The Big Yard: Notes from a Pajama Birdwatcher

The backyard fountain and pond with yellow monkeyflower and, from the East Fork of the Black River in eastern Arizona, a tangle of liverwort, horsetail, and watercress.

June 14, 2023

This morning, a gray haze hangs over the canyon.  The air smells of burning woodland—wildfires in Mexico.  A pair of Montezuma quail calls from the tinder-dry hillside to the south, their descending whistles adding something otherworldly to the scene.  Every yellow bird—the western tanagers, female hooded orioles, a new summer tanager in his youthful, not-ready-for-primetime, mustard blazer—turns my head after last week’s two-day yellow grosbeak visitation.

A first-year male Summer Tanager. The yellow will be replaced by a vibrant cherry red in adulthood.

Rarely seen and only occasionally heard, Montezuma Quail have the heart-stopping habit of holding tight while you're hiking and then exploding in flight nearly underfoot.

June is the month of anticipation.

In many ways.

Ironically, the smoke heralds the coming monsoon as our Foresummer drought (fire season) raises temperatures and the heated continental air mass draws moist air on southeasterly winds from the Gulf of Mexico and Sea of Cortez.  The winds bring a season of chubascos, the localized, sometimes violent, thunderstorms or “squalls” that shoulder into the Southwest. 

Our monsoon as a living, breathing conveyor that carries a meteorological organism as Mexico slides into Arizona and Arizona rushes back in a pulsing, thrashing penetration of elementals—air and water meets fire and earth.

When I smell smoke, I hear thunder.

June also means following the birds from my yard to their summer home in the White Mountains, which conveniently coincides with one of my greatest anticipations: fly-fishing season.  Last week, the Middle Daughter, her husband, and the grandkids joined me because, obviously, fishing and birding is for children too.

Occasional visitors to the yard in spring as the birds migrate through to higher elevations, this Red-faced Warbler and the MacGillivray’s Warbler (below) spend the summer at the East Fork of the Black River near Alpine, Arizona.

Birdwatching and flyfishing on the East Fork is one thing, but this is what it’s all about. Zion and Gia with their Apache trout catch of the day.

June may also be the month of irruption: a sudden change in the numbers of an organism.  Like yellow grosbeaks.  For the yellow grosbeak, that ultra-rare, stout-billed stunner and nemesis of birdwatchers that haunts the oak-draped mountains of western Mexico, three in southeast Arizona is an irruption.

The nearby (about 50 miles in opposite directions) Paradise and Patagonia yellow grosbeaks remained at the feeders for only one day.  Mine stayed for two, drawing a score of hopeful-turned-disappointed birdwatchers on the third day. Maybe, like me, they should have worn PJs.

Is there a record book for seeing rare birds like this Yellow Grosbeak in your pajamas?

The month has its challenges: fire and drought, one-day wonders.  But June is the door that swings wide to my favorite time of year.  And tomorrow, the 15^th, is the first day of the season.

Bring on the storm crow!

The Yellow-billed Cuckoo, aka the Storm Crow, for its supposed habit of calling from the trees before the onset of a thunderstorm.

This male Indigo Bunting, the first I’ve ever photographed in the yard, also appeared on the second day of the Yellow Grosbeak.

Thanks for subscribing! Let’s see what the second half of June might bring to the Big Yard!