A Family Affair: American Avocet

American Avocet. Photo by David Powell

The two American Avocets stood, silent but alert, in the shallows of a New Mexico wetland. Brilliant slivers of crimson in the eastern sky heralded the onset of the day. The female had been assiduous in her companionship, and eventually the male accepted her presence. Now, the two were rarely far from one another. Like a pair of ballet dancers, the birds were the epitome of elegance with their striking feathers and graceful, upturned bills, the silhouette of their image reflected in the mirror of the glassy surface of the water.

The dance began when the female slowly and deliberately leaned forward, stretching her neck as far as possible, submerging her bill into the water. This was the cue for the male to begin his solo performance. He began to preen his feathers on the side nearest his mate, dipping his bill into the water and lifting it to his breast. With the second dip, he shook his bill splashing water on the pair. He continued, moving in an ever increasing frenzy of vigorous splashing, until he joined the still motionless female, and they became one. After, in the grande finale of their ritualized dance, the pair stood side by side with necks intertwined, and ran as one through the shallows.

Avocets prefer to nest on islands within a wetland, if possible, because it provides some protection from predators. Their nest-search, which also is part of the pair formation, includes ritualized scraping displays. The final nest site often is somewhat elevated with a clear view from which the pair can scan for predators. Sometimes, females lay eggs in the nest of another female, who then incubates the eggs. Avocet eggs have been found in the nests of other species too, such as gulls. Likewise, eggs of other species sometimes are found in avocet nests. So, an avocet parent might raise a mixed species family that could include Black-necked Stilts or even terns.

Modern day parenting is the norm, where both parents take turns incubating the average size clutch of four eggs. Early on, the male performs on the bulk of incubation. In warmer areas, with relentless sun baking the sandy shores, incubation consists of cooling, rather than warming, the eggs. Parents soak their belly feathers before sitting on the nest. Evaporative cooling prevents the eggs from getting too warm.

For a vulnerable chick, life on the edge of a wetland is precarious. Young are up and out of the nest within 24 hours. Day old chicks can already walk, swim, and dive. Older, but still flightless, chicks can dive and swim up to 21 feet underwater using their wings and feet. If the nest is on an island, chicks follow their parents and swim to the shore, where they are raised in a nursery area with shallow water and dense vegetation for cover. Often, several avocet pairs will cooperatively raise their young in a communal nursery. Here, the chicks might a brooded by different parents.

Often, female parents abandon the nursery before the young a fully independent, leaving the remainder of the care with the males. Maybe, just maybe this is part of the reason why he is reluctant to initiate courtship, knowing what his parenting duties will be, and why avocets rarely have the same mate the following season.

What's in a Name: Wood Warblers

Yellow Warbler. Photo by David Powell

Yellow-rumped Warbler. Photo By David Powell.

Imagine sitting on the deck overlooking the Jemez River on the first beautfiul spring morning spring morning of the year. The streamside vegetation is bursting with new green verdance. As the caffeine from your coffee or tea begins to work its morning magic and the sleep induced blurriness clears from your eyes, you realize that today the world is a little different. Tiny little birds of brilliant yellow, black, green, and blue flit among the tree tops and bounce across the streamside vegetation oblivious to your presence. They’re in a hurry, these little birds, gobbling up bugs as if they’ve not eaten in a long time, hastily replenishing their fat reserves. Every so often, one of them appears to forget the business of survival, and bursts into song, often from the very top of a very exposed perch, as if he were warbling his presence to the world. Indeed, he is doing just that but, in truth, he cares little for planetary interest. His serenade is meant for only one, a certain special female.

Warblers, properly known as wood warblers, have long captivated bird watchers with their diversity, bright plumages and sprightly behavior. Most of them winter in Mexico, Central and South America, and return to our latitudes in late April and May. Down south, during the winter, they were busily eating as much as possible, mostly insects, so they could produce an entirely new set of iridescent feathers and attain prime breeding condition. They’re hungry when they arrive after their long journey, often feeding voraciously in the densest vegetation of the very tops of the tallest trees. Warbler watching is not for the faint of heart. There’s actually a name for this particular sports injury, “warbler neck”. It feels as if your binocular strap is literally going to sever your head from your body. It hurts

I clearly remember a trip to southern Arizona, to the upper reaches of the Chiricahua Mountains on a quest for rarities, one of which was the Olive Warbler. The habitat preference of this little fellow is the tip top of the tallest pines. We heard him sing almost as soon as we arrived and occasionally saw something flit way up there. My neck loudly proclaimed its discomfort as I searched through the tips of the pine forest without capturing one in my binoculars. Then, just when I was about to give up, I realized that I didn’t necessarily have to stand with bowed back and bent neck. My friend and I decided to lay down in the grass and watch from a more natural body postition. Voila Olive Warbler added to my checklist

Warbler watching is not for everyone, but some dedicated birders travel far afield to places like High Island, Texas each spring. This tiny island on the north shore of the Gulf of Mexico hosts the first trees and shrubs seen by trans-gulf migrants after flying nonstop across hundreds of miles of water, a nonstop trip of 36-45 hours across the hostile ocean. Exhausted, the tiny birds fall from the sky, resting and eating within easy sight of the average birder.

Our western warblers make and overland journey north along the spine of the continent and its watersheds. While many species migrate through, only a few stay to nest: Yellow-breasted Chat (our largest warbler), Common Yellowthroat, and Yellow, MacGillivray’s, Grace’s, and Virginia’s Warblers are the most common Jemez nesting warblers.

Insect larvae comprise the bulk of the diet of all warblers, although fruit and nectar are seasonally important for some species. Just as species occupy widely differing habitats, their feeding styles vary widely. Some are gleaners, patiently plucking insects from leaves and bark, moving slowly and reaching for the next morsel, like our Grace’s Warbler that probes pine needles, bark, and crevices in the ponderosa pine forest. Some skulk in dense vegetation, often along streams, picking insects from clusters of dead leaves on the ground or bark and vegetation just above, like MacGillivray’s Warbler. Others prefer to hang from or flutter beneath vegetation, gleaning prey from the underside of leaves, like the Wilson’s Warbler that migrates through New Mexico and breeds in our northernmost coniferous forests. This tiny, bright yellow fellow with the solid black cap is constantly on the move. In fact, “the bird that can’t stop moving” is one of the ways to help identify the species. Some warblers, like the Yellow-rumped Warbler, employ a sallying technique, flying quickly out from a perch to snatch an aerial insect, also called flycatching.

While warblers occupy themselves with survival, we humans wrestle with cataloguing and naming all things on our shared plant. It can be the cause of strife and dissension, with a heavy dose of ego. In the world of ornithologists, the honor of naming a bird is bestowed on the person that discovers the new species, but naming a bird after oneself is frowned upon by the scientific community. Changing a name, once bestowed, can be construed as scientific jealousy and cause for scorn.

Some species have names that reflect something about their biology, such as the Field Sparrow, often found in weedy fields, or Swamp Sparrow. Others are named after their song or call, such as the chickadee with its ‘chick-a-dee-dee-dee’ call. Some choose to name the newly discovered species after another individual, generally another revered scientist. However, controversy sometimes rears its ugly head when egos are overly invested in a name.

Such was the case with our beautiful MacGillivray’s Warbler. It was discovered by eminent ornithologist, John Kirk Townsend, who named it after his close friend, Dr. W. T. Tolmie, Esq., a surgeon, noted ornithologist, and entrepreneur with the Hudson Bay Company. The new species was called Tolmie’s Warbler. Later, however, in Birds of North America, John James Audubon renamed the species MacGillivray’s Warbler in honor of his close friendship with Dr. W. MacGillivray, a Scottish ornithologist and professor of natural history who had helped Audubon edit his book. Audubon’s disregard for Townsend’s prior name and MacGillivray’s lack of North American field experience have caused resentment among some western birders, who still prefer reinstating the original name. Fortunately, the warbler shares none of our concern about his name. He’s too busy just doing what comes naturally.

Little Robin Redbreast

American Robin family. Photo by Don Bartram.

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree
Up climbed pussycat and down went he,
Down came pussycat, away Robin ran.
Says little Robin Redbreast, “Catch me if you can.”

Little Robin Redbreast flew upon a wall,
Pussycat jumped after him, and almost had a fall.
Little Robin chirped and sang and what did Pussy say?
Pussycat said, “Mew,” and Robin flew away.

– Mother Goose

The subject of myth and folklore, the robin has been popular in literature worldwide for hundreds of years. The robin is often viewed as a symbol of peace, charity and compassion and the origin of its red breast has inspired countless tales. There is one story of how the robin plucked a thorn from the crown that pierced Jesus’ forehead as he was on his way to be crucified, accidentally piercing his own breast, and staining his feathers red. Another tale tells that the robin’s breast was singed while the bird was fanning the fire to warm baby Jesus.

Robins are often viewed as indicators of spring. Their presence is a sure sign that soon birdsong will fill the air, trees and shrubs will burst forth with verdant vegetation, and all life will be renewed. They are viewed as a peaceful bird, minding their own business, pulling up worms, and caring for their families. Their image graces countless note cards, Christmas cards, and advertisements, a symbol that all is well. But, are fact and fiction one in the same with regard to the robin?

Our American Robin (Turdus migratorius), the bird that we see gracing cards, is actually a member of the thrush family (Turdidae), and closely related to bluebirds, mockingbirds, and Townsend’s Solitaire. It is found throughout North America, although the northernmost populations migrate south for the winter. It is not the bird of European literature. To the rest of the world, robins are small members of the flycatcher family. The European Robin (Erithacus rubecula), subject of much literature, is a small insect-eating songbird now considered to be an Old World flycatcher (Muscicapidae). That robin has a bright orange breast instead of red, and is found across Europe, east to Western Siberia and south to North Africa. The term Robin also is given to other species of birds with red breasts, including the Australian red robins of the genus Petroica, which are more closely related to crows.

Now that you are thoroughly numbed by the above paragraph and nodding off toward an extended nap, let’s think about the peaceful part. In general, we rarely see more than one or two robins and their families hopping about in our yards during the spring and summer. That’s because the male of the pair has ferociously defended your yard from all challengers. Only he and his mate can peacefully occupy that territory. This is not to say that there will be no challenges from others, for each robin must maintain enough precious habitat with an adequate food supply and interlopers lurk, waiting for their chance, that moment of inattention when Daddy Robin is looking the other way and the mealworm pan is left unattended.

Earlier this month, I watched a fierce battle over the less than desirable territory of my back yard (at least in my opinion). The two males stabbed with their beaks and grabbed with their feet until one fell from high in the elm tree to land on the ground on his back. That must have hurt! A few days later, I found a dead male in the front yard. Could they have battled to the death? It is a simple matter of survival for the male, his mate, and their offspring. And raise families, they do. A pair of robins can produce up to three clutches of young a year.

Then, there is the myth that robins are harbingers of spring. While this is true for those who live in northern states and Canada, New Mexico actually has far more robins during the winter than the breeding season. Those northern robins head south in search of food. It seems logical that xeric New Mexico cannot hold enough worms and other insects to feed all those wintering robins. So, some other food source must be the attractant. Those of you who have towering Russian olives in your yard, or a tangle of pyracantha with 6" thorns just waiting to shred your skin are the reason the robins thrive in our arid landscape. Berries are a vital part of their diet and both pyracantha and Russian olive hold their berries until they are eaten.

Robins thrive in an urban environment like your back yard. Populations appear stable or are increasing throughout their range. But, because the robin often feeds on insects in lawns, it is vulnerable to pesticide poisoning and can be an important indicator of chemical pollution. So, next time you are worried about that perfect lawn, do your wallet and a bird a favor and skip the pesticide company.

I was once lucky enough to have pair of robins build their nest on my front porch and I was able to spy on them from the safety of the bedroom window, in essence having a front row seat to watch the antics, fun for me but deadly serious to them. Even though they are a common bird, they can be uncommonly entertaining. I found a 10 minute film clip that shows robin family rasing a family from start to finish. Check it out.

There's No Place Like Home!

Juvenile Harpy Eagle. Photo by Mark Watson

Scarlet-horned Manakin. Photo by Mark Watson

There’s nothing quite like a visit to a third world country to make one appreciate the lifestyle Americans take for granted. I currently have a special fondness for certain luxuries: hot water; potable water; meat that is recognizable; well-maintained roads, vehicles with adequate exhaust systems, and uninterrupted sleep. There are positives from the trip that I always will cherish: new and improved friendships, awe for the amazing diversity of flora and fauna of Venezuela; and an greater appreciation for a different culture.

We saw birds too! Many of them! While I didn’t see anything approaching the record 380+ species recorded by the top birder in the group, I tallied a remarkable 328 species, of which 281 were life birds for me. Yes, we did see the magnificent Harpy Eagle, one flighted youngster of 18 months, and both parents. Our Venezuelan guides led us right up to a viewing spot and there was the immature eagle, perched right in plain view. As we watched, the adult male flew over, likely checking to see if all was well with Junior. We later viewed the adult female who perched nicely for viewing through the scope as we were leaving the area.

We were asked to list our “top three” birds by our trip leader, Jim Black of Chupaflor Tours, so the group could determine the “top” bird of the trip. Indeed, the Harpy Eagles were a big score, but it seemed just a little too easy to find them, almost as if we didn’t earn the experience. We also saw rarities, birds that skulked in the dense undergrowth, and a wide variety of brilliantly colored species like the Paradise Tanager that looks as if it were colored by a child with a new box of crayons. We saw amazing hummingbirds, like the Crimson Topaz with its incredibly long tail, and a Sooty-capped Hermit on her nest. At a wetland, we found two Pinnated Bitterns in flight and a bird that is called, a Double-striped Thick-knee. Now, who would think up a name like that for a bird!? Fortunately, birds don’t care what we humans call them.

We found a Rufous Crab-Hawk in the mangrove swamp. To me, it seemed logical that the primary food of a bird called a Crab-Hawk would be crabs. As we motored through the mangroves on increasingly larger waterways, I kept expecting to arrive at the ocean, where there would be a beach with a flourishing crab colony. However, after at least two hours of boating, we didn’t appear to be anywhere near the beach. Eventually, our Venezuelan guide pointed to two large hawks perched high above the mangroves with no beach in sight. I wondered just where it was that these hawks could find enough crabs to sustain themselves in the unlikely crab habitat. That is, until we pulled over close to the mangroves to look at a flycatcher, only to discover the trees were literally crawling with crabs, big and small. They skuttled up and over the roots and raced up the tree trunks. They are a species of tree crab, at home in this aquatic environment, and so numerous they plunked into our boats with regularity.

As I think about all the marvelous birds of Venezuela, and choosing only three of them, there is one that brings a smile to my face each time, the Scarlet-horned Manakin. We came upon a male deep in the rainforest, a little fellow with a crimson head and a jet black body. We watched as he performed his unique courtship moonwalk dance in the style of Michael Jackson. I’ll never forget the abandon with which he danced – as if no one were watching. Check out another manakin species dancing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDYpW3zyXqQ
If you are interested in more trip details, I’ve posted photos and stories about the trip on my other blog.

But, as exciting as my South American adventure was, there was immense comfort as I turned my car onto NM 4 and drove into the Jemez Valley. I stopped at the Highway 4 coffee shop for my favorite latte, and chatted with some of the folks there. Ponderosa Drive had just been bladed, for better or worse, and the birds at my place were hungry. My neighbors down the hill invited me over for dinner later this week, and I am thrilled to be back. There’s no place like home.

All About Eagles

Bald Eagle photograph by Doug Brown

A dedicated raptorphile, I once said that if I could see a wild Harpy Eagle in the South American jungle, I would die a happy woman. Harpia harpyja is the only member of the genus Harpia. It is the largest and most powerful raptor found in the Americas, inhabiting tropical lowland rainforest in the upper canopy layer, where it preys on sloths, monkeys, and other tree-top dwelling animals.

Throughout the world, there are 46 species of eagles, including fish eagles, to which our national bird, the Bald Eagle, belongs, and booted eagles of the family Aquila which includes the other well-known North American eagle, the Golden Eagle. There also is a large group of hawk eagles, none of which might be found in the United States. While many birding afficionados consider only the bald and golden native to our land, another eagle, even larger than the bald occasionally graces Alaska and the northern seacoast with its presence, the Stellar’s Sea-eagle. This species which can weigh up to 20 pounds dwarfs our eagles which rarely weigh more than 10 pounds. It normally nests on the east coast of Russia, but often takes to open water during the non-nesting season, sometimes straying as far as North America.

Our beloved national symbol, the Bald Eagle is probably the most instantly recognizable raptor in the world. However, despite its symbolism, the species has suffered from persecution, and until recently was a federally listed species. At one time Bald Eagles occupied almost all of North America and estimates placed the population prior to 1800 at more than 250,000 individuals. However, as humans began to expand our range on this continent, eagle populations began to decline. In the American West, Bald and Golden Eagles were considered vermin and were shot in the mistaken belief that they were a threat to livestock.

In 1940, the Bald Eagle Protection Act made it a federal offense to kill Bald Eagles everywhere except Alaska. In America’s frontier state, however, they still offered a bounty for eagle carcasses as late at 1953. Then, in 1967, they were listed as endangered under the original version of the Endangered Species Act.

Although direct persecution diminished, the species still suffered from low reproductive success. As a top predator, they were a victim of bioaccumulation. Because most of the bald’s prey is aquatic, either fish or waterfowl, toxins from pesticide residues built up in their systems, causing thinning eggshells and reproductive failure. Populations of Bald Eagle, along with Osprey and Peregrine Falcon crashed as a result of DDT and related toxins. Essentially, these large predators were the ‘canary in the coal mine’ that warned us of these pesticide hazards.

Bald Eagle numbers have rebounded thanks to a more enlightened citizenry, the banning of DDT, and laws that protect not only the birds, but also their nests. Now, in many areas, an active Bald Eagle nest is cause for celebration, and eagle watches and eagle cams are the rage. When it comes to nesting, Bald Eagles may just be downright hospitable. Other smaller species sometimes build their nests in the massive structure that the eagles improve upon each year. These smaller birds receive protection from the presence of the larger predator, and the eagle doesn’t necessarily view a small-medium sized songbird as a food item. At one eagle’s nest along Puget Sound, three live nestling red-tails were found. Because the hawks were younger than the eaglets they could not have hatched from eggs laid before the adult eagles arrived. It is likely that the adults brought the chicks to nest to feed their young. But, they were not killed. Under the right conditions, if a nestling makes a food begging call, the parents treat it as just another mouth to feed. Two of the three red-tail chicks fledged from their surrogate eagle’s nest.

Although Bald Eagles have rebounded, much concern remains about the Golden Eagle population in North America. Some biologists believe that golden numbers are as low or lower now than the Bald Eagle was when it was listed. Goldens face some of the same threats to survival, persecution from shooting and also electrocution on power lines. With their large wingspan of 6-1/2 feet, they can easily span the distance between energized components on utility structures.

There is a thriving black market for raptor feathers in North America, especially eagle feathers. While Native Americans can legally possess feathers under permits issued by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for use in religious ceremonies, collectors often pay exorbitant prices for feathers, feet, and skulls. Ironically, some of the largest documented eagle-poaching rings have involved Native Americans.

International trade in raptors is a continuing threat worldwide, and more than 120 countries have signed the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna (CITES), the most comprehensive wildlife conservation agreement ever created. Appendix I includes some 700 species of plants and animals that are critically endangered, including the Bald Eagle, and no legal trade is permitted in these species. Appendix II includes 3,000 animals, including the Golden Eagle, and 21,000 plants that would be threatened by uncontrolled trade, and only limited trade is allowed under certain circumstances. Appendix III includes species already protected by existing laws of signatory countries, but not included in the other two appendices. I

Which brings us back to the Harpy Eagle which was listed on Appendix I in 1975. For me, this species epitomizes the ultimate birding challenge: rugged conditions, bugs and snakes, potentially unstable politics, and the other hazards of travel in a country with only my marginal grasp of the language. I never for a moment thought that one day I might actually have an opportunity to see one of these magnificent creatures. That is, until the day my friend, Sam, called and said, “Jim Black is leading a tour to Venezuela to look for Harpy Eagles! Wanna go?” So, what could I say, except, “You betcha!” Sam and I are off later this week, along with 6 other birders, on a special quest to see our dream bird. Oh, and the several hundred other species that reside there! So, there won’t be a bird article in the March 1 issue of the Thunder. Hopefully, I’ll have the rest of the story for you in mid-March! Bien Venidos.

Gallant in Gray: Townsend's Solitaire

Townsend's Solitaire photograph by Jerry Oldenettel

Stoically perched atop the tallest snag near the top of the canyon, he surveyed the valley below. Camouflaged by dusky gray plumage, he was nearly indistinguishable from the lighter gray skeleton that had once been a one-seed juniper. From this lofty vantage point, rivals could be as easily detected as winged predators that might threaten his very existence. Outwardly calm to the casual observer, he issued a single note call, “Tew,” sometimes repeated in a series, announcing his territory and warning others to stay away.

Although it was winter, he jealously guarded his turf and its bounteous crop of juniper berries. In fact, his very life depended on the berries so ferociously guarded, for they made up about 95% of his winter diet. It would take between 42,000 and 84,000 juniper berries, depending on berry size, to survive the winter season. He had won the right to this particular berry patch in the fall with up to six fights per hour with others of his kind who would usurp the territory. Now, with winter territories firmly established, he could relax his guard, albeit slightly.

Both sexes of Townsend’s Solitaires establish individual territories around patches of junipers in the autumn, and fiercely defend them until late winter. Territories range from very small, containing as few as two junipers, to quite large, up to 12 acres, containing several hundred junipers. Almost all territories hold more berries than necessary to sustain their owner throughout the long winter. Boundaries are sharply defined, and protected even from members of the opposite sex. Individuals are strongly site faithful to their winter territories, returning to defend the same set of trees each year.

By March, as daylight hours increase, this slender gray thrush experiences the hormonal surges that drive males and females to pair up and establish nesting territories. Like other thrushes, the male sings a complex, hauntingly beautiful song during a display flight, similar in some ways to other members of this family, which includes American Robin, Hermit Thrush, and Mountain and Western Bluebirds. After attracting a female to the territory, he cements that season’s relationship by either regurgitating food to the female, or offering berries. During the spring and summer, spiders and insects, particularly moths and butterflies make up a large portion of their diet.

However, domestic bliss may not reign supreme in solitaire land, as both males and females have been known to indulge in extra pair copulations. By mating with more than one individual, each clutch has a higher degree of genetic variability, essentially a safety net to produce the most fit offspring. Females also have been documented laying eggs in the nests of other solitaires, thus increasing their chances of producing successful offspring with little extra energy demands.

Like other members of thrush family, immature solitaires are heavily spotted. Each feather is edged in black giving the young bird the appearance of a heavily ornamented scallop design on its body. The first time that I saw a juvenile solitaire, many years ago in Bandelier National Monument, I was at a complete loss as to how to identify it. On closer inspection though, the bold white eye ring that both youngsters and adults show, helped me to figure out the identity of the bird.

Because of its specialized winter diet, Townsend’s Solitaire is heavily dependent on juniper woodlands, a particularly under-appreciated habitat type. Throughout the West, many grassland restoration projects focus on large-scale removal of juniper in an attempt to create more forage for cattle and other browsing animals. Loss of mature trees and their berry crops affect not only the solitaire, but also other pinyon/juniper dependent birds such as Gray Vireo, Juniper Titmouse, Pinyon Jay, and both species of bluebirds. Although populations of solitaire appear to be stable currently, there is growing concern about the entire suite of birds dependent on pinyon/juniper woodland.

To learn more about Townsend’s Solitaire, including the song and “Tew” call, visit www.birds.cornell.edu Look at the menu bar across the top of the page, and click on Bird Guide. This will bring up a search page where you can enter any North American species. Generally, for each species account, there is an audio clip.

I would like to thank Jerry Oldenettel for providing the photograph for this article, and I look forward to sharing more of his wonderful photographs in the future. You can view more of his nature photos on his website.

Birds of Winter - Rosy Finch

Black Rosy-finch photograph by Doug Brown

One wouldn’t ordinarily think that birding the high mountains in the dead of winter would be a good idea. First of all there is all that snow: it makes the basics of getting around challenging as well as noisy, and stealth downright impossible. It would seem that all birds might flee with the advance of a large two-legged mammal crunching along through the snow. Such is not the case however, at least in certain parts of New Mexico.

Several years ago, a friend and I stumbled upon three new life birds while cross-country skiing along the open waters of East Fork of the Jemez River. Being neither quiet nor stealthy, we encountered a smallish flock of rosy-finches was feeding on the rock walls that line the canyon. They seemed oblivious to our presence as they flitted over the rock face searching for food. Among the flock were individuals that appeared to be markedly different. Indeed, in recent years, they have been classified as three separate species: Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch, Black Rosy-Finch, and Brown-capped Rosy Finch.

In summer, the Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch is distributed from coastal and western Alaska and British Columbia to the mountains of Idaho, western Montana, and northern California. The Black Rosy-Finch breeds high on scattered mountaintops in the Great Basin, and the Brown-capped Rosy-Finch is limited to the southern Rockies. In winter, the three species may be found together at high elevations in Colorado and New Mexico, most reliably at ski resorts such as Loveland, Colorado, and Taos, New Mexico.

Of the three species, the Black Rosy-Finch (Leucosticte atrata) is the least studied of all birds found on our continent, due to its choice of nesting locations. Only three people known to recorded scientific literature had ever found a nest of the Black Rosy-Finch before 2002. With Global Information Systems (GIS) technology and strong mountaineering skills, a University of Wyoming student became the fourth – when she discovered a nest at an elevation of nearly 12,000 feet in Utah's Uinta Mountains. The difficulty of exploring the Black Rosy-Finch breeding habitat has severely limited scientific study of the birds and made finding one of the nests a rare event.

In late spring, the alpine birds migrate to their nesting grounds above the timberline. There, among the tundra tussocks amid craggy cliffs, the rosy-finches build their nests inside cliff crevices and among the large boulders found on talus slopes. At an elevation of 10,000-13,000 feet, generally in the most remote regions of the Rocky Mountains and on the edges of the Great Basin, these hardy finches set up housekeeping and rear their young in nature’s most challenging environment.

On the nesting grounds, males defend a floating territory around their mates, rather than an area with a defined boundary. As a result, males constantly chase other males that approach their mates too closely. The best way to locate females is simply by watching the center of all the fighting.

In winter, the feisty, territorial birds assume a more gregarious lifestyle, and can be found in large mixed flocks of all three species of rosy-finches. The birds roost in large communal sites in caves, mine shafts, on rafters of barns, and in clusters of old Cliff Swallow nests.

It had long been known that one might find rosy-finches at the well-stocked feeders of the condos near the Taos Ski Area, but elsewhere they were considered to be rare, appearing only sporadically in the dead of winter. There was no reliable site where the birds might be found. This changed when birders Ken and Mary Lou Schneider responded to a Rare Bird Alert in the dead of winter and drove to the top of Sandia Peak (10,678 feet). The skies were clear and the winds calm on that day, and 40-50 rosy-finches of all three species were present foraging along the edges of the parking lot.

Thus began a fledgling plan that has, today, grown into one of the premier winter birding locations in North America. With the blessing of the US Forest Service and the staff of the Crest House, the feeders are always stocked much to the delight of birders that travel here from throughout the world to bag three different lifers in a single day. What is even more remarkable is that many of the feeders are within easy viewing of the tables in the coffee shop, eliminating the need to brave the elements. The dedicated folks that manage this site also run a banding station to track the birds’ movements, and they also maintain an extensive website www.rosyfinch.com The rosy-finches arrive in November and can stay as late as March, although the latest sighting occurred in April.

While I would love to direct you to a more local site in the Jemez Mountains to view these remarkable birds, your best bet to check off all three rosy-finches would be to drive up to the top of Sandia Peak on the next sunny, calm day, buy a cup of hot chocolate or two, park yourself next to the window near one of the feeders and wait. I might just see you there!