I went to the lake both days to look for wintering ducks. There was surf at the Charlotte Beach and again today at Chimney Point, waves crashing on the shore and throwing spray. It was hard to stay out long. I was bundled but that wind sucks the heat away right quick. Taking a walk close to home was bitter too. It felt good to get out there and move but good lord that wind tugged at the cheeks. We had snow flurries most of today. More are on the way.
We may get a storm later in the week. I’ll take it. While we have a couple inches of snow on the ground, drifted in spots and bare in others, I would love to see the ground covered. Can’t beat some quality snow in January. The Snow Buntings might appreciate it. They came back today. This is about when they arrived the past two years. We watched them swirl in a flock over the field and loop around to the neighbor’s fields, little white fluffs of fluttering. I spread some seed on the ground to let them know they are welcome. I am sure they will find it, hopefully in time for the storm.
I don’t plan to travel too far this week, so my chances of getting stopped on the interstate are slim. If we get a big old dump of snow, I won’t mind working from home. I need to stay safe, and it is easier to watch the snow fall from my home office, not to mention the Snow Buntings.
Yesterday I participated in Vermont’s annual Bald Eagle survey, as I have for several years now. My route is the Winooski River, from Waterbury to Lake Champlain. I drive along the river, stopping at several spots to watch carefully, and watch less carefully as I drive from point to point. I did see one eagle, in Williston, and otherwise had a day of it watching a beautiful river that gets forgotten or taken for granted or often just not thought about.
The day was warm, relatively, just above freezing. In some past years I have done the survey with temperatures below zero. There was no ice at all yesterday, although there was fresh snow in the hills. The water was high and powered over the dams and ledges, less tame than last year. Here is my most recent portrait of the river.
I have been busy enough with work lately that I have not wanted to go birding early during the week, even though it is the season for it. So on Saturday I don’t want to give up the chance. Friday night the weather looked good for some morning exploring, so I planned to go. Saturday morning, however, brought light rain. Rain? Seriously? But I went anyway. It was bound to stop soon.
It kept raining. I turned on the windshield wipers. I went to a local nature reserve–it is fairly new and I had not seen much of it. I parked along the road where I thought a trail started. It sort of did start, in the woods, then fizzled when it opened onto a field. I went the way I thought seemed most likely, but it wasn’t much of a trail. I got to the wetland but then was stymied.
By then it was hardly raining, but it had been raining. That meant the tall grass though which I meandered was a bit wet. Dripping, really. Soggy. Soaked. In my haste to leave the house I had put on pants, to avoid ticks, but they were cotton pants. That was dumb. By the time I walked back the way I had come and got to my car, those pants were most definitely not dry.
But there had to be a better access point to this wetland. I drove up the road and found it, hidden in the trees, no parking except along the road. Yes I was soaked but it was Saturday and I did not want to give up and what’s a little cold and wet? So up the hill into the woods I headed, then down the hill in the woods I went, until it opened again in tall grass. There was a clear path but it went both left and right. I went left.
And that way was just as wet as my first attempt. I got even more wet, even though the rain had passed by now. That grass can hold some water. I had a better view of the wetland, saw some ducks, heard a gallinule calling, listened to an Alder Flycatcher and a couple of Veeries singing. I turned around again and thought I would try going right. This was was less wet but the rain started to fall again.
I did find some birds, although not as many as I might have on a clearer day. Back in the car I polished off my warm coffee, waiting for me in the cup holder. I drove home with the wipers on, those cotton pants wicking all that grass water the whole time. I arrived home wet and chilled, satisfied that I had tried and at least had a good walk in a beautiful place. After a hot shower I got some sourdough bread started. I had a day ahead of me yet.
We are in those early days of spring when it is still chilly in the morning, but the world keeps getting greener, when the leaves are not fully out yet and peepers sing at night. Winter has left the scene but summer still has a way to go before she arrives.
I have to get out as much as I can to find birds now. Every day new summer residents arrive. This morning I heard my first Common Yellowthroat and I heard two Field Sparrows singing at once, which is unusual around here. A Barred Owl calls all day in the woods above our house, and that Phoebe nest that sat above the porch light all winter is getting rebuilt. In the woods, leaves are still buds. That means I can see the warblers as they hop from branch to branch in the tops of maples. In a month some of those little dudes will be heard and not seen.
Spring flowers are out as well. Marsh Marigolds are blooming, bright yellow flowers and bright green leaves among the leaf litter in the woods. And Trout Lilies, those dainty pale yellow bells, have emerged. Ferns are still curled into fiddleheads, and wild ramps carpet the forest floor.
Spring’s arrival is a gift right now. It is a gift any year, I suppose, but after being inside so long, after worrying about the health of family and neighbors, after staying away from others, it feels especially powerful. A friend said the other day that she has never noticed spring as much as this year. When you spend less time moving around you have more time to pay attention to what is right there.
I plan to get out early again tomorrow, to listen and to look. I may startle the beaver that slaps its tails when we walk past on the bridge, or the wood ducks dipping into the grass on the river’s shore, but I will try to stay calm enough to avoid disturbing them. Every day the world changes a little, layering on spring. If I don’t pay enough attention, summer will arrive and I will have missed some of spring’s wonderousness. Wonder can be found at any time of year, but spring is when it puts on its best display. I would hate to miss the show.
The sun sets and the moon rises. Tonight it rises, full, directly over Camel’s Hump, the moon so bright it shows the snow on the mountain’s summit. Peepers sing from the pools. Wood Frogs too.
Three Woodcocks call out before each of them ascends and dances in the just-light sky, circling until they drop back to the field. A Snipe whistles past. A Song Sparrow offers one last song for the day.
In the pink moonlight, the brown of the dead grass can’t be seen. The dirt left by the snow isn’t visible. The limb from the ash that fell this winter–it looks sculpted.
The cooling air smells of spring, of mud and maple buds. Over the hill a wood fire sends its smoke our way. Even the smoke smells of spring, stretching its heat as if to last until the fall.
The Barred Owl calls again. It has called all day. It cannot get enough of its bold pronouncements, calling in the light, at dusk, in the dark. Does it rest in spring?
I will settle in early tonight, my sleep restless lately, with worry and fear. Owl, put me to sleep. I will leave the window open a bit to hear you. And to let in the pink moon.
There have been a few crocuses popping up but I’m not sure they count. The first flowers of spring are really Colt’s Foot. They pop out of the leaf litter on the roadside, yellow stars among last year’s crumpled leaves.
In the woods now, wild leeks emerge. There is a place nearby where I can see down and down into the trees as they slope downward to the west. This time of year it is clear of undergrowth. The floor of the forest grows green with wild leeks as they pierce the matted vegetation. Like crocuses they come from waking bulbs.
I will find my way into the woods behind our house, bend down and dig. I will pull some wild leeks from the soil and turn them into soup. I will bake bread and serve them with the soup. We will taste spring in our house.
Today, as the sun rose, the river smelled like more than melted snow. It smelled like earth and rain and new grass. I stood where the river flows under the road. Colt’s Foot bloomed at my feet. A Meadowlark sang, then zipped across the road until it disappeared into the willows.
Are we more attuned to spring this year? Do we notice more now that we have all slowed down? We are afraid, some of us, of what might come. Some of us are afraid of what has come. Spring, however, also comes. The yellow flowers bloom. The green leaves push up from bulbs.
I imagine the Phoebe, broadcasting from the roof of the falling barn, sings about such things. Perhaps, however, I give the Phoebe too much credit. I find beauty in the life that has been hidden, while the Phoebe simply finds insects and carries leaf stems to build its nest. It sings of that.
It is not wrong for me to be afraid. It is not wrong to admire life seeping back all around me. The Snipe, circling ghost-like over the meadow at dusk, reminds me that I can be both, reminds me that the turning of the world is worth my attention, whether I am afraid or not.
Mercury on the Move 