A Day's Snowbirding in Prescott

Some of my earliest memories of growing up in suburban New Jersey involve feeding the birds. My mother would regularly send my sister, brother, or me out into the backyard to spread stale slices of bread with the specific instructions to tear or crumble them into small pieces first. I can mostly remember doing this in the winter, when food wasn't as readily available for the birds that didn't migrate to warmer climates.

I recall one bird in particular, the chickadee, above all others. Maybe it was its comical name or perhaps its abundant population or even its ability to survive brutal winters despite its diminutive size that preserves the little bird in my mind after a half century. That ancient memory might help explain the warm nostalgia I feel when the chickadee is one of the first birds I see when I visit my little mountain retreat in the woods outside Prescott. It's consistently one of the fastest to rediscover my newly-filled seed and suet feeders even after one of my longer absences; this past snowy weekend in Prescott was no exception.

Of course on the East Coast it was the black-capped chickadee I grew up feeding stale crumbs of Wonder Bread to. In the pine forests of Arizona lives the mountain chickadee, not too different in appearance except for white stripes slicing through its own black cap.

But on my Sunday visit it might have been a dark-eyed junco that was the first bird to visit my freshly-filled feeders. More interesting was that it wasn't the one I'd normally expect but was a different 'race' of the species, known as the Oregon form. Sporting a black head along with pink bill and sides, he breeds in the Pacific coastal mountains from southeast Alaska to as far south as Baja California. And many more of his kind live in the wooded habitat around my place in Prescott during the winter.

I also observed last weekend the red-backed sub-species of dark-eyed junco, a bird that resides in the area full-time. Predominately steel-gray except for his namesake dorsal patch, the sparrow is a frequent visitor to my yard, seed feeder, and birdbath throughout the year. He's relatively easy to approach and photograph like most of the year-round birds at my cabin.

In the snowy weather, it seems like all these common natives quickly re-discovered my overflowing feeders. Joining the chickadees and juncos were bridled titmice, house finches, pygmy nuthatches, mourning doves, white-breasted nuthatches, and pine siskins, all snatching seeds or chipping away at the suet. I was surprised to also have four different species of woodpecker munch on the suet in short order: ladder-backed, acorn, hairy, and northern flicker.

But it was a few irregular or new visitors that really intrigued me. A ruby-crowned kinglet flashing his namesake head feathers made at least one stop at the crowded buffet early in my stay. In contrast a yellow-rumped warbler couldn't resist more frequent landings on the suet station. In addition a Bewick's wren flitted about the area. Finally a hermit thrush cautiously observed all the activity from a snowy branch, seemingly unfamiliar with the dining protocol.

Overnight snow covered the feeders but the earliest-rising birds made an effort to dig through the accumulation for their meals. Eight inches of snow on the ground grew to at least twenty-four by the time the snowfall ceased over a day later, long after I decamped to rainy Phoenix one hundred miles away. I can't imagine the Herculean endurance and clever resourcefulness the Prescott birds need to survive such extreme changes in the weather. Fortunately I do know how big the hearts are of the human neighbors that shovel their walkways in order to feed the birds.