Sometime in early April, I hear the ringing song of a Louisiana waterthrush near our Plummer’s Hollow stream. One of the first neotropical migrant birds to return, he comes winging in from as far south as northern South America and southern Cuba.
This handsome brown warbler, his whitish breast streaked with brown, looks more like a thrush than a warbler. Along with his congener, the northern waterthrush, the Louisiana waterthrush wades on long, pink legs in streams and bobs his tail and rear like a spotted sandpiper.
I spend a lot of time along our mile-and-a-half, first order stream, watching and listening to these fascinating birds. By mid-April there are usually four males staked out along the stream singing, defending their long, narrow territories and courting the returning females. It’s important to catch their singing early, though, because as soon as they pair up, the males slow down and almost stop singing.
A favorite place for waterthrushes is below our Waterthrush Bench, and last spring their activity was especially interesting. On April 18 I watched two singing waterthrushes bobbing their tails as each one tried to stay above the other when they landed on mossy logs, tree branches, and in the stream itself. They moved several hundred feet upstream before flying back down stream, and I wondered if they were two males in a territorial dispute or a pair involved in a courtship ritual.
The last day of April, as I sat on Waterthrush Bench, I watched a waterthrush as it poked about in the puddles of a backwater, pulling aside rotted leaves in what ornithologists call ”leaf pulls” as it searched for food. Although 89 to 98% of waterthrush feeding consists of quick, jab-like strokes called “picks,” “leaf pull” is an alternate strategy. In both cases, they are searching for aquatic insects and invertebrates. According to one study in northeastern Connecticut, before the leaves emerge waterthrushes engaged in “leaf pull” 42% of the time and “picks” 54%, but “leaf pulls” decreased and “picks” increased as their breeding season progressed and trees leafed out.
After my waterthrush stopped “leaf-pull,” it waded about belly-deep in the water. Then it flew up on a moss-covered log spanning the backwater to preen. All the while it preened its breast, neck, belly and under its tail, that tail kept pumping as regularly as a metronome.
Years ago, again on the last day of April, in the deepest part of the hollow, which is overhung with hemlock and beech trees, I walked quietly downstream and saw a pair of Louisiana waterthrushes in the water in front of me. They didn’t notice me when they turned over wet leaves in the stream. As I followed and watched, the male walked a couple yards behind the female. Unlike most warbler species, the male and female look alike, so I was relying on a description of this courtship tactic by ornithologists. The male made a “zizzing” sound and fed the female. Then they continued alternately foraging and poking at the stream bank. After I followed them for fifteen minutes, they suddenly saw me, chipped warning notes, and flew off.
Last spring, on the fourth of May, a Louisiana waterthrush swayed and scolded on a branch overhanging the road near Waterthrush Bench. Somewhere nearby in the road or stream bank there must have been a nest with eggs. I remembered my son Steve’s discovery a quarter of a century ago of a nest he found in the road bank as he walked up the road. The female flushed in front of him and performed her broken wing act. Following his description, I easily found the nest four feet from the ground, tucked in over a rock well-padded with dead leaves. An overturned sapling provided a roof above the five whitish eggs spotted with irregular brown spots that lay in a nest of dried grasses.
The nest had been built on the south side of the ravine by both parents. They dug a shallow cup in the bank’s soil and hauled in fallen leaves from the forest floor to fill the cup and provide a short pathway to the nest, a task that ornithologists say takes three to four days. Incubation by the female lasts 12 to 14 days and the altricial nestlings go from naked to fully feathered in nine or 10 days when they fledge. The nest Steve found did produce not only nestlings but fledglings, and I saw both the nestlings and their fledging.
Since then, we’ve never found another nest but suspect that most are along the stream bank and in the interstices of uprooted trees, which are the usual nesting places for Louisiana waterthrushes.
The bird that scolded me last May then waded into the stream and poked up food from the wet moss on the rocks or from the swiftly-flowing water. Like the dippers of the western United States, Louisiana waterthrushes are wedded to clean, running streams. It jabbed quietly in the crevices, living its enviable life in the moving water whose babble blocks out all other sounds.
Its affinity for water makes it an ideal species to use when assessing the ecological health of streams, researchers discovered at the Powdermill Nature Reserve in southwestern Pennsylvania. This biological field research station of the Carnegie Museum of Natural History in Pittsburgh is best known for its long-running, year-round, bird-banding program begun in 1961 by Robert Leberman.
Leberman’s assistant, Robert Mulvihill, now at the National Aviary in Pittsburgh, along with Leberman, chose the Louisiana Waterthrush as a model for looking at bird populations back in 1996. After all, two streams — Powdermill Run and Laurel Run — hosted Louisiana waterthrushes. But those two streams differed in one important aspect. Powdermill Run’s water has a neutral pH of 7, but Laurel Run’s was an acidic pH of 5, the result of acid mine drainage from a small, hand-dug coal mine on nearby private land.
More than 50 years after this 30-year-long disturbance, it still impacts Laurel Run despite the best efforts of a local watershed association that installed a Successive Alkalinity Producing System to filter water through organic material and limestone into a settling pond to lower the acidity and remove heavy metals, as well as an attempt by the Department of Environmental Protection, using bioremediation techniques, to further improve stream quality.
Consequently, Louisiana waterthrushes breed early and abundantly on Powdermill Run and late and sparsely on Laurel Run because of the lack of macroinvertebrates, especially caddisflies and mayflies, in the acidic Laurel Run. In fact, by 2009, no waterthrushes bred on Laurel Run, yet over the more than ten years of monitoring, Powdermill Run remains a hot bed of successful, breeding waterthrushes. Apparently, the availability of the proper food — namely macroinvertebrates that favor clean water — is very important for attracting breeding Louisiana waterthrushes.
This study also made some natural history discoveries about Louisiana waterthrushes, according to Mulvihill, who directed the research. The males of this supposedly single-brooded, monogamous species occasionally engage in opportunistic polygyny, defined as pairing with two females at the same time. Eight times during the study, waterthrush pairs re-nested or double brooded after their first successful fledging of young. One female that started out on Laurel Run in her first year of breeding, transferred to Powdermill Run and brought off successful families for at least eight years.
Today, Steven Latta, Director of Conservation and Field Research at the National Aviary, continues Louisiana waterthrush research, studying one of its wintering grounds in the Dominican Republic. He’s especially interested in how water quality there affects the survival of the birds and whether or not they return to their breeding grounds. He also wants to use the species to understand what affects neotropical bird populations throughout the year. He writes, in a recent article in Birding, that “in addition to acidification, breeding success is likely linked to sedimentation and other forms of stream contamination, combined with the loss of surrounding vegetative cover in the riparian corridor… Preliminary results suggest that older, more mature forests with relatively high canopy cover, coupled with perennial streams that do not run dry in mid-summer droughts, are key drivers to reproductive success for such bird species.”
Back at Powdermill, scientists are now concerned about the impacts of natural gas drilling on water quality, macroinvertebrates and Louisiana waterthrushes. And they have joined other ornithologists in the state to study the affects of hydraulic fracturing on streams throughout Pennsylvania. They hope that birders will help by counting waterthrushes along streams and reporting their numbers to their local watershed association. Two territories per kilometer are considered a healthy number of waterthrushes along a stream.
Louisiana and northern waterthrushes were once lumped along with ovenbirds into the genus Sieurus, which means “to shake or move the tail,” but for decades Dr. Kenneth C. Parkes, the late curator of birds at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, argued that the waterthrushes should be separated from ovenbirds. They differ too much in behavior, singing, structure, the way they move, their juvenile plumage and how long they keep it, as well as other differences that only ornithologists could sort out.
It took a Ph.D student in the Molecular Systematics Laboratory at the Swedish Museum of Natural History in Stockholm, George Sangster, who admired Parkes’s work, to prove his point. Using genetic analyses, he discovered that ovenbirds were only distantly related to waterthrushes.
On the strength of his work, the North American Classification Committee of the American Ornithologist’s Union agreed to put the waterthrushes in their own genus. Furthermore, they accepted Sangster’s name — Parkesia — in honor of Kenneth C. Parkes because of “his lasting contributions to avian taxonomy, molt terminology, hybridization and faunistics.”
Sangster finished his manuscript about his discovery in the Bulletin of the British Ornithologists’ Club in late July of 2007 and “hoped to inform Dr. Parkes about my intention of naming a genus after him,” Sangster told Paul Hess who wrote about this in PSO Pileated, The Newsletter of the Pennsylvania Society for Ornithology. “It was when I looked on the Internet for a contacting address that I found out that he had passed away only a week before.”
Only three other Pennsylvanians have been honored with a bird genus — William Bartram, Thomas Say, and Alexander Wilson. All of them lived and worked in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and all were residents of Philadelphia.
How sad that Parkes never knew of his genus. But how serendipitous that one of the species Leberman and Mulvihill decided to study at Powdermill has not only become important in stream ecology but also honors a fellow western Pennsylvanian who, like them, devoted his life to the study of birds.
Getting older is not a condition I like to admit to. Putting benches beside our trails, as my husband Bruce wanted to do, struck me as an acknowledgment that time, for us, was marching on. I preferred to sit on a hot seat at the base of a tree at one with Nature.
“Well, I am getting older,” Bruce said. “And I want benches to sit on.”
So late in the winter of 1999 Bruce consulted with two hunter friends, Jeff and Bob, who are also talented amateur carpenters. Jeff’s garage is not only a display area for all the racks from bucks he, his family, and friends have killed over the years, but a fully equipped workshop. The deal was that we would purchase the pressure-treated lumber and they would build the benches, assisted by Bruce and our son Dave. Those benches would be available for us and for visitors and hunters to use throughout the year. As it turned out, Bruce and Dave mostly kibitzed while Bob and Jeff turned out four handsome benches, complete with slanted backs and armrests, in record time.
By the first week in April, after much discussion of where we should put them, Bruce had installed three of the four benches. Despite my initial objections to them, I quickly found myself arranging my walks around them, arriving at one just in time for my morning coffee and bagel, which I carried in my backpack. Although such indulgence seemed faintly sybaritic, I had no trouble adjusting to it.
At first the benches were named according to their locations–Far Field Road Bench, Ten Springs Trail Bench, and Hollow Road Bench–but within a week they had new names.
The first to be renamed was the Ten Springs Trail Bench, which Bruce had installed at the edge of the 1991 clearcut. It overlooks the mature, uncut deciduous forest of Laurel Ridge.
On a sunny, warm, April morning, I walked through Margaret’s Woods to the eight-year-old clearcut along Greenbrier Trail, following the sound of a gobbling tom turkey. Using my old Lynch’s Foolproof Turkey Call, I tried to entice him into view. Finally, I glimpsed him ahead of me on the trail, slowly fanning his tail feathers. Even though I stood absolutely still, he spotted me after several minutes, stared as if in disbelief, and then ran off up the slope.
From Greenbrier Trail, I hiked down Dogwood Knoll to Ten Springs Trail and the bench. As I sat there, I again heard a turkey gobbling and answered him with what I thought were enticing hen calls. We called back and forth as he moved unseen up Laurel Ridge. I never did catch a glimpse of him, but it was marvelous just to be outside on such a glittering day with the red maple trees in full orange, gold, and red flower and the songs and calls of Carolina wrens, white-breasted nuthatches, cardinals, goldfinches and the newly-arrived ruby-crowned kinglets blessing the morning. And that’s how Ten Springs Trail Bench became Turkey Bench.
Two days later, on another sparkling spring morning, I walked down the road to Hollow Road Bench which overlooks our Plummer’s Hollow stream and the forest beyond. I was just in time to watch and listen to two male Louisiana waterthrushes singing over prime Louisiana waterthrush territory. These wood warblers are some of the earliest returning migrants and, with their brown backs, white breasts streaked with brown, and long, pink legs, they look more like thrushes than warblers. Since they favor streambanks in wooded ravines for nesting, our hollow usually hosts three or four pairs.
At one point they stood on two fallen trees, a couple feet from where I was sitting, and chipped, swayed and wagged their tails up and down. The tail-wagging is a definitive feature of the Louisiana waterthrush along with its white eyebrow stripe, and both its genus and species name mean “tail-wagger.”
As I sat still, they continued their performance, flying up and down above the stream, singing their melodious, ringing song, giving their sharp, metallic chip calls, and chasing one another, but I saw no real fighting. One waterthrush waded through the rushing water, feeding and singing, looking very much like a dipper I had once watched in a Wyoming stream.
Later, I consulted W. Douglas Robinson’s account of the Louisiana waterthrush in The Birds of North America for an explanation of what I had observed. According to him, “Neighboring territorial males often engage in vigorous chases and countersinging soon after arrival on breeding grounds. Countersinging males move toward territory boundary. Then one male often flies into neighboring territory, provoking a vigorous chase of swerving males through woodland and along stream corridors. Males sing while in pursuit, extending the complex ending of their territorial songs to last several seconds…In some cases, males may land near each other…and face off in a threat display.” That described exactly what I had seen.
Needless to say, Hollow Road Rench was renamed Louisiana Waterthrush Bench and continued to give me a front seat view of Louisiana waterthrush behavior throughout the month.
It took another four days, until April 14, before the Far Field Road Bench received its new name. The previous evening the phone had rung at 7:30 p.m. My 85-year-old father’s neighbor, 87-year-old John Stine, had been on the line. My father had fallen outside his country home while working in his garden and had laid for hours on the cold April ground, calling for help. Luckily, Mr. Stine had glanced out of his window after the evening news and had seen my father lying there several hundred feet away. We had spent much of that night at the hospital, learning, finally, that Dad had broken his hip.
The following morning I had a difficult time taking my usual morning walk because I was worried about Dad and wondering why he had broken his hip less than a year after he had fallen and broken his leg. But I forced myself outside that windy, cold day and headed for the Far Field Road Bench. Set along my favorite refuge on the property, it had already become my most-used bench.
I sat drinking my coffee and listening to a singing blue-headed vireo. Looking downslope into Roseberry Hollow, my mind was so busy with questions that I paid little attention to the scene around me.
What if Dad’s neighbor had not gone to the window? How much longer could Dad live alone in his beloved country home? Would he survive his hip operation?
A slight movement to my right aroused me from my reverie. Coyote sensed me at the same moment that I sensed him. He was less than ten feet from the bench and had evidently been moseying along the old woods road as inattentive to his surroundings as I had been to mine.
He was a magnificent, full-grown male who looked me fully in the face for several seconds before turning around and loping slowly away. I don’t have a mystic bone in my body. Yet when Coyote appeared so unexpectedly, I felt as if I had been blessed by an unseen hand. I remembered that many Native American tribes had venerated Coyote. The Crows called him “First Worker,” creator of the earth and all living creatures, and the desert southwest tribes referred to him as “God’s dog.”
Did Coyote know I needed a revelation? Or was his appearance, the first ever I had had of an adult coyote on our mountain, merely a coincidence? Surely the latter, my rational, scientific mind told me. But Dad did come through his hip operation beautifully, and the prognosis for a complete recovery was excellent. Immediately, I christened the Far Field Road Bench “Coyote Bench” in honor of God’s dog.
It could have easily been named Snake Bench too. On the sixth of June, a day of rising temperatures and humidity, I trekked to Coyote Bench. The woods were filled with the rustles of gray squirrels and chipmunks, and I speculated that the predators, such as coyotes, would be eating well.
Sitting on Coyote Bench, I heard a crackling in the leaves behind me and turned to watch a large black rat snake sliding sinuously over the ground. It stopped frequently to raise its head as if seeking its way. Then it slithered down into a hollow log where, I assumed, a chipmunk had its den. Since it did not come out again, I could only speculate on its intent.
The thirteenth of July was beautiful, filled with the usual deep woods’ singers–wood thrushes, scarlet tanagers, Acadian flycatchers, and red-eyed-vireos. My friend Colette and I walked along the Far Field Road and as we neared Coyote Bench, we found not one, but two black rat snakes, less than five feet apart, basking in the sun. We sat on the bench and watched as one slowly crawled away, while the other one moved slowly from one small patch of sunlight to another. Had one of those snakes been the one I had seen a month and a half before sliding into the hollow log? As usual, I was left with questions about my observations.
The fourth bench remained in the barn until mid-June. A twinge in my back reminded me that sometimes, when my back gives me trouble, I can’t walk as far as I usually do. So I suggested that we put the bench in the Magic Place a short distance from our house. Nestled amid several nearly 200-year-old red and black oaks, it is the only bench that is not on a trail.
For less than a month we called it the Magic Place Bench. But on that same day in July, my friend Colette and I sat there and watched a female box turtle watching us. Several weeks later Bruce was eyed by the same box turtle.
“Let’s call it Turtle Bench,” he suggested. And we did.
I was surprised at how quickly and easily the wild creatures named the benches. Now I look forward to the next set of benches Bruce is planning to have made. Who knows what creatures they will be named for?