Just returned from five days in Algonquin.  I finally cracked open the Moleskine watercolour sketchbook that’s been gathering dust above my desk since I bought it last year.  A good way to kill a lazy afternoon at the campsite.

Camp

"Gear Tree"

Because after two hours of hanging around, he never showed himself.  Nice birding location, though — lots of breeding activity for being so late in the season, and nothing around but open fields and rows of windmills stretched across the horizon.

A Black-billed Cuckoo was a nice find — I haven’t seen one in a few years, and this one was obliging enough to remain out in the open (mostly).

A few sketches of the locals — Chipping Sparrow and American Robin.

On the drive back to the cottage, I happened across an Upland Sandpiper perched on the hydro wires just south of Hepworth (another species I haven’t encountered in some time).  I find these birds hilarious — nervous pin-heads with a call like the Dilophosaurus in Jurassic Park.

Some sketches from last weekend: Savannah Sparrows in the fields at Grass Lake.

The fields had been mowed and baled, so the Bobolinks had already departed (boo), but a family of Eastern Bluebirds kept me entertained.  The four fully fledged young scrambled up and down the round bales, snapping at insects or snuggling up together in between Dad’s visits.

Spent a beautiful long weekend up at the family cottage.  Sunday morning I hit Bruce Caves for a bit of birding (and to do my part in keeping the local blackfly population well fed).  A voice I couldn’t quite place led me to a male Mourning Warbler singing in the poplars.  Across the clearing, a Black and White Warbler answered.  Although the former was a better find, I spent far more time with the latter — BAWWs sport a plumage that is a lot more fun to put down in pencil.

Lots of singing birds about, but low on the warbler side at Currie Tract this morning.  Only six warbler species rustled up, and no Chestnut-sided to be seen (unusual for Currie at this time of year).  Nice to get out, though — for once, the weather and my schedule were both cooperative.

Pair of Scarlet Tanagers, Blue Jay, female Rose-breated Grosbeak and Blue-winged Warbler.

Right on schedule, the local Red-winged Blackbirds appeared on territory on the 11th of this month (it always amazes me how they figure out when to show up — I can’t remember what day of the week it is most days).  I finally got a chance to get out for some sketches on Sunday.  Spring begins with blackbirds.

And a big thanks to the folks who gave me a boost after I sat in the car for an hour at the side of the road, sketching … with my lights on.  I AM A MORON, YES.

Mehhh.  I’d really, truly, honestly intended to get out and do some birding yesterday, but felt too crummy to go anywhere.  Felt even worse this morning, so I called in sick and instituted my usual home remedy of lounging on the couch, drinking tea and watching cartoons.  Loki provided some convenient sketch fodder while shuffling around the apartment looking for furniture to climb and personal possessions to dismantle.  I’ll have to try again to get out next weekend — maybe Burlington, if the weather isn’t too cold.

The birding community has been buzzing about this one this week, and regular reports to ONTBIRDS have been tracking his every move.  Thankfully he stuck around until the weekend, and today I drove up to Brampton for a look at this rarity — only the second ever record for Ontario.  Phainopeplas are tropical relatives of the waxwings that range across Mexico and the extreme southwestern U.S., so he’s a long way from home.

I love the crest on this guy.

One sunny spring afternoon when I was eleven, I rode my bike down the road to my grandparents’ farm.  As I coasted down the laneway and entered the farmyard, I was startled by a sudden explosion of small, black birds erupting from every nook and cranny of one of the empty poultry barns.  Intrigued, I hopped off of my bike and retreated to a nearby shed to await their return.  One by one they reappeared, clinging momentarily to the barn wall for a wary look ’round before vanishing into their cavity nests.  They were glossy and short-tailed and yellow-billed, and I had no idea what they were.

At school the next day, I took a trip down to the library to peruse their small collection of bird books, where I found a copy of the Golden Birds of North America.  Taking it with me down to my bedroom that evening, I flipped through its crowded pages until I came across an illustration of a glossy black bird with a bright yellow bill — making the first of what would become many bird IDs from that trusty guide.

That’s right.  My spark bird was a European Starling.

No, really.

Starlings are not well loved here in North America.  The first starlings were introduced in 1890 in New York’s Central Park, by an organization seeking to bring all the birds mentioned in the works of Shakespeare to the new world (or so the famed story goes).  From that initial group of 60-100 individuals, the population exploded to over two hundred million in a single century, making them one of our most common birds — the quintessential ‘junk bird’ of North American birders.  They are noisy and gregarious, building their messy nests in attics and barbecues and commonly congregating at enourmous urban roosts that plaster the vehicles below in droppings.  As aggressive cavity nesters, they frequently out-compete native birds and have severely contributed to the decline of numerous passerine and woodpecker species.

And yet, I continue to have a strong affection for the birds.  There are comparatively few species that can survive in urban environments, and fewer still that prosper.  In a world where many creatures have been squeezed out of their ancestral homes, starlings have found their niche among us.  Cheerful and adaptable, they can always be relied upon on even the most bitterly cold winter mornings to greet the sun with an exhuberant performance that most birds would save for warmer seasons.  Their massive roosts are accompanied by astonishing displays of synchronous flight, thousands of birds moving as if they were one.  And, years later, I still fondly remember them as the species that sparked what would become a lifelong interest in birdwatching.

Oh, and I never did return that Golden field guide.

I’d been looking forward to the weekend, as I’d planned to spend most of it outdoors getting some watercolour studies done for an upcoming painting, as well as attend several lectures at the Quantum to Cosmos festival in Waterloo. Unfortunately I ended up coming down with a case of the flu, which kept me cooped up indoors for the entire weekend (although my inner science geek forced me to suck it up and get out for last night’s World’s Beyond Earth panel, with the help of some ibuprofen).  So here’s some of last weekend’s work instead.

On Sunday morning I hit the Arboretum, where I found numerous late fall migrants. I’ve always found Grackles to be such sleek and elegant birds, with their long, wedge-shaped tails and iridescent plumage (though most people seem to regard them as nothing more than a common nuisance).

I snuck out during a small family gathering at my parents’ in the afternoon to check out the old stomping grounds. I flushed a Northern Shrike while walking up the trail — I’m always glad to encounter shrikes, but not so glad to witness so sure a sign of the approaching winter. He stuck around long enough for a single sketch (featuring the back of his head).

An aging Quaking Aspen near the edge of the willow marsh (the only one remaining of four old aspen that used to exist around the property) has always been a magnet for migrant blackbirds, and I found a mid-sized flock of Red-wings and Rustys in its branches. Fall female Rustys sport my favourite blackbird plumage — dark masks and glossy burnt sienna feather fringes against a fierce yellow eye.

And lastly, a colour study of late fall milkweed from along the trailside — my favourite botanical subject.