The thing I like most about Ovenbirds is that they notice you. Most wood warblers wouldn’t bother to give you the time of day, busy as they are poking about for insects and chasing off rivals high in the canopy. As celebrities of the birding world, they generally aren’t particularly gracious to their fans.
But Ovenbirds are different. They live fairly quiet and unobtrusive lives, creeping about the leaf litter in deciduous woodlands and occasionally breaking the silence with a forceful TEACH! TEACH! TEACH! (Yes, I know that teacher! is the accepted phonetic representation printed in nearly every field guide, but I’ve yet to ever distinguish that second syllable!) Stir one up, and they’ll quickly flit out of view — but they won’t go far.
I met this bird while hiking the Bruce Trail access point found down the road from the family cottage, a steep path that climbs the face of the escarpment that shelters Colpoy’s Bay. I’d paused on my way up to ID some passing migrants (and, I’ll admit, for a breather!), when my attention was drawn by a faint fluttering of wings in a nearby cedar. Such small sounds are the manner in which Ovenbirds most frequently give themselves away. I’ve learned to be mindful of rustling leaves whenever I’m walking in the woods, as it’s a common indicator that I’ve just flushed one of the little warblers.
He peered out at me from within the foliage, first with one dark eye and then the other, as if filled with an insatiable curiousity. Eventually he dropped down to the ground, where he strut about, tail cocked, resembling a proud barnyard fowl more than he did a wood warbler. Ovenbirds don’t hop like most other warbler species — they’re walkers, a result of their preference for poking about the leaf litter.
One almost gets the sense that all of this strutting around was just for my benefit. Very well, Ovenbird: I’m impressed. And perhaps just a little bit amused.
