Hummingbirds reach maximum diversity in the mountains of northern South America. Descend from the Andes of Venezuela, Colombia or Ecuador, or venture toward the temperate latitudes of North America, and the hummingbird diversity falls abruptly. We’re fortunate to have even a single species up here – the ruby-throated hummingbird – a bird weighing about one-eighth of an ounce that migrates between breeding grounds across eastern North American and wintering habitat from Mexico into Central America.

Well known is a hummingbird’s physiological acumen: a flight velocity of about 50 miles per hour, wing beats of 70 per second, and a heart rate sometimes exceeding 1,000 beats per minute. But lesser known is a hummingbird’s “indifferent” love life. Forget the notion of a pair setting up a territory, courting, building a nest, mating, raising young, and living happily at your sugar feeder until fall. Hummingbirds have no such family values.

Male hummingbirds establish their own territories, usually habitat with good nectar sources and the opportunity to copulate with as many females as might wander by. After their brief encounter, males and females rarely meet again. Females establish and defend their own territories, not necessarily near any male with which she might have mated. She looks for rich food supplies and favorable nesting sites. And she alone handles all the remaining reproductive duties: building a nest, incubating eggs, and raising young.

In late summer and fall, when the young are on their own, as average temperatures drop and nectar sources begin to dry up, hummingbirds across the continent begin to migrate. Sometimes they go off course – way off course. This is when it can get interesting in the East.

The rufous hummingbird, which breeds in western North America, regularly shows up east of the Mississippi River in fall; the species now winters in the southeastern U.S. In August of 2008, a broad-billed hummingbird, which really had no business being away from Mexico or the southeastern corner of Arizona, showed up at Ron and Marji Murphy’s feeder in Dennis, Massachusetts. And when it should be in Mexico, the smallest bird in North America, the calliope hummingbird, which is roughly a heaping tablespoon of green feathers with some purplish flecks on its throat, has been showing up anywhere from Maryland to Maine.

So, if you’re duly inclined, keep those feeders full into the fall. It won’t mess with the ruby-throat’s departure date; birds are smarter than we think. You might instead see the flash and sparkle of some wayward visitor.

Broad-billed Hummingbird

Berryline Hummingbird

OK, it’s not exactly a tongue. Butterflies and moths have a straw-like proboscis that they coil like a watch spring and unfurl to suck nectar from flowers. The primrose moth’s proboscis is about half the length of its body. That anatomy alone might be enough to generate interest in this insect. But now consider that the primrose moth is Pepto-Bismol pink with a lemony band at the tips of its wings. In that pink presentation and probing proboscis, the primrose moth offers us a lesson in form, function and evolution.

Primrose moths (Schinia florida) fly about searching for the evening primrose (Oenothera biennis), a common garden and roadside plant with a dangling, elegant yellow flower. The primrose flower opens at night and then closes by day. So a visiting moth, if it sticks around until dawn, gets an intimate embrace of petals. Besides the hug, the moth gets nectar. I’m not actually sure what the plant gets out this deal. The moth doesn’t appear to pollinate evening primrose, according to botanists and scientific literature published on this particular encounter of insect and plant. In fact, the moth seems to get the best of this relationship. The female moths lay eggs on the evening primrose; when the caterpillars emerge they start munching the plant where it hurts – the flower buds.

In any event, most of the action happens at night, when the primrose springs opens its flower and the moth plunges head-long into the blossom. Even so, the alert flower watchers among us can witness, in broad daylight, this intimate meeting of moth and bloom.

I often encounter primrose moths still buried in a blossom the day after their night of binge-nectaring. They’re like a drunk passed out at the bar at dawn. Only the moth is harder to spot than a drunk. Those pink wings are buried out of sight in yellow flower petals. The only wing portions still visible are the trailing edges, the yellow edges, which conveniently resemble the yellow edges of the primrose petals. The moth has evolved with wise camouflage so that it can sit and drink nectar, presumably unnoticed by predators.

One of my favorite naturalists, William Hamilton Gibson, says we can hardly know the evening primrose until we know its nighttime visitor. Gibson was an exuberant 19th century writer and illustrator. In his 1892 book “Sharp Eyes,” a collection of essays and illustrations through the seasons, Gibson revels in the moth and its blossom:

“Is this a mere withered, useless blossom that droops upon its stem? Is it not rather the prettiest luminous fairy tent that ever sheltered a day-dream? Last night, when its four green sepals burst from their cone, and sprang backward to release their bright, glossy petals, a small moth quickly caught the signal, and settled in quivering contentment, sipping at its throat. Its wings were of the purest rose-pink, bordered with yellow.”

Oh, if I could only write like that. Gibson continues:

“In the color of its marking, we find an outward expression of its beautiful sympathy, the yellow margins of the wings which protrude from the flower being quite primrose-like, and the pink being reflected in the rosy hue which the wilting primrose petals so often assume, especially at the throat.”

Did you catch that penultimate clause? A wilted primrose flower turns pinkish. So a primrose moth merely sitting on the stem of the plant may resemble an old flower and still find safety in the color pink.

What we cannot see in this little drama is the moth’s proboscis lapping nectar from the base of a primrose blossom. But we can imagine it. Take a close look at the flower. It has a long, slender tube with nectar, called the hypanthium, below the base of the petals. It’s a long reach for a moth seeking nectar. No matter. In nature form follows function. The moth unfurls its built-in drinking straw for a sweet reward, much as we depend on our drinking straw for that last half-inch of a favorite milkshake.

So, this summer, get your favorite milkshake or maple creamee to go – and enjoy it in the good company of the primrose and its illustrious visitor.

The highlight of any birding trip to the Northeast Kingdom, the quintessential Vermont boreal experience, is a visit to Moose Bog in Wenlock Wildlife Management Area. The forest here includes black, red, and white spruce, balsam fir, and white pine, all mixed with white birch and aspen species. Interspersed are sphagnum bogs and spruce-fir-tamarack wetlands. Moose and black bear roam the woods and wetlands. And boreal bird species attract birdwatchers from Vermont and points south. This is a remote and delightful place, explored best on foot or by ski or snowshoe.

Much of the prime lowland boreal habitat is remote and inaccessible for all but the insect-tolerant bushwhacker. A notable exception is Moose Bog, one of Vermont’s most magical places. Here an observant non-bushwhacker can locate (with more luck than skill) the boreal grand slam: Spruce Grouse (rare, with a photo below), Black-backed Woodpecker (rare), Gray Jay (uncommon), and Boreal Chickadee (sparse but fairly common). Keep in mind that playing a recorded bird song (“taping”) to attract an endangered or threatened species such as Spruce Grouse can be construed as harassment and, as such, is illegal in Vermont. All these birds are here, so relaxed, patient exploration is the best approach.

Directions: From the old railroad depot in Island Pond, drive Route 105 east for 9.4 miles and turn right onto the unmarked and unpaved South America Pond Road. Pass through a metal gate and park in a small pull-off ahead on the right. This road is unplowed in winter, but a cautious driver can sometimes find a spot along Route 105 about one-quarter mile east of South America Pond Road. Or about 1 mile west is a parking lot on the north side of Route 105 just east of a bridge. From this parking lot it is about 0.25 mile to the western end of the Moose Bog trail.

In spring the excitement begins with the first step away from the car (where a Gray Jay might greet a lucky visitor). Walk the road toward an open spruce wetland a few tenths of a mile from the parking area. Nashville Warbler, Magnolia Warbler, and Yellow-rumped Warbler are common nesting species. Shy Boreal Chickadees sometimes join the more inquisitive Black-capped Chickadees. And Gray Jays sometimes float ghostlike over the road. At the wetland look carefully for Black-backed Woodpecker, which has nested here.

While walking to the wetland, notice on the right (west) side of the road large boulders blocking a path through the woods. This is the Moose Bog trail–three-quarters of a mile of delightful walking and birding. Dense with conifers, this trail passes through good habitat for Spruce Grouse (especially near the start and end of the trail), Gray Jay (pictured to the left), and Boreal Chickadee, in addition to the aforementioned warblers. Ruffed Grouse lives here as well. Cape May Warbler and Bay-breasted Warbler make appearances here on occasion in late May. Both kinglet species nest here, as does Yellow-bellied Flycatcher. The nomadic and sporadic White-winged Crossbill can be abundant and nests here from winter to spring during heavy cone years.

Approximately two-thirds of a mile down the trail from South America Pond Road (past a small stand of white cedar on the right) are a few well-worn (and not-so-well-worn) paths on the left leading to the bog. (Not very far beyond the paths, a large boulder blocks the other end of the trail near Route 105. Missing the paths to the bog might not be a bad idea, however, since Spruce Grouse can be found toward the main trail’s terminus.)

Moose Bog, only a few hundred feet from the main trail, is a classic black spruce woodland bog — a dreamy place at dawn. At the opening’s edge is a floating mat of sphagnum and woody peat, featuring Labrador tea, bog rosemary, and other bog specialists, including the unusual (and carnivorous) pitcher plant and sundew. (Don’t worry, they only eat humans indirectly via black flies and mosquitoes.) Expect wet feet. Look for Common Raven overhead and Boreal Chickadee in the woods around the bog. Black-backed Woodpecker and Gray Jay can sometimes be found in the woods here or among the bog’s scattered black spruce and snags. Cedar Waxwing loves it here, and Lincoln’s Sparrow belts out its bubbly song.

You’ll also want to investigate the region’s Silvio O. Conte National Fish and Wildlife Refuge (Nulhegan Basin Division), which will be holding a wildlife festival on August 21 from 10am to 3pm.

“Hi, Bryan? My name is John O’Brien. I live in Tunbridge. And I’m making a film about my neighbor, Fred Tuttle. He’s a retired dairy farmer. The plot is that Fred’s running for Congress. And I need someone to play a journalist. Jim Falzarano over at The Times Argus suggested I call you. I was wondering if you might want to be in the film?”

The first thought that runs through my mind is that Falzarano is a dead man. Next, I search for a polite way out.

“Um, uh, are you sure you’ve got the right guy. I’m no actor. I’ve never even been in a school play.”

“Well, OK, but how about if I come up for a visit?”

That visit sealed my fate.

Once you meet John O’Brien you will do nearly anything he asks. John is a Vermont Renaissance man. Sheep farmer. Political strategist. Nice guy. Writer. Filmmaker. You know those Dos Equis beer commercials? With the rugged older guy who’s supposedly the most interesting man in the world. That dude has nothing on John O’Brien.

So John puts me in his movie Man with a Plan. I play the straight man to the inimitable Fred Tuttle (who, unlike me, has a Wikipedia page). In the final stages of editing, John calls me back to Tunbridge and makes me the film’s narrator. We record my dialogue in his “soundproof” coat closet.

John O’Brien’s art takes other forms, however. Post cards, for example, and big envelopes. It is priceless art for the cost of a stamp. John’s cards and letters reflect his insights on friends. They’re a way of saying he knows you, he understands you, he cares about what you care about. Against the rise of the Internet, this new mass medium, John’s post cards recall and preserve a gentle tradition, writing ink on paper. In this democratic medium, like his films, John is idyllic, poignant, funny and downright neighborly.

So what has all this got to do with birds or other flying things? A collection of John’s post cards and envelopes, on loan from their recipients, is now showing at the BigTown Gallery in Rochester, Vermont. It includes an envelope John sent me with his drawing of an Ivory-billed Woodpecker. (At the time John had asked me to give a talk at the Tunbridge Library about my exploits for the woodpecker, most likely still extinct, in the swamps of Arkansas.) Among other birds appearing in John’s mailings on display include Bald Eagle, Red-headed Woodpecker, Blue Jay, Northern Cardinal and Common Yellowthroat.

Get to the show before it ends on August 22. Not because of its birds. You’ll also get a vivid lesson on nudity and Nixon, ice hockey and the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, life in Vermont and beyond. Here’s a more insightful discourse on John and his art than I alone can provide.

Oh, and if you don’t believe any of this, here’s my 15 minutes of fame: Bryan Pfeiffer’s official filmography page at the New York Times. (No relation to Michelle. And, sorry, no autographs.)

Discussing shorebirds in August may seem inopportune at first. Sandpipers and plovers are hardly abundant during the nesting season over much of the United States. We tend to enjoy them during the fall migration, when they concentrate along coastlines. But like much of nature, birds don’t always follow the rules we thrust upon them.

For starters, “fall” migration is a misnomer. Some shorebirds fly south as early as July. If you wait until September to discover shorebirds, at least here in the Northeast, you will have missed the bulk of the migration. The coastline is their freeway south, along which they stop to feed and refuel in tidal mudflats and marshes. But if habitat arises inland – flooded farm fields, managed wetlands, or even a reservoir whose water level is lowered to expose the mud below – shorebirds can drop out of migration to feed.

Next, forget about plumage. Most of our most brightly colored adult shorebirds will have molted from their distinctive plumage by late summer, and their young are likewise a study in browns and grays. The black-bellied plover loses it black belly; gone are the spots on the spotted sandpiper; and the purple sandpiper, well, actually, the purple sandpiper is never really purple to begin with. The skilled shorebird observer looks beyond feathers:

Size, Shape, and Posture – Get a sense of size by comparing the bird to a known species nearby. Black bellied plover (almost a foot long) can be a common and useful measuring stick. For shape and posture, is your shorebird bent over with its belly nearly dragging in the mud? Or is it standing tall on long legs? Does it have a slender, elegant neck? Or is your bird like a feathered football with a head?

Bill, Legs, and Plumage – Is the bill stubby, medium, or long? Upturned or downturned (even ever-so-slightly)? Leg length and color can help, but realize that yellow legs can appear dark if they are covered with mud. Some notable plumage does remain on even the drab birds. Note rump color, the presence or absence of wing stripes, and any markings on the breast, head, and back. They can help.

Behavior and Sound – Dowitchers and many other sandpipers feed in mud or shallow water with a steady jabbing motion reminiscent of a sewing machine. Plovers search visually for food. They look around, run, stop, snatch food; look around, run, stop, snatch some more. We don’t use vocalization with shorebirds as much as we do with songbirds, but listen nonetheless. The least sandpiper’s rolling kreeep and the willet’s funny pill will-willet! are diagnostic.

So crack a field guide and start studying your shorebirds. The “fall” migration is upon us.

Image details: The subtle (and not-so-subtle) differences in shorebird characteristics are evident in these images (pictured from top to bottom) of Hudsonian godwit, short-billed dowitcher, purple sandpiper and piping plover.

Pantala flavescens

What’s amazing about today’s flight is its timing. Exactly one year ago, on August 13, 2009, Montpelier hosted another Pantala arrival. I’ve been seeing them in town for the past few weeks, but not in the numbers I noticed today. Must be something about the 13th. Aren’t we lucky!

As I’ve written before in a post about dragonfly swarms, Pantala flavescens is a flying machine. It is found on every continent except Antarctica. This dragonfly can cross oceans, making Pantala the champion flier among dragonflies, in many respect the albatross of insects. Along the way, it feeds on aerial plankton, insects, spiders and smaller organisms floating not on ocean currents but on air currents. Pantala can also store fat, like birds, to power long-distance flight.

Although dragonflies here in the West are sometimes viewed as agents of the devil (“Devil’s Darning Needles”), Pantala is a symbol of courage and victory in Japan. Large numbers appear in Honshu (the nation’s main island) and Kyushu (the third largest island) around August 15, a date Buddhists believe spirits visit their homes.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

View Little Blue Heron Locations in a larger map