The Last of the Catharus and Other Adirondack Ramblings

Catharus thrushes, of North America, don’t have nearly the household name as their cousins, the American Robin and the various bluebirds. In the genus Catharus, the charcoal-and-orange of a robin and sky blue of a bluebird are replaced by nondescript, brownish tones. Though their songs rival that of a Wood Thrush in beauty, they are still often discounted by their drab appearance.

It doesn’t help the Catharus’ case as they skulk their way north during spring migration, to be discovered only by a keen-eared birder. Of the Catharus, all but one migrate through my native Arkansas, Bicknell’s Thrush being a species restricted to the east coast during its travels. Veery are uncommon migrants back home, Swainson’s and Gray-cheeked Thrushes common, while Hermit Thrushes spend the winters in brushy, woodland habitats there.

However, as the reader might guess, I’m not in Arkansas. Current travels have taken me about twenty-one hours north, as the human drives; all the way to the High Peaks range of the Adirondack Mountains in northern New York. Far from my expectations of the “Empire State”, the Adirondacks are nearly as wild as they ever were. Stepping behind the curtains of this hinterland, one finds themselves waist-deep in a region of boreal forest, spruce bogs, lakes, and tall, granitic mountains. Tall being relative to the east, for none could touch the height of the Rockies, but they are mighty in their own right.

Some of the "High Peaks" as seen from the top of the 1980 Olympic ski jump facility in Lake Placid.

Here in these forests, Catharus thrushes arrive to spend the summer, with the exception of the Gray-cheeked Thrush, which breeds much further north. Veery, one of the rustier-colored members of this genus, with white breast, belly, and nondescript rusty speckling, prefers to spend its summers in the deciduous forests of the valleys and ravines. This thrush is named for its song variations, a wonderful and unusual melody. An 1878 article in, Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, described the song as “an inexpressibly delicate metallic utterance”. With their eerie, fluting songs, the Catharus haunt northern woodlands.

A cooperative Veery singing in a moist patch of brush adjacent to a spruce bog.

Different still, the Swainson’s Thrush inhabits a mix of deciduous and coniferous forests. A Swainson’s trilling song vies for first prize with Wood Thrush, but is virtually unknown outside the dark crevices of the birding world. Always difficult to see, this species can be heard singing from dense locales, where it warms the heart, but strains the eye. Its presence can also be detected by a flat wit it gives in alarm. In the Adirondacks, Swainson’s apparently used to breed exclusively in lower-elevation, mixed woodlands, but can now be found in higher-elevation boreal forest. A “typical” Catharus, Swainson’s are rich brown with cream-whitish fronts…don’t forget the speckles at the throat and breast! They have a fairly distinct eye ring and a yellowish tinge to their otherwise tannish face.

Most similar to Gray-cheeked and Swainson’s Thrush, the Bicknell’s Thrush is the bird I desired to see most while in the High Peaks region. Once considered one with Gray-cheeked Thrush, the Bicknell’s was split in the 1990s; and naturally so. While Gray-cheekeds reside far to the north during the breeding season, populations of Bicknell’s remain separate and breed only in montane boreal forest higher than about 3,600 feet in elevation. They occur in the mountains of New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Québec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia. Bicknell’s winter only in the Greater Antilles of the Caribbean, with an emphasis on the island of Hispaniola. As with any species having such a finite domain in both winter and summer, they are being threatened by human expansion and a warming climate, driving competing thrushes into their high-mountain strongholds.

My day with the Bicknell’s Thrushes, thanks to an expert guide, was more fulfilling than I could have hope for. By 4:45am, we were on our way up Whiteface Mountain, a rugged peak overlooking Lake Placid, NY from a height of 4,865 feet above sea level. Expecting one or two Bicknell’s Thrush, I was shocked when we began hearing them from every direction as we ascended. Their nasally veer calls could be heard everywhere. For the sake of not hiking to this elevation in the wee hours of the morning, driving up was a must. Whiteface is one of only two mountains with road access into Bicknell’s territory. Assuredly a good thing. 

Whiteface Mountain rising up from the valley.  

At 5:30am, we stopped for a sunrise show. Sunrise from this altitude, nearly 3,000 feet higher than I’m used to, was magnificent. Silhouetted, rugged Adirondack peaks spread out a thousand feet below us, fog blushed pink above the snaking Ausable River valley, the great ball of fire showed itself, deep red in the late spring atmosphere.

The Adirondack Spread

Sunrise over a foggy Ausable River with Lake Champlain in the distance.

As the sun washed the mountain in golden light, warming the chilly morning air, we began to see more Bicknell’s flying around us, crossing the road. Though still frustrating, as they never landed in the open, but would hide just feet behind a thick screen of fir trees, veering tauntingly in our ears. At 9:00am, we still had not had satisfying looks at a Bicknell’s Thrush, when finally, one was heard singing below us. Looking down from our vantage, a single thrush was delighting in the crisp morning. Orangish-cinnamon above, yellow gape, and an ever-so-slight eye ring. This was our bird. Soon afterward, an individual came close to observe us, emitting the occasional veer. It was not an easy morning with Bicknell’s, but I wouldn’t have accepted it any other way. For them to be so close the whole time, hidden by a single layer of dense boreal forest, made the final moments with the two singing birds all the sweeter. 

Bicknell's Thrush during a contemplative moment.

Before leaving the montane boreal forest, we enjoyed great looks at two Boreal Chickadees. Being accustomed to our “typical” looking, black and gray chickadees, the Boreal provided a novel reprieve with its chestnut cap, back, and sides. Blackpoll and Yellow-rumped Warblers were also singing from breeding territories on the slopes of Whiteface Mountain.

Boreal Chickadee, a species tough to come by in New York.

One of many Blackpoll Warblers on Whiteface.

Black-backed Woodpecker

Later, in the lowland boreal forest, some of the specialties came to life. A flat kek alerted us to the presence of Black-backed Woodpeckers. A female flew in just a few yards away and began feeding on a downed log. A few minutes of chipping away yielded what she was looking for: wood-boring beetle larvae. Down the road, we saw a male tending to his nest just three feet off the ground, unusual for a species that normally excavates its cavity much higher. The male provided us with great views as he observed his kingdom from a dead spruce. Black-backeds are slightly larger than Hairy Woodpeckers and exhibit entirely black backs and heads. They also have a conspicuous white line cutting diagonally across the face. Males wear golden-yellow crowns.

Being in the boreal forest was an experience I had yet to have the pleasure of appreciating. A long ago canoe trip to northern Minnesota happened before I took great interest in close observation as a travelling naturalist. Its darkness holds many secrets in both the high and low elevations. One could get lost in its mysterious depths, in a figurative sense. Getting lost in a physical sense would be very bad, spruce trees closing in around you. Birds are the will-o-the-wisps that have the ability to do just that, leading a willing naturalist further and further off course.

Occasionally, the forest is broken apart by a river, a lake, or a bog. Bogs provide a unique habitat for several species of birds and many special plants, including the carnivorous pitcher plant. A bog is another place in which not to wander. There’s no wondering why they have had such a superstitious connotation in centuries past. One misplaced footstep and it could be your last. A bog groans and shifts, its verdant club moss inviting a curious hiker to come closer. It was perched on a mossy mound, in one of these bogs, where I found myself photographing several displaying American Bitterns…I dared go no further.

American Bittern. I didn't have the heart to tell him he wasn't a reed.

Later, I was snapped out of my boggy thoughts when everything grew silent. we heard something cutting through the air with a whoosh, coming towards us; I thought my time in this eerie place had come. Turning around, my dad and I watched as two Broad-winged Hawks, grasping at each other, crashed to the ground just feet away. Both hung in tamaracks for a few seconds before flying off in different directions.

In another bog, walking along an old railroad bed provided a means for traversing it. We came across a lady whistling sweetly into the depths of a nearby forest. The creepiness of the scene vanished when two Gray Jays soared out of the spruces and landed nearby, awaiting their evening snack from this kind local. Large and intelligent, the jays gazed deep into my eyes as I quietly photographed them. Being at the southern edge of the boreal forest, its typical breeding residents are uncommon in northern New York, but its character is here in the form of Boreal Chickadee, Gray Jay, Black-backed Woodpecker, and various warblers.

Gray Jay at Bloomingdale Bog.

A certain warbler not necessarily associated with the boreal forest, but the eastern United States in general, has been on my list almost since the day I began birding. The Black-throated Blue Warbler is one of the most common of its kind in the Adirondacks, and throughout the mountainous east. As with most of our warblers, they are beautiful. My first, a male, came from dense brush next to a well-kept beaver pond. Black-throated Blue Warblers are aptly named, sporting a black face and throat, slate-blue back and head, and white underside. Males sing zee, zee, zee from their territories throughout the day and, once located, can be fairly easy to get views of, given their affinity for sitting in one spot while singing.

Black-throated Blue Warbler in song.

Over the course of a week, I was fortunate to see much of the Adirondack region as well as the nearby Lake Champlain Valley with my dad. The range’s rugged and picturesque mountains provide the perfect morning view, reflected on some sun-kissed lake in a small valley village. Our headquarters for most of the trip was Saranac Lake, one of the largest, small hamlets in the region. Near the center of town, a hiker can catch a trail to Mt. Baker. The view from the bald, granite top provides a vantage looking southwest at the extensive Saranac Lake chain. The distant High Peaks are spread out below like great sentinels, forever standing guard. The view from Baker captures the essence of the region and is a picture I will be able to close my eyes and see for years to come. No matter where you are, no matter what range on which you find yourself to be standing, there is nothing like the mountains.

“Time, geologic time, looks out at us from the rocks as from no other objects in the landscape…

Even if we do not know our geology there is something in the face of a cliff and in the look of a granite boulder that gives us pause.”

—John Burroughs, The Writings of John Burroughs: Under the Apple-Trees, 1916

The village of Saranac Lake, the Saranac Lake chain, and the High Peaks.

For a complete set of the trip's photos, visit: http://www.pbase.com/mpruitt/upstate_new_york

All galleries: www.pbase.com/mpruitt