With Snow Comes Snow Buntings… and Knowledge

There was a light skiff of snow on my Northern Ontario back deck the other morning. That’s the kind of early morning discovery that can take the emotions in a number of directions. As someone who deals with a lot of joint and back pain, the prospect of slipping and falling, and the certainty that there’s shoveling in my future, makes me want to go right back to bed. But I’m also a Canadian kid at heart, and those first few snowfalls always look beautiful to me.

My move to the north shore of Lake Huron means more expansive and snowier winters for me, but the change from urban to rural lifestyle also means the snow stays prettier longer. If you’ve ever trudged through three-day-old snow to a Toronto subway station, you know what I mean. Urban snow turns to gray slush in an awful hurry, whereas up here the view from my back windows remains pristine pretty much the entire winter. And if it ever does get dingy, more snow is usually not far off, so we get a fresh coat of the white stuff many, many (many) times.

And this year, I’ve discovered another reason to love snow. The same day the snow arrived in Thessalon, so too did a flock of Snow bunting (Plectrophenax nivalis). At first, I thought I was seeing a bunch of sparrows foraging on the side of the road, but as I approached they took off in a flurry of white bellies and black wingtips. This was not a familiar display, so I brought them closer with my camera, and also captured their song using the Merlin app. Sure enough, Snow buntings. I’ve now seen them every day of this week, and have learned to note their song as they flock overhead. I have found these little birds to be extremely difficult to photograph, as they are skittish, don’t allow a close approach, and fly rather frantically. I apologize for the fuzziness of my shots.

Range map of a very northern bird. Thanks to Cornell Labs’ All About Birds for the image.

According to my reading, these buntings may just be at the southernmost point of their fall migration. They nest and summer on the tundra of the far north, near the Arctic Circle, and then fly straight over the vast expanse of boreal forest like it is an inhospitable ocean, landing only where relatively unforested and flat land will provide them with the foraging grounds they prefer. You can see from the range map above (thanks Birds of the World) that Snow buntings are a northern bird, and unlike the many warblers that passed through Thessalon on their way to and from Central and South America, the bunting is just fine staying in colder climates at all times. In fact, they are physiologically adapted to the cold like few other birds, and have what the scientists call “significant thermogenic capacity.”  They make their own heat very well.

Note the fuzzy leg warmers.

This, of course, raises a troubling question. Can Snow buntings successfully adapt to a changing climate and rapidly warming environment? Cornell University lists Snow buntings as a species in Steep Decline, noting that research indicates a 38% population loss between 1970 and 2014. However, there has been uncertainty about the accuracy of this data because Snow buntings breed outside the range of the North American Breeding Bird survey. That concern for an accurate picture of bunting populations prompted the formation of the Canadian Snow Bunting Network CSBN, a group of professional northern researchers and volunteers dedicated to monitoring Snow bunting migration and wintering habits.

Distinctive white-edged tail pattern on that bunting missile launching away from the annoying photographer.

Originally organized by Professor Oliver Love at the University of Windsor the CSBN now publishes an annual newsletter report on Snow bunting banding and monitoring activities. This is a fascinating look at some frontline climate change research, as scientists study the feeding habits, fat-load maintenance during migration, and adaptive heat tolerance of these hardy, beautiful little birds.

Stay cool, little buntings.

I’m hoping this persistent flock of Snow buntings stays in Thessalon for the winter. I shall toss seeds on the ground generously.

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“Everyone likes birds. What wild creature is more accessible to our eyes and ears, as close to us and everyone in the world, as universal as a bird?”

— David Attenborough

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 Looking Forward to 2024

The highly coveted 2024 book (and bird) room calendar.

I am just five (5) birds away from counting a full 200 different species in 2023. When I started this birding adventure in Seattle on December 31, 2022, I could not have imagined I’d see that many different birds in just one year. Thinking about my bird count, I decided to celebrate and remember this remarkable year of birding by making myself a 2024 calendar from some of my favourite bird photos.

Memories of a year filled with birding discovery.

Family and close friends might expect to receive a copy of this calendar during the holiday season. I used the Shutterfly platform online, because they put together a sturdy beautiful product. I will study the service a bit more and see if there’s a way others might purchase their own copy of the calendar should they wish.

Protecting the Bobolink

This week, I was fortunate to come across a breeding pair of Bobolinks (Dolichonyx oryzivorus) in the fields just north of Thessalon here in Northern Ontario.

Judging by the range of birdsong along that rural roadway, there were a number of bobolinks and other tall grass species about, but I had a wonderful time just watching from a distance the nesting and foraging antics of this pair. They chased each other around quite a bit, but it was only the male in full spring plumage that really posed for the camera. The female kept herself mostly hidden in dense leafy brush and deep in the taller grasses.

The best I could do in capturing the elusive female bobolink.

A blackbird with an impressive range of song and sound, the bobolink is listed as either threatened, declining, or endangered depending on the online resource you access. I see by the Bird of the World range map that I’m lucky to be just on the northern edge of its breeding range for my province, and that in non-breeding months it can be found as far south as central Argentina. The internet tells me this bird even visits the Galápagos Islands on its way south, and was collected there by Charles Darwin in 1835. That is a mad long migration, one that is helped by a natural compass built into the tissues of the bobolink’s nasal cavity (how cool is that?).

Thanks, as always, to Cornell University’s All About Birds for this image.

The chief factor in the decline of this spirited little ground-nester is loss of habitat. A creature of grasslands, at least during mating and nesting seasons, the conversion of tallgrass prairie to cultivated farmland in North America has forced the Bobolink to lay eggs mostly in farmed hay fields. My late teenage years in Southern Ontario had some farmwork in them, including riding a wagon to haul hay bales off the land.

Tallgrass prairie was the traditional breeding ground for this endangered adventurer.

Depending on the weather, that first complete cut of hay can be as early as late May, which is terrible timing for bird life using the cover of that crop for nesting and raising young. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention back then, but I do remember all manner of wildlife scattering before the hay mower back in the mid-1980s

The price of hay has recently risen to 1.3X that of corn and, generally speaking, hay is good for the land, enhancing soil health. But the desire to maximize values by pulling off many crops in one season, combined with climate change, means the Bobolink’s undisturbed time in the fields gets dramatically squeezed.  

The provincial government in Ontario hasn’t done grassland species any favours with its expansion of development on environmentally protected areas outside the south’s major urban sprawl. The Greenbelt Foundation estimates less than 1% of the existing Ontario greenbelt is grasslands. That’s only about 441 hectares. A tiny, shrinking parcel of safe nesting ground. There is a focused strategy for recovery of both Bobolinks and Eastern Meadowlarks in place in Ontario, but it’s pretty clear the current Ontario government has little time for it.

Donate to the Nature Conservancy or your favourite bird charity.

The Nature Conservancy of Canada is on the case, actively conserving and protecting grassland parcels where it can acquire them. But bobolinks need help from us all. Cornell University notes an overall 56% cumulative decline in the Bobolink population since 1966, and estimates a current global breeding population of just 10 million. Their present rate of decline (over 1% per year) could halve their population in 45 years. Be aware of the need for grassland preservation, and both advocate and donate where you can.

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“History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.”

— Joseph Conrad

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bird book noted

Field Notes from an Unintentional Birder, by Julia Zarankin

Immersed as I am in the world of books and writing, it was inevitable that I would begin to dig into the literature of birding. I did so reluctantly, because I am a stubborn non-joiner, anti-competitor, and lone figurer-outer, and I had the feeling most books on birding were going to try and talk me out of those personality traits. So far, I’ve read three birding books, am working on a fourth, and fully half this list has made me feel just fine about not wanting to become an expert or informed obsessive.

Imagine my surprise when the first title I chose, Julia Zarankin’s charming memoir Field Notes from an Unintentional Birder, not only gave me permission to be pretty bad at birding, but presented me with an extremely familiar setting in which to be not great. Zarankin became “one of those people” who carry binoculars or even fancier spotting optics in the exact same place I did… at Etobicoke’s Colonel Samuel Smith Park at the bottom of Kipling Avenue right on Lake Ontario’s north shoreline. And while she has collected a LOT of knowledge and an impressive Life List, Zarankin is clearly incapable of lecturing and/or bragging.

In the telling of her personal story, Zarankin uses her growing knowledge of, and happiness around, birds as a successful companion to the potential non-successes of life’s many stages. We hear of relationships both failed and fruitful. We come to understand the intimate relationship between the young person displaced by geo-politics and the migrant species who cannot stay put and survive. We ruminate with Zarankin on potential parenthood, and what that means (or doesn’t) to the project of being a living creature in this world.

Zarankin takes us travelling with her (Iceland, Israel, a seabird colony off the coast of Maine, etc.), but it is the grounding of her experiences in and around Toronto that speak most powerfully to me. Her volunteer work at the Tommy Thompson Park Bird Research Station, the loss of her friend and fellow birder in a tragic road accident north of the city, her partner’s wry and sarcastic acceptance of sometimes out-of-control avian focus. These things speak to me of home, community, and what it means to really see the place you’ve decided to inhabit.

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On Being Rare

Etobicoke, Canada, where I’ve lived for twenty years, is blessed with wild, rocky, rugged beaches sculpted by Lake Ontario’s often ferocious battering. While I find far too much trash when I beachcomb (come on, people, carry your Tim Hortons cups to a trash can!), I’ve also picked up several crinoids, brachiopods, cephalopods, and trilobite fossils just sort of lying there for a few hundred million years, inexplicably unfound by any other curious human.

One of my finds from Lake Ontario. A crinoid with some small brachiopods embedded nearby.

I was walking my dog, Birdy, on one of these beaches last weekend, and though I’d brought my camera kit with me, I was none too focused on birding. Dog-walking and birding are activities that don’t generally pair well. Birdy has a perfectly doglike habit of lunging at Common Grackles and Red-winged Blackbirds when they land on nearby ground. Makes it tricky to grab a snapshot when my camera-steadiers (as I call my arms) are being wrenched about wildly by the leash.

Not my dog, Birdy, but a reasonable facsimile of her mood on this very same beach.

So, my eyes were more attuned to interesting rocks and sea glass than to anything in flight. But it was hard not to notice the sheer volume of other birders in the park. And these were not casual spotters with binoculars and thermoses of tea. These were the full camo-suited, camo-lensed crew, and they were clearly on the hunt for something special. At one point, there were maybe a dozen of them mobbed near where the trail dropped off onto my beach. So, keeping Birdy on a close hold, I ambled over as quietly as possible, caught the eye of one of the stragglers from the mob, nodded the fellow birder’s silent recognition and whispered “What are we all looking at this morning?”

“It’s a Hoary Redpoll,” she said, her smile a mile wide with exhilaration.

“And is that a good thing?”

“It’s EXTREMELY rare!”

I’ve watched Antiques Roadshow. I understand the thrill captured in the words “extremely rare.” I led Birdy to the very back of the pack of long lenses, and stood watching for a few minutes. A tiny finch hopped into the air from a branch and glided to the ground, where it foraged around, seemingly oblivious to the rapid shutter sounds all around it. Knowing I’d never get through the crowd for a crisp shot — not with Birdy in tow — I fired off a few distant shots just so I could get an ID later. Wandering by the same spot about half an hour later, there were even more crouching and snapping photogs, and the little Redpoll remained carefree in its extreme rareness.

So, is the Hoary Redpoll “EXTREMELY rare”?

Yes… if you never leave Etobicoke, Ontario.

Hoary Redpoll range map courtesy allaboutbirds.org

Back home, I made my official ID to eBird, and then checked out Cornell University’s info page on the Hoary Redpoll. First of all, “hoary” is because of the little bird’s frosted-looking breast, one of the features that distinguishes it from the Common Redpoll. It is undoubtedly a very pretty bird. The one I saw appears to have been a juvenile female.

Another slightly blurry shot of the Hoary Redpoll, showing its distinctive tiny beak, frosty front, and red splotch.

This pretty bird’s rarity, though, is very subjective. Cornell informs us that the global population of the Hoary Redpoll is estimated at 28 million, and that it is scored “low” in terms of conservation concern. There are, in fact, a LOT of Hoary Redpolls about. They just happen to be about in places where there are not a lot of people. You can see by the range map that Hoary Redpolls don’t really get south of the boreal forest, and spend most of their time in the arctic. The rareness of this particular specimen was not because it hardly exists, but rather that it rarely shows up anywhere near all those long lenses. Every few years, though, the little Hoary will make what is known as an irruptive flight outside its usual territory. Clearly, 2023 is an irruptive year for Hoaries.

I spend a lot of my time in Northern Ontario, just within the standard range for the Hoary Redpoll, which means I’ll be keeping my eyes open for these beauties quite often. At my little house on Lake Huron’s north channel, the vastness of the Hoary home country spreads north into the Arctic.

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“Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing that she hath wings.”

— Victor Hugo

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Interview with a Birder

Jack Illingworth, @jamuudsen on Instagram

The land discussed and covered in this interview is the traditional home of many First Nations and Indigenous peoples. Tkaronto, where Jack and I both work, is a Mohawk word which translates to “Where The Trees Meet The Water” or “The Gathering Place.” Tkaronto is bound by Dish With One Spoon, a treaty between the Anishinaabe and the Haudenosaunee to share the territory, promote peace, and protect the land. I am extremely grateful to have a home in Northern Ontario, on the North Shore of Lake Huron, the traditional land of the Métis Nation and the Anishinabek. This is Robinson Huron Treaty land, and I demand that my governments resolve the longstanding revenue-sharing inequity tied to that covenant, and honour the terms as agreed.

Jack Illingworth attempting to blend in, so you don’t see him. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

Jack Illingworth lives and works in Toronto, Canada, but you’d hardly know that by following his Instagram feed, which is full of trail cam shots of bears, wolves, and moose, and beautifully framed photos of the north Lake Superior landscape that is clearly his happy place. It is also full of sharp and amusing captures of birds doing their birdy things in that most natural of natural settings.

Jack and I have been professional colleagues in Canada’s writing and publishing industry for well on thirty years now. We’ve even actually done the exact same job. I was Ontario’s Literature Officer from 2008 to 2012, administering the (woefully inadequate — I can say that now) provincial funding budget for writers, publishers, literary performers, festivals and reading series across a landmass bigger than many countries. Jack took over that position in 2013 after I moved back “into the field” as we bureaucrats say, and has only recently moved on to become Executive Director of the Association of Canadian Publishers. In my own day job as Chief Executive Officer at The Writers’ Union of Canada, I anticipate many a joint meeting in Ottawa, where Jack and I charm and battle federal bureaucrats into properly supporting and protecting literary culture in Canada.

While I have always been interested in birds and wildlife, that job with the province really introduced to me the profound variety and beauty of Ontario outside its major urban centres. Business trips involved many hours on single lane northern highways, distracted by the hawks and ravens that regularly swooped through the view, and my first real opportunity to gaze out for extended lengths of time across the awesome spectacle that is Lake Superior. I vividly recall stepping out of my car after an eight-hour stretch of driving and being confused by the smell in the air around me. Something was radically different, and it took me a few minutes to realize that what I was smelling was an intense absence of the smog and other pollutants I’d left behind in the south.

But I’m guessing Jack needed no real introduction to the north. I gather from his Insta feed that he has deep personal roots in the country well north of heavily industrialized southern Ontario, and that his own well of interest and knowledge in birds and other wild creatures might just stem from his having grown up surrounded by the great bounty of the north.

A trail cam shot of a black bear near Jack’s parents’ house in Neebing, Ontario. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

So, let’s start there, Jack. Welcome to the Book (and Bird) Room. Tell me a bit about your connection to the northwestern shore of Lake Superior, and all its wild inhabitants.

I was raised in an area known as Neebing, which is the rural municipality that follows the north shore of Lake Superior between Thunder Bay and the Minnesota border. Neebing is 2,000 square kilometres with 2,000 widely-scattered residents and essentially no retail stores or services of any kind. It is generally acknowledged as the traditional territory of Fort William First Nation, but the nearest developed community to our home is the Anishinaabe community of Gichi Onigaming, or Grand Portage. That town marks a major stop on the original trans-continental highway, where Indigenous people and voyageurs would carry their canoes, belongings, and trade goods on a gruelling 14 km portage in order to avoid the waterfalls and rapids of the lower Pigeon River. That river, named for the Passenger Pigeons that used to flock in its valley, is now the Canada-US border.

A northern shrike on the hunt. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

In hindsight, my parents have made some eccentric choices, and my upbringing was a strange one, but it didn’t feel like that. We own some 200 acres of land on a side road that runs to the big lake, with no neighbours in line of sight. That quantity of land sounds extravagant, but it isn’t expensive or particularly unusual up there; a parking space in Toronto costs considerably more. I was a curious kid and grew up embedded in nature. My parents are devoted gardeners, even into their eighties. They still have a couple of acres under cultivation as a sort of private botanical garden/arboretum. They’ve never hired help to do this; it’s all their own sweat and blackfly-extorted blood. Birdwatching was always there as a background activity. We’ve observed over 150 species on our property, and a couple of provincial rarities – Grey-crowned Rosy-finch and Lazuli Bunting – have brought in visitations of twitchers from afar.

A drone shot of the Pine River house in Neebing where Jack originally emerged from the woods. The big lake (Superior) in the background. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

Wow, as a born, raised, and mostly stayed southerner, that sounds like an upbringing out of a fantastical novel.

It took a few years of city life for me to realize just how special all that was. Especially in a country like Canada, where a fiction of wilderness is the national brand. Anyone who is born into an iota of privilege will take it for granted until they understand the alternatives. In my case, part of that journey involved appreciating that most Canadians will never see a moose (much less one in their yard) or hear a whip-poor-will.

A chestnut-sided warbler… I’m guessing in the springtime. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

Wait… I’ve heard a whip-poor-will! Before I learned to appreciate birdsong, some buddies and I were tormented by that bird on a camping trip. Very repetitive call – not good for hangovers.

Jack, as much as I love my Lake Huron home, I don’t feel fully rugged and naturey until I’m beside Lake Superior. Same?

Superior is special. The lake’s modern shore is not old, as it was formed by glaciation, but the basin proper is a testament to ancient geological turmoil – it is a rift valley, a relic of North America nearly tearing itself in two some billion-odd years ago. It makes its own weather, stays cold year-round, and (compared to the other great lakes, at least) is relatively undeveloped, especially once you get into the offshore archipelagos.

My relationship with the big lake proper developed later in life. It was always there, of course, but our home is inland, and growing up we never had the right watercraft for open water. Around 15 years ago, my father spontaneously bought a pair of sea kayaks, and I gradually developed the skill and gear collection that are necessary for safe-ish paddling on Superior. I have some congenital leg deformities that have always made back-country hiking or multi-portage canoe tripping a risky proposition. The kayak, for me, is freedom. I don’t have to worry that a kneel will turn into a meniscus tear, that my ankle will roll into a strain, or that a hard trail will give me shin-splints. I can cover 30 km in a day.

One of the Pine River kayaks working the big lake. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

The world that opens up when you paddle Superior is a gorgeous, alien one. Wildlife starts seeing you more as a peer than as a threat. You learn to see force running through wind, water, and stone, and to anticipate its effect on your journey. I returned to fishing, which I hadn’t done since my childhood, and I started to memorize the headlands and islands that form Neebing’s little-travelled coast. Soloing Superior is a risky endeavour, but I minimize my risk with common sense and a dose of technology (drysuit, ditch bag of survival essentials, satellite rescue beacon). The joys I’ve experienced out there exceed the dangers a hundredfold, but I’d never encourage someone to do the same without some training, a good self-rescue, the right gear, and many hours on the water.

Face in the cliffs of Victoria Island, Lake Superior. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

I paddle inland too, as the northwest is blessed with a number of massive road-access lakes that can accommodate multi-day trips with ease. But nothing beats Superior’s expansiveness and energy. 

Do you remember when you first made the mental transition from just observing and appreciating the wildlife around you to wanting to track and document it through photography?

When my wife and I were first dating, she lived in an apartment in Cabbagetown, and we’d take walks through the parklands that flow away from Riverdale Farm. One day, we were confronted by a relatively unafraid Black-crowned Night Heron. They’re remarkable birds – one was famously ennobled by a 10th century Emperor of Japan – and we don’t have them up north. I was able to manage a few snapshots with the modest 120mm lens I owned at the time, but I immediately wanted more.

It took time to go from birds to other types of photography. I continue to be a wretched portrait photographer, with no eye whatsoever for the decisive moment. But I’m happy with the progress I’ve made on botanicals, landscapes, and abstracts.

Photography has a particular importance for me, because I have aphantasia – meaning that I have no meaningful visual memory. If I want to retain an experience as more than a concept or a memory of sound and sensation, I need to make an image of it.

Red-necked Grebes, necking on the Etobicoke waterfront. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

I try very hard not to nerd out on gear, because I fear there’s a giant money pit there I can’t actually deal with. Tell me a bit about your basic gear set-up for a hike in the north woods.

Gear can be a money-pit, but camera tech is so good these days that a camera body can last more than a decade, if you aren’t constantly chasing high-ISO performance for available light night photography, and lenses can last much longer than that.

What I carry depends on how I’m moving and what I’m after. My birding setup is a Nikon D800 with a 300mm f/2.8 and a set of teleconverters. I settled on the 300 early on as the largest lens that I could comfortably carry. The teleconverters will bug purists, but the results I get from them are acceptable for my purposes. Support is essential to the way I shoot – I’ll either carry a tall 3000-series set of Gitzo legs, or a 5000-series Gitzo monopod.

I have a variety of other Nikon-mount lenses, but the ones that get the most use are a 15-30mm Sigma (a forgotten cheapo ultrawide that I love almost everything about), a Nikon 50mm f/1.4, and a Nikon 105mm f/2.8 macro. These cover my bases for almost any situation.

More recently, I’ve picked up a mirrorless Fujifilm XT-3 setup for kayaking and lighter-weight walkabouts when birding isn’t my objective. With it I’ve got a 10-20mm wide angle, a 16-80mm f/4 kit zoom (which is a bit of a dog, but easy to use on the water), and the magical 60mm f/2.4 macro. I use a Peak Design travel tripod with the Fuji, and it’s a brilliant bit of kit that just disappears in the hold of my kayak.

I also have a first-generation DJI Mavic Mini drone, which I use for occasional aerials, which really help me understand a landscape. It’s light enough to be exempt from Transport Canada licensing requirements, and takes OK photographs. The newer models seem much better, but I can’t justify an upgrade just yet.

Finally, I take a lot of photos with my humble phone, especially while kayaking. It’s there all the time, weighs next to nothing, is nearly waterproof, and fits in a PFD pocket.

Jack photographed these bald eagles so I don’t have to. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

I’ve said elsewhere, my “white whale” at this early stage of my bird photography is a clear, close shot of the bald eagles I’ve spotted while swimming in Huron’s north channel. Is there a bird or animal out there you haven’t quite managed to capture in the way you’d like? Maybe “capture” is the wrong word. Let’s say “depict.”

For animals, it’s easy: lynx. I’ve found tracks, but have yet to see a wild one.

For birds, it is still a very long list. Some of the Carolingian warblers would be in competition for top place: Cerulean and Hooded. But there are so many others. Phalaropes, the most elegant of shorebirds. Jaegers in full kleptoparasitic pursuit. Anything named for Georg Steller. Bohemian Waxwings. Crossbills. Boreal Chickadees. Rails. Enough? Enough!

Jack’s white whale, still unphotographed. Lynx tracks. (image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

Had to look it up. Kleptoparasitic – when animals, often birds, steal food from one another. I just saw my favourite corvid scientist on Tik Tok explaining that even though crows and wolves are often observed together, this is not a BFF-type relationship. The crows are waiting for the opportunity to steal part of the wolf’s kill, and the wolf is waiting for the crow to slip up and become dinner.

Thanks Jack. Let’s keep talking birds! If you don’t mind, I’ll come back to you for insights and answers occasionally. And feel free to use my northern home as a pit stop or overnighter on your trips to the big lake.

Thank you, John. As your readers can tell, I can go on and on about these things forever. And I look forward to hatching literary conspiracies on the north channel. And if we ever end up in the Lakehead at the same time, I’d be happy to show you some of my favourite spots.

Wolves trying to figure out which way Jack went. (Trail cam image courtesy Jack Illingworth)

Hope you enjoyed this first in a series of conversations I plan to have with some of the nature enthusiasts and birders in my life. Don’t miss a single posting — just subscribe to my newsletter below. And do let any other nature appreciators in your life know about this site. Newsletter recipients also get subscriber-exclusive photos from my own wanderings in the world of birds and nature.