North on the Wing

by Bruce M. Beehler

  Aside from the Philadelphia Vireo, the other true aspen specialist is our familiar Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. The sapsucker, which I first encountered in southern Arkansas, loves to drill its nest hole in a dead aspen stub, and it will drill sap wells in living aspens and poplars. Without aspen groves, the cadenced drumming of this stolid but handsome woodpecker would not be heard in the North Woods.

  Given that the aspen groves are early successional habitat that arises shortly after disturbance, these areas include young trees, shrubby thickets, and clearings of bare gravel. Other songbirds like this habitat, and here I added two additional quest species: Orange-crowned and Wilson’s Warbler. Both tend to skulk in shrubbery at the edges of clearings, and both signal their presence by their songs, which sound similar. The Wilson’s gives a rapid chi-chi-chi-chu-chu-chu, whereas the Orange-crowned gives a trilled ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-tu-tu-tu. Though distinguishing the songs is a challenge, seeing the birds resolves any uncertainty. The Wilson’s is yellow-breasted with a neat black cap. Its breeding range extends from the Eastern Maritimes northwest to Alaska and then south to California and Colorado in the mountains of the West, and it winters from Mexico to Panama. The very plain Orange-crowned is yellowish-olive, with a drab gray head and throat, obscure streaking on the breast and flanks, and a yellowish undertail. The crown-mark for which it is named is never visible to observers in the field. The breeding range of this species generally matches that of the Wilson’s Warbler, and its winter range extends from the southern United States to Mexico.

  The prize songster of the aspen groves is the rusty-striped Fox Sparrow, which winters south to the Mid-Atlantic, breeds in brushy clearings in the taiga forests of the North Woods, and ranges in summer from Alaska to Labrador. Northern Ontario is on the southern verge of its eastern breeding habitat. This large species is rather easy to observe during the winter, when individuals forage on the ground under backyard feeders. Here in the North Woods, the Fox Sparrow was perhaps the most reclusive songbird: I glimpsed it only once, and a few times heard it singing loudly from the shelter of thickets. The song is a cheerful and complex series of conversational notes, musical and precise. I’d heard it on a few occasions in the Mid-Atlantic in early spring, and I was pleased to hear it now on the bird’s breeding ground.

  YEAR-ROUND RESIDENT BIRDS OF THE GREAT NORTH WOODS

  Two grouse species make this vast woodland their home year-round: the Ruffed Grouse and the Spruce Grouse. The Ruffed has a huge geographic range, extending from Alaska to Labrador and south along the Appalachians as far as Georgia. It prefers mixed coniferous-deciduous woods, whereas the Spruce Grouse sticks to pure conifer stands. The Ruffed Grouse is special because of its nuptial display, called drumming, and I knew the species must be here in the North Woods because I had heard males drumming at various times during the day and even late at night.

  A male Ruffed Grouse attracts females to mate in spring by a set display combining plumage, posturing, and mechanical sound production via percussion. The male locates a fallen hollow log on the ground in a thicket in the woods and determines that the log will suffice as both a display perch and a resonant sounding board. The male attends his display site every day during the mating season. Periodically, he mounts the log and rapidly and rhythmically beats his wings against his ribcage to produce a low-pitched thrumming sound that carries far through the woods. When an interested female approaches, the male does his display, which I watched at close range one morning. It was the first time I had seen a grouse display, and I was mesmerized. The male raised the black ruff around his head, dropped his wings, and lifted and spread his tail feathers in a broad, erect circle. His sound, wing motion, shiny black ruff, and fanned-out tail were a winning combination. He seemed captivated by his own display activity, and I approached quite closely without disturbing the performance.

  The little-known Spruce Grouse is a denizen of its namesake forests in the Great North Woods. One of a handful of boreal forest specialists that live in these conifer tracts year-round, it is known informally as the “fool hen,” as the species can be inordinately unwary. I found this out at the Pipestone campsite. Biking up the entrance road one morning, I glanced down a side track and saw a big bird standing in the middle of the dusty path. I dropped my bicycle, pulled out my camera, and began slowly edging toward it. It was a female Spruce Grouse, deep brown and heavily barred with fine black markings. It eyed me but did not retreat. When I stood within twenty feet of the bird, I started taking photographs. Before long, I was at the minimum focal distance of the lens: just twelve feet. The bird watched me, pretending to forage from time to time. It eventually flew up into a spruce and observed me from there.

  The Spruce Grouse, though insanely tame, is more elusive than the Ruffed Grouse because the male’s display includes a short flight, but the wing sound produced does not carry far. I managed to observe Spruce Grouse on just six occasions during my stay up north, generally detecting its presence only by the distinctive piles of orange extruded tubes of digested vegetable material it excretes, which look a bit like Fiber One cereal. I found these piles in the middle of many sprucey paths. They are a by-product of the species’ unusual diet: the needles of spruce and fir. By contrast, the Ruffed Grouse subsists on the buds of ferns and other broad-leaved plants, and I never saw its poop piles on trails or roads.

  The Boreal Chickadee and Black-capped Chickadee constitute another pair of permanent residents. These two chickadees are the smallest birds to brave the long, dark winter up north. I encountered the Boreal on four days, the Black-capped on five days—neither species is particularly common here. Black-cappeds range from Jack Pine to spruce bog, but Boreals stay hidden in the spruce thickets. The Boreal differs from the Black-capped in that it is spruce-dependent and has a dull brown cap and reddish-brown flanks. Both are adorable and approachable, but the Black-capped has more personality and is more confiding: it can be fed by hand in winter.

  Both species of three-toed woodpeckers are iconic year-round residents of the North Woods. The Black-backed Woodpecker is slightly larger and longer-billed than the less handsome but rarer American Three-toed Woodpecker. Both birds spend all year here, working over dead conifers in search of bark-dwelling and wood-boring insects. One pair of Black-backeds put on a show for me: the birds drummed, and then the male came in excitedly with mewing vocalizations, holding up its wings in a prominent V, perhaps as a sort of territorial declaration. Both species prosper after forest fires because of the standing dead conifers that become infested by a bonanza of wood-boring beetles. The American Three-toed is strictly found in spruce bogs; I saw it just once, while I spotted the Black-backed four times. The Downy, Hairy, and Pileated Woodpeckers—three of North America’s more widespread and common woodpeckers—were absent here.

  Another North Woods permanent resident is a grail bird for North American birders: the Great Gray Owl. I found a single individual in a large, open bogland area not far from Badesdawa Lake. I played the call of the species after dark, eliciting a very low-pitched series of hoo notes from the grand night watcher. Soon I saw the giant owl soar in on set wings, like a gliding moth dark against the pale night sky. He came across a broad expanse of the open bog, almost as if in slow motion, and perched atop a tall conifer, swiveling his great round head. Behind him Venus was low to the horizon, Jupiter higher in the sky. Transfixed by the owl and the shining planets, I barely noticed the penumbra of mosquitoes around my head.

  The morning after encountering the Great Gray, I returned to the frost-bedecked bog and tried my luck again. At 5 a.m., I used my iPhone to replay periodically the voice of the big bird. A muffled response came from a thick clump of spruces on the far side of the wetland. I marked the spot and started wading toward it. Twenty minutes later, after clambering over and around numerous blown-down conifers, I was in the thick of the spruces. I scanned for several minutes and spotted the owl, perched about twenty feet up on a large spruce bough in the deep shadows. I was no more than seventy-fi
ve feet from him. I crept closer and closer until he filled the viewfinder of my camera. Not at all frightened by my presence, he looked right down at me. His body plumage matched the mottled dark gray of the surrounding spruce trunks, and his big gray eye-disks made his yellow-eyed stare all the more intense.

  BIRDS OF THE LAKES AND RIVERS

  Quite a few species of birds are closely associated with the abundant lakes and rivers of the North Woods. The most familiar waterbird is the Common Loon, and every lake up here had its pair. They wailed their unearthly banshee yodels on and off through the nights and on foggy mornings. These master fish-hunters like the solitude of undeveloped lakes and generally don’t take kindly to people. On several evenings, I kayaked close to a single adult bird to look at its patterned back and its sleek, flawless neck plumage checkered in black and white. The black bill was sharply pointed and glossy, the eye a deep red. The bird had the look of a powerful submarine. Of course, these birds spend much of their day under water chasing small fish.

  One day, out on Middle Menako Lake, I came upon six White Pelicans in their breeding finery who permitted me to kayak right up to them. Then they slowly rose off the water and circled in stately formation, showing me their long black-and-white wings, white bodies, and orange feet and bills. This is the largest bird inhabiting the North Woods, weighing fifteen pounds and boasting a nine-foot wingspan. Their grace in flight belied their ponderous mass.

  Many evenings I encountered pairs of Bonaparte’s Gulls foraging over the water, hawking for insects much as I had seen Ring-billed Gulls do along the Potomac in Virginia. The petite Bonaparte’s is a fairly common winter visitor to the East Coast, but in the nonbreeding season the species’ plumage is drab. On its breeding ground, this bird is among the prettiest of gulls. I photographed a pair on a small beach on the Pipestone River to capture the perfect patterning that nature has created: bright-red legs and feet, jet-black bill matching the all-black head, and a white crescent surrounding the dark iris. Their bodies are patterned in snow white, dove gray, and black. In flight, their wings show large white patches bordered by black.

  Of course, the North Woods has its breeding waterfowl as well. On evening kayak trips, I encountered pairs of Green-winged Teal, Red-breasted Merganser, Bufflehead, Ring-necked Duck, and Common Goldeneye. This lake-splattered landscape is a magnificent breeding ground for ducks, offering them both ample water and abundant privacy.

  NORTH WOODS WILDLIFE AND PLANT LIFE

  I was here in search of birds, but I took note of everything else. Butterflies moved through openings in small numbers, and near Menako Lakes I found the Canadian Tiger Swallowtail, the Silvery Blue, a Frigga Fritillary, and a Red-disked Alpine. In other places I found scores of the now-familiar Band-winged Meadowhawk dragonflies active in clearings; I assumed it was the very same species I had encountered in northern Minnesota.

  Although this is not snake country, I came upon a red-bellied form of the Eastern Garter Snake when a small individual crawled up my leg as I kayaked on Middle Menako Lake. Frogs and toads were heard, not seen; Spring Peepers sang at Second West Lake. Boreal Chorus Frogs vocalized in a wet bog.

  Of course, mammals are the high-profile feature of this wilderness realm. I’d learned from my pretrip review of my mammal field guide that many species inhabit this patch of the North Woods. I had dreamed of wolves and Moose and caribou but discovered instead that American Black Bear is the commonplace large quadruped, on the move in the month of June. Aside from bear, the only common predator here is the Red Fox, one of which came into my Pipestone camp daily to scrounge for scraps. I often heard him rummaging around in the food box in the early morning while I was still in my tent. I also spotted tantalizing signs of wolves: paw tracks in wet sand, and droppings filled with the hair of their prey. I never heard them howl, however, and the only wolves I actually saw were those that visit the Musselwhite mine dump.

  Other animals were surprisingly scarce. I saw Moose cows on only two occasions, in spite of the abundance of waterways and wetlands and bogs, and although I’d expected to spot Moose while kayaking, I was disappointed. I found a porcupine kill, possibly by a Fisher, but never actually saw a live Porcupine or Fisher. Nor did I see Woodland Caribou or Wolverine, although a local First Nations resident spoke of these species wandering through from time to time.

  Smaller mammals were uncommon, too. I saw a single Snowshoe Hare, and a Woodchuck in a grassy clearing. Several times Least Chipmunks came into my Menako Lakes camp, and I encountered Red Squirrels only three times in sixteen days. Among the other mammals I never saw in my stay in the North Woods were White-tailed Deer, American Mink, Least Weasel, River Otter, American Marten, Striped Skunk, Coyote, Beaver, or any bat species. The camera trap I set up on several game trails caught images of only two vertebrates—the Gray Jay and me. (We’ll ruminate on the reasons for the region’s relative paucity of mammals in a later section addressing the possible impact of trapping for the fur trade.)

  The local flora provided more satisfaction. Marsh Marigold was blooming. Various roadside shrubs were in flower: Pin Cherry, shadbush, and Labrador Tea. A dwarf blueberry showed its pendant bell-like white flowers, with their narrow pink fringe. Pink Ladyslipper orchids were rampant in some clearings: I came across a cluster of fifty-six in one spot. Dandelions and wild strawberries were in flower, as was the very small False Lily of the Valley. At Badesdawa Lake, plenty of Wild Sarsaparilla grew as ground cover at the forest edge, and Clintonia, Bunchberry, and American Mountain-ash were in high flower. It was spring, after all.

  MATE ACQUISITION AND NESTING

  Cooking dinner one evening at camp, I listened to the sweet wita witeeyu song of a Magnolia Warbler as I cut onions for hash. I located its nest—the only songbird nest I found during my entire journey—in a small spruce. The Magnolia is one of the more common boreal warblers, but here, where the territorial warblers evidently were scattered far and wide in low densities, I’d heard only one or two a day. The Magnolia is a commonplace migrant along the East Coast but remains popular because of the male’s striking coloration—it is trimly patterned in yellow, black, white, and green, with a black eye-stripe, white eyebrow, large white wing-patch, and black flank streaks. It breeds in the Appalachians, New England, and much of boreal Canada. A confiding bird of the understory, it allows birders to goggle at its obvious beauty.

  Earlier, this chapter discussed the mystery of how northbound migrant songbirds locate their natal territories in the northlands. Now let’s turn to the questions of mate acquisition and nesting—activities constituting the crescendo of the life cycle of these northward-traveling songbirds—using the Magnolia Warbler as an example. How does a male Magnolia Warbler benefit by returning to his natal territory? The best explanation is familiarity. This is the place his parents successfully raised him, and this is the first patch of woods where he learned to forage for himself. The fact that he remains alive indicates that he got a good start in life, and that fact in turn indicates his natal territory was productive. By returning there, he has a head start on his nesting challenge. If his parents are back in place on his natal territory, he usually can take up a territory nearby. But because of short life spans, the male Magnolia’s parents might have died, leaving his natal territory open for occupation. For an older male that has already successfully bred and is now returning north, it pays for him to return to the place where he earlier raised offspring—it is a place of proven quality, where he already knows the ins and outs.

  The male sings most frequently and loudly in the early-morning hours to establish himself on his territory. At other times in the day, he sings to attract a mate. Presumably the songs he sings for the two tasks are distinct. Soon after his arrival on territory, a male will sing hundreds or even thousands of times a day, from dawn until dusk. (The literature reports on one male Red-eyed Vireo that sang more than twenty thousand times in a single day.)

  The Magnolia female arrives about ten days after the male and goes abou
t selecting her mate based on territory quality and male song and plumage brightness. Once paired, the two birds mate many times and search out a nest site. Both sexes contribute to nest-building, though the female does the most. The nest, situated about five feet up in a small conifer, is a flimsy cup of coarse grasses set atop a platform of twigs and lined with horsehair fungus. The female lays four eggs in four days and begins brooding the clutch after the fourth egg is laid; she alone will incubate. Once the eggs hatch, after about twelve days of incubation, both parents feed their nestlings tiny mashed-up insects, with the male delivering more food to the nest than the female. The young depart the nest after about nine days and begin learning to forage independently. The parents provision the fledged nestlings for several weeks, until they can forage on their own. If the initial nesting attempt is successful, the Magnolia Warbler pair does not re-nest that summer. If the first nest fails, the pair may attempt another nest. For the mated pair, getting several young to independence is their goal for the year.

  What happens on the breeding ground, of course, impacts the number of birds that arrive on the wintering ground. Studies by John Faaborg and his students in Puerto Rico indicate that drought on the breeding ground leads to lower numbers on the wintering ground. Climate change is likely to influence rainfall patterns in North America, and this will certainly influence breeding productivity from place to place—the wetter sites will be more productive. What the overall net effect will be is uncertain.