7 May 2021
Below is the Green Big Day report, written by Chris Rurik.
Enjoy, Scott
Joe Roller Memorial BIG GREEN DAY
105 species
62+ miles ridden / walked
~$4,500 raised
What a BIG day it was! Thank you for your support. Let me try to share a sense of it with you...
Picture yourself on the shoulder of a dark road through a dark valley, predawn. Long before first light, a bird calls: a Spotted Towhee. Then a Red-winged Blackbird. A Song Sparrow. Somewhere in the night-hidden grassland is a marsh. You look over your shoulder and see that the moon has just risen, a razor-sharp C-shape over a black ridgeline. In the distance a light comes curving down a hillside. Several minutes later it arrives with a quiet whoosh: a commuter on bike headed for Lockheed Martin at 4:30 am. Later a motorcycle passes, trailing classic rock in the night.
South Valley Park, Jefferson County
After the Song Sparrow, we heard something neither of us had ever heard: a Mountain Bluebird singing in the dark. A little discovery. Who knew that Mountain Bluebirds sing before dawn?
That unseen bird put us in a good mood. Throughout the past week, Scott had been scouting parts of our route, and thus far the year's migration had been odd. Weather was fluctuating between rain and heat, winds weren't cooperating, and most species were a week or two behind their normal arrival date. Big days are always hard to schedule—you want to hit the overlap between the last wintering birds and the migrants and summering birds, a period that can be less than a week long—and it's especially tricky on bike, since you can't just zip here there and everywhere to see staked-out birds.
Mountain bluebirds had been late to return. To find this one boded well. But a strange migration setup wasn't the only factor working against us. The forecast called for 80-degree heat. Plus, Scott, who had already ridden 890 miles for his Joe Roller Memorial Big Green Year, had been having drivetrain issues with his bike and had resorted to using an old chain. I was on a borrowed bike that hadn't been ridden in a few years; its creaks and groans kept fooling me into thinking I was hearing birds. It was a sturdy bike but by no means fast. Would our steeds hold up? Would our legs?
It was nice and chilly as we climbed to our dawn spot. We hiked trails in an open space as the sun rose. What a luxury it is to be able to ride a bike to extensive open space! The roads where I live in Washington are just too dangerous. Light spilled over us, and the birds were as excited as we were: Swainson's Thrush, Lark Sparrow, American Kestrel, Gray Catbird, and many others.
Deer Creek Canyon Park
Riding through foothill neighborhoods, where large homes were scattered between patches of native brush, our luck ran strong. A bird on a wire turned out to be a Brewer's Blackbird. We heard Mountain Chickadee and Steller's Jay, two species that move upslope in spring and we had marked down as unlikely. We found Lazuli Bunting. Above a rounded chimney of rock, circling on knife-like wings, we saw a Peregrine Falcon—the ultimate good blessing for our day. Joe Roller loved Peregrine Falcons. On a bend in the road where we stopped to look over a green grassy draw, Scott cued in immediately on a singing Black-headed Grosbeak. My attention was drawn to a hunched rock-like shape. The shape moved, put its head up...and it was a Wild Turkey. Dumbfounded, we high fived. Within minutes it had moved out of sight.
Indeed, WILD TURKEY was the rarest bird we found all day!
For an hour we pushed our bikes along dirt trails in an open space that failed to reward us. Scott's wonderful family met us for a water drop and gear swap, after which we blasted downhill and into the suburbs. Creeks, marshes, bike trails, and brushlines weave through southwest Denver. We paused at a pond where a rare Black Phoebe has nested for two years, ticked it, and added a Black-crowned Night-Heron. There are quite a few birds like the night-heron that are reasonably common around Denver but sparse and no guarantee when your route is constrained by what's possible on a bike. It didn't feel special to see it, yet it was the only night-heron we would see.
Then we gritted our teeth for a long stretch southward. Much of it was along a busy four-lane road with trucks blasting past and barren prairie dog towns on our right. A headwind whipped up. For me on the slow bike, it was an all-out battle. One leg tried to cramp. I was going half as fast as my effort deserved. In hindsight, it's pretty incredible the number of highs and lows that can occur in a single big day. And when you're on a bike, the highs and lows aren't just emotional, they're physical too. Your body and mind get lashed together and in the midst of the pain you remember the beauty of predawn and think, was that really today?
Anyway, we made it to Platte Canyon Reservoir. Three birders met us there and helped us beat the beautifully flowering bushes. The reservoir itself seemed empty when we rolled up, but by the time we left we had found Redheads, a single Hooded Merganser, a single Common Goldeneye, and a single Blue-winged Teal. We got Black-chinned Hummingbird. It was 10:30 am. We had been birding for 7 hours. We were ahead of schedule.
Platte Canyon Reservoir
So we called an audible. Having failed to find Canyon Wren earlier, we went up Waterton Canyon, a winding hardpacked road open only to hikers and cyclists. It was a new place for me, absolutely beautiful. We came across a small flock of bighorn sheep. But the cliffs where Canyon Wrens call remained silent. The rushing creek was empty of American Dippers. The grind had begun. We turned around, knowing we had lost 45 minutes with nothing to show.
In a dry patch of cottonwoods, we heard a Yellow-breasted Chat and stopped for shade and water. Soon I had found a Virginia's Warbler and Scott had a pair of phoebes. He spent some time getting a sense of them. Both Eastern Phoebe and Black Phoebe are quite rare in the Denver area, yet in the last decade a small number of them have found isolated places to breed. Strangely, they are hybridizing. It's an unfolding story. Two species hybridizing where both are out of range. Scott thought one of the birds looked good for a pure Eastern, while the other was probably a hybrid Eastern x Black. He would have to return for photos and recordings to document this latest odd couple.
The grind continued. It was hot by now. On dirt paths we followed the South Platte River toward Chatfield Reservoir. The cottonwoods were empty of birds, and our phones beeped with intrusions from the outside world. We got testy. But then a Hairy Woodpecker called across the river and two Least Flycatchers began to call, the first reported this year.
We pushed on. Over the next few hours we made a grand tour of Chatfield State Park, poking in at various coves and marshes. Dale Pate looked like the second coming of Christ when he arrived with a gift of Arby's. Though the reservoir was much higher than even a few days before, giving little space for shorebirds, the landscape offered a steady flow of new birds: Ruddy Ducks, Cinnamon Teal, Virginia Rail, California Gull, Belted Kingfisher, White-breasted Nuthatch, others. The infamous marina sandspit, where many rarities have appeared over the years, had just a sliver of sand, but it was enough to hold a single Willet. An impressive thunderstorm developed overhead but we got no rain, only relief from the sun. A happy Rock Wren popped up nearby, and two Eared Grebes dove along the shoreline. We were getting enough to keep us going. The hours passed.
Dale Pate with FOOD!!!
We climbed the massive dam and cruised its crest. "Bomb it?" I asked Scott. "Yep," he shouted. We flew down the dam's face to the South Platte and sped northward. A tailwind helped. I had not expected some of the most fun cycling of the day to come at 2 pm. Later we would learn that a Northern Mockingbird had been seen somewhere along this stretch both the day before our big day and the day after. It was tantalizing and agonizing. It's impossible to scout everywhere and impossible to carefully bird every patch of trees when the miles you must cover are self-powered. The day after our big day, several other rare birds would be reported from Chatfield. Such is birding. We were in a weather pattern with high migrant turnover. At some point you just have to go and see what you get.
Climbing into neighborhoods from the river tested our endurance. We got to the Littleton Cemetery, where a Ruby-crowned Kinglet has attempted to find a mate for two years running. (Normally they nest in the mountains.) We listened. We played its song. We tried again. Nothing but House Finches.
This was the crux of the afternoon. At this point we were expending huge amounts of energy to add a few extra birds. The mantra of "$40 pledged per species" was keeping us going, but to come all the way to the cemetery and get skunked on a reliable stakeout was about to lead to some serious dejection. Not knowing what to do, we pedaled around the cemetery. Three young Mormon missionaries finished their lunch on a bench. A Snowy Egret flew past. Like the night-heron, it was our only one of the day. Then the kinglet began to sing. Phew!
We booked it for Ketring Park to see a long-staying Clark's Grebe. On the way we reviewed the list. It had a number of holes. As we entered the park, passing a demonstration farm, we jinxed each other calling out, "House Sparrow!" and laughed. We almost missed a dirt-common city bird. A fantastic male Wood Duck flushed from the lakeshore, and the Clark's Grebe floated into our laps. Nearby a shirtless man and his two sons were out walking. The boys carried small fishing nets. We weren't paying them much attention until the older son stole up next to us and launched his net at a goose. He missed. His dad was furious. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he shouted as he dragged his son back around the lake. "Leave the birds alone!"
We shook our heads with rueful grins as we sought a table in the shade. Was it a sign? Time for us to leave the birds alone?
Going over the list again, we were running out of energy and sure bets. We tore into food and water and mustered the gumption for a ride to the one place that promised new birds. It was a place I knew well: Marston Reservoir. The largest body of water in Denver County, surrounded by a tall fence and bad viewing angles, it is a beast to get to and a bear to bird. Rarely is it fun. But it attracts good birds.
On the way we passed a minivan emblazoned with a company called Up & Away Goose Control—the perfect employer for the boy in the park! A miserable ride down a narrow sidewalk followed. Buffeted by wind, hemmed in by a wall and speeding cars, leaping around cones and potholes and nearly crashing and burning on a sudden stretch of sand, we pedaled on.
The reward was a Common Loon on the reservoir and a nice selection of sparrows we had already seen. Yellow-rumped Warblers were everywhere. As we lingered in this familiar place, a banshee of a wind came up. Roiling gray clouds towered above. Trees were about to topple. But by the time we got to a gazebo where we could take shelter, the wind died and the day resumed. We searched the bushes for sparrows. As we were getting back on bikes that could officially be called trustworthy companions without fear of jinxing them, I caught movement deep in a bush that often holds White-crowned Sparrows. I got my binoculars up to give it a chance. Scott, following my lead though he was ready to move on, was the first to get enough of an angle to call out the ID: MacGillivray's Warbler!
This was an excellent cap to a long day. We cruised downhill toward home. On the way we took a brief detour through Clement Park, less than a block from Scott's home, and he shared some of his many memories. Some had to do with special birds, some with time with his family, some with the moments that naturally accumulate when you spend years visiting the same place. The park didn't look like much, habitat-wise—we joked that he's probably now seen more bird species, 168 and counting, than there are individual trees in the park—and so it reminded me of the years when I lived near Denver City Park and would hop on my bike with binoculars to take a break from writing. Many birders obey the compulsion to drive far and wide in search of new birds, getting on an endless carbon-intensive treadmill, but there is great beauty in birding close to home, under your own power, and letting the moments and birds intermingle and accumulate on their own.
Well, in case you can't tell, a whole lot of moments accumulate over the course of a big day. Just one day! So much is possible when you put yourself out there. Joe Roller was one who constantly put himself out there, watching and learning and connecting, and the outpouring of memories from the Colorado birding community since his passing is proof. We hope we did him proud.
We were at 103 species. A satisfying number given the circumstances. There was a list of misses that hurt: Red-breasted Nuthatch, Clay-colored Sparrow, Brewer's Sparrow, Canyon Wren, Prairie Falcon, Warbling Vireo, American Avocet, Western Tanager, Green-tailed Towhee. We had not found many true rarities, but we had done well enough with returning migrants. On our slow pedal through the neighborhood, we heard a Bushtit. 104. And as we dumped our gear on Scott's lawn and sorted ourselves out for the return to normal life, he pulled up a White-crowned Sparrow on his back fence. 105.
And that's pretty much the story. The best part of it is that we raised about $4,500 for the Joe Roller Memorial Fund. Thank you so much again for your support.
--
Chris Rurik
Writer / Naturalist
(253) 225-7104
Comments
Post a Comment