Any walk in the mountain forests across Arizona is usually accompanied by a cacophony of squawks from either a couple different species of jays or, more likely, from acorn woodpeckers. These clown-like birds are not only noisy, but they're especially animated in their interactions with each other or in their encounters with any interested humans.
It's easy to get close to the acorn woodpecker; I regularly watch them munching the suet, grabbing the peanuts and slurping the water that I put out for the dozens of mountain and migratory birds that visit my Prescott yard. As a result, I've seen up-close not only their glaring white eyes and their tuxedo-like body plumage, but also their intimate contact with each other and with other birds.
The woodpecker loves to angrily dive at Woodhouse's scrub jays that compete with them for the nuts I've vainly put out to attract Steller's jays. Like a penguin, they waddle down branches as they leap to the suet dangling below, always cutting ahead of the other birds eyeing the same meal. And they all but make a splash-landing as they attack the fresh water basin.
All acorn woodpeckers of the same sex look alike, sporting bright red head patches in a yamaka-like fashion. While the male's cap covers his entire head, the female's is separated from her white forehead by a band of black. Alas I've never been able to to identify a specific Woody Woodpecker from the other members of the querulous flock - until now.
I noticed one individual a few weeks ago that looked glaringly different; his normally red crown feathers were bright orange and in an almost bushy disarray. At the same time, his eyes were dull and black rather than shocking white. Clearly he was a juvenile male, fledged this summer from a neighborhood nest.
Initially he seemed to be in the company of a female - his mother or some other caring matron of the flock. While he eagerly waited, she fed him after her quick visits to the suet feeder. Often he'd noisily follow her if she forgot to make a stop to share her bounty with him.
Like other acorn woodpeckers, he seemed to congregate and prattle with the members of his group in the treetops around my cabin. But more frequently, as the weeks passed, he started visiting the suet independently, while his head feathers reddened and his irises lightened. Before my own eyes, he slowly matured into an adult, one of the many fascinating but indistinguishable members of this species that calls my corner of Prescott's pine and oak forest home.
It's easy to get close to the acorn woodpecker; I regularly watch them munching the suet, grabbing the peanuts and slurping the water that I put out for the dozens of mountain and migratory birds that visit my Prescott yard. As a result, I've seen up-close not only their glaring white eyes and their tuxedo-like body plumage, but also their intimate contact with each other and with other birds.
The woodpecker loves to angrily dive at Woodhouse's scrub jays that compete with them for the nuts I've vainly put out to attract Steller's jays. Like a penguin, they waddle down branches as they leap to the suet dangling below, always cutting ahead of the other birds eyeing the same meal. And they all but make a splash-landing as they attack the fresh water basin.
All acorn woodpeckers of the same sex look alike, sporting bright red head patches in a yamaka-like fashion. While the male's cap covers his entire head, the female's is separated from her white forehead by a band of black. Alas I've never been able to to identify a specific Woody Woodpecker from the other members of the querulous flock - until now.
I noticed one individual a few weeks ago that looked glaringly different; his normally red crown feathers were bright orange and in an almost bushy disarray. At the same time, his eyes were dull and black rather than shocking white. Clearly he was a juvenile male, fledged this summer from a neighborhood nest.
Initially he seemed to be in the company of a female - his mother or some other caring matron of the flock. While he eagerly waited, she fed him after her quick visits to the suet feeder. Often he'd noisily follow her if she forgot to make a stop to share her bounty with him.
Like other acorn woodpeckers, he seemed to congregate and prattle with the members of his group in the treetops around my cabin. But more frequently, as the weeks passed, he started visiting the suet independently, while his head feathers reddened and his irises lightened. Before my own eyes, he slowly matured into an adult, one of the many fascinating but indistinguishable members of this species that calls my corner of Prescott's pine and oak forest home.
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| Juvenile male acorn woodpecker in my Prescott yard in early July. His head feathers are bushy and orange, versus slicked-back and red, and his irises are a dull black versus white. |
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| Juvenile male acorn woodpecker asking for food from a female. |
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| Juvenile male acorn woodpecker next to a mature female. |
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| Juvenile acorn woodpecker in my Prescott neighborhood. |
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| Recent photo of the juvenile acorn woodpecker. His patch of hair is reddening and his irises are turning white. |
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