The purple sandpiper Calidris maritima is not often seen in Ohio. As its scientific name suggests it prefers seacoasts, and in Ohio appears almost exclusively on the shore of our inland sea, Lake Erie. It nests in the remote Arctic, and only small portions of its populations winter as far south as our latitude; the most cold-loving of the shorebirds, some purple sandpipers actually spend the winter north of the Arctic Circle.
This plump, dark, white-bellied bird, with a medium-long slightly downcurved bill from which an icicle can occasionally be seen hanging, is seldom seen far from rocky shores, where it forages expertly among slippery wet stones, waves sloshing rhythmically about its yellowish legs. Nearly all the rocky shoreline habitats on our shore of Lake Erie are of human fabrication: armored shorelines, breakwalls, jetties, pier foundations, and the like. Purple sandpipers are almost never found in spring in the state, and in fall migration show up later than any other shorebird, arriving normally in November. They can seem very tame, often allowing a close approach.
So we knew exactly what habitat to search, and there isn’t all that much of it. We knew the bird’s habits, and its customary schedule. We knew it was tolerant of observers. Best of all, we knew four of them had recently been reported by a number of birders at the Mentor headlands lighthouse, an established hot spot for the species. It seemed like a natural thematic species for our 4 December adventure, and we scheduled in a stop at the lighthouse first thing, to get our day’s accomplishments off on the good foot.
As I frequently take the occasion to observe, the dates for our quasi-monthly outings are chosen from stores of accumulated wisdom, hard-won experience, lengthy discussions and consultation of learned references, as well as by an antique Ouija board, so when some appointed days arrive we wonder how the heck we could have chosen them. When we arrived at the headlands, the sun was bright, the temperatures climbing past freezing, and only a few unruly gusts foreshadowed the gale-force winds to come. These winds were southwesterly however, a direction from which even the most hopeful birder could hardly expect birds arriving from Baffin Island. As it turned out, at the headlands and half a dozen spots along the lake shore, we were to stare daylong in vain at wavelets drooling along rows of wet black stones that gaped like the stained stumps of giants’ teeth in the harbors. We did get killer looks at small groups of snow buntings as they somehow found tiny seeds in the sand. Otherwise, beyond hordes of passing red-breasted mergansers we had four species of gulls.
Fairport Harbor was next. Other than red-breasted mergansers, a couple of other duck species graced the harbor in small numbers, and four species of gulls were found. We diligently searched huge milling flocks of Bonaparte’s gulls for the interesting rarities that sometimes, somewhere, for some observers, are known to accompany them, with no success.
Eastlake’s power plant followed. Here we found enormous rafts of red-breasted mergansers, which we scanned a bit giddily for lurking jaegers, and little else in the way of waterfowl. A few gulls were around, and one hunkered down so ambiguously that for more than a few minutes we thought it might be a lesser black-backed, but in the end only four species were found.
East 72nd Street in Cleveland, another spot with an attractive hot water outflow, came up next as we traveled west. We picked up a single ruddy duck and a lone lesser scaup in the marina, but mostly red-breasted mergansers. The breakwalls were bereft of purple sandpipers, or much else for that matter. The inner sanctum of the pool of hot water had a few gulls, four species of them this time, and a very healthy collection of Mergus serrator that brought the day’s count into five figures.
We took Marginal Road west into downtown, mainly for a chance to find a snowy owl at the lakefront airport, a chance our increasingly dim fortunes denied us. Edgewater Park looked pretty empty except for some offshore mergansers too distant to stop to admire further. We’d run into lots of local birders, who mostly advised us to try birding elsewhere, but we had heard that couple of scoters remained at Bradstreet Landing in Rocky River, where we stopped next. Other than scattered flocks of red-breasted mergansers (we’d ceased counting, so don’t ask), the vast expanse of surprisingly unruffled water seemed empty, but at last, straining our zoom lenses to the sticking-point, we discerned two black dots in the distance, most of a mile to the west, which prolonged scrutiny proved to be a surf scoter and a black scoter. A loon was briefly seen, raising hopes. Few gulls were present, and only four species of them, which saved us another arduous session of holding scopes steady while we scanned the same old throngs.
We decided to abandon Lake Erie, and backtracked to Lakewood Cemetery, where birds like siskins and redpolls beckoned, at least in our fevered imaginations. The birch trees and other food sources were birdless there, and the presence of an actual funeral made our disappointment feel a bit trivial, but we did stop at the traditional spot where a gray-morph screech-owl can almost always be found. Except this day.
A freeway dash and a big change of scene brought us to Oberlin Reservoir, where from a mile away we could see large clouds of wheeling gulls churning above. There were thousands on the reservoir too, two species of them, floating face into the wind. Behind them, in the very farthest corners of the water, backlit by fitful sun, were ducks—ruddies mostly, usually the most numerous duck at this time and place.
Wellington Reservoir is only a short distance down the road, and this time of year always has big flocks of waterfowl, so after a sixth bathroom stop we hurried there, stopping for five minutes of attempts to transmogrify a big Cooper’s hawk into a goshawk. The emerging sun was behind us here, and the wind quieted down. Rafts of sleek and colorful ducks gleamed on the water, a bit far out but easy to study with scopes. Although we found no red-breasted mergansers among them, a variety of ducks were diving, dabbling, scooting about and courting lasciviously, and we gladly squandered what remained of our time studying them. Any port in a storm, we figured.
Our official list has for some time been withheld in order to maintain morale, but can be revealed at this time. A blustery day kept down our count of perching birds. Our gull count totaled but four species. Our most numerous species was the red-breasted merganser. The last 45 minutes at Wellington, one-dimensional as it was, increased the day’s count by a fairly embarrassing 20%. Here is the list of the 48:
Canada goose
Mute swan
Gadwall
American wigeon
American black duck
Mallard
Blue-winged teal
Canvasback
Redhead
Ring-necked duck
Greater scaup
Lesser scaup
Surf scoter
Black scoter
Bufflehead
Hooded merganser
Common merganser
Red-breasted merganser
Ruddy duck
Common loon
Pied-billed grebe
Double-crested cormorant
Great blue heron
Bald eagle
Cooper’s hawk
Red-tailed hawk
Rough-legged hawk
American kestrel
American coot
Bonaparte’s gull
Ring-billed gull
Herring gull
Great black-backed gull
Rock pigeon
Mourning dove
Blue jay
American crow
Black-capped chickadee
White-breasted nuthatch
Carolina wren
European starling
American tree sparrow
Dark-eyed junco
Snow bunting
Northern cardinal
Common grackle
American goldfinch
House sparrow