Owl be seeing you in all the old, familiar places...

Our recent report on duck spotting at Barnegat Light indicated that winter birding is not for the faint of heart. Persistent (and well-insulated) explorers should discover, though, that hanging around in the cold and wind (and even snow) can have its reward in the sighting of species that reliably return to certain spots, year after year.

Take, for example, the Short-eared owl. Habitues of open grasslands, some of these moderate sized raptors spend their winters at the Wallkill River National Wildlife Refuge in Sussex County. A viewing deck at the state border with New York provides a good spot to gather with other hearty souls late on a January afternoon, waiting for the sun to drop below the surrounding hills so the show can begin.

My first visit to Wallkill a few years ago set an unrealistic expectation of the relative difficulty of spotting owls. Ivan took me to see the owls just after we'd met, telling me that the odds were good that we'd see at least one in the field, and I came away thinking that either it was pretty easy, or he was some sort of bird conjurer. Basically, we drove up, he set up a viewing scope on the platform, and within 10 minutes, he found the owl in question perched on a slim stump about 50 yards away. He invited me to take a look, and not only was the bird there, but as if on cue, it turned to look directly at me. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought Ivan had stopped by earlier to plant a mechanical decoy in the field.

Most of the time, spotting the birds isn't as easy as that. It takes time, patience and a touch of fortitude.

• Time and patience: like most members of its taxonomic family, the short-eared owl hunts largely in darkness. The key is to get to the appropriate viewing site just before dusk, wait and hope they decide to show.
• Fortitude: well, try standing in an open grassland field at dusk in January. It's windy, and you're often left to stand on snow pack whose chill permeates the thickest of boot soles. Before long, no matter how many layers you're already wearing, you start regretting not having the forethought for electric socks and that extra set of thermal underwear.

The Short-eared owl.

This time around, it was plenty cold, but the inevitable wait was tempered by the pre-game show. A sole adult Bald eagle scared up a massive flock of grounded Canada geese in the field across the road, the geese apparently not realizing that the chances of one eagle killing them all was rather remote.

Not long afterward, the show started on our side of the road as a host of Northern harriers glided effortlessly above the tall grass. A little longer yet less bulky than the Short-eared owl, the harrier's face is somewhat disc-shaped like an owl's, though the two aren't related. Among the many brown females we witnessed skimming and diving around the field, a striking "gray ghost" male harrier flew around the territory like a mysterious spectre.

As we stomped our feet to keep warm, local birders told us that during the week, when fewer people are there to observe, up to a dozen Short-eared owls were known to come out to hunt. They had good reason, too: according to management at Wallkill, conditions over the summer resulted in what's described as a bumper crop of rodents, the prey of choice for owls and harriers alike.

The evening we were there, they started a little later than their customary 4:45 flight time. Suddenly, as light was draining from the sky, we noticed other forms among the many harriers patrolling the field. The new visitors had stiffer wingbeats and bulkier wings. It took a few minutes, but I started to be able to differentiate the two types of birds from their flight patterns and relative size. I didn't get a firm count of owls, but it was clear that several had felt comfortable enough to fly within view of us humans. The show was definitely on!

Chilled to the bone and satisfied we'd met our goal for the trip, we started toward the car to warm up, but one owl seemed not quite ready for us to leave. It approached, soaring higher as if to get a view of us from above, and maybe to confirm to us that we had, indeed, seen what we thought we'd seen. Even in the waning light, we could see its distinctive under-wing pattern as it flew directly overhead. With that parting adieu, we left, happy that our frigid vigil had paid off.

Exploring the Everglades of the North: ecocruising with the Hackensack Riverkeeper

On our birding ventures, both Ivan and I generally keep lists of the species we see. Invariably, the "day list" begins with the classics: house sparrow, Canada goose and American crow, with the European starling added for good measure. They're pretty much everywhere and very easily identifiable. If we were doing a count of how many of each species we saw in a given day, these few would probably be among the greatest in volume.

The other evening, in the heart of Secaucus, our first few included Forster's tern, peregrine falcon and bald eagle. Yeah, that's right: as you're riding over the Hackensack River on Route 3, you're sharing space with an astounding array of bird species, some even endangered and protected, but all there to live and eat. And they've got a bounty of food because the river is cleaner than it has been in decades. Native fish, crabs and the creatures that eat them have made their home in the Meadowlands again.

The improved condition of the river, its tributaries and the surrounding watershed is due in no small part to the work of Hackensack Riverkeeper Bill Sheehan and the not-for-profit organization he leads. Through advocacy, cleanups and their fair share of lawsuits, Captain Bill and crew have led the charge in improving the river both as a source of drinking water for one of the most densely-populated areas of the country, and as a place for people to enjoy. (In the interest of full disclosure, Ivan serves on the organization's board and I've done some volunteer work for them.)

You can't see 'em, but there are two eagles in this tree.

One of Riverkeeper's top priorities is to get people out on the river, and we did just that the other day, on one of the organization's two pontoon boats. Leaving from a dock behind the Red Roof Inn on Meadowlands Parkway, we were soon motoring beneath the bridges that carry Route 3 over the Hackensack. As we passed one of the pilings supporting the westbound traffic, we saw a peregrine falcon perched in a nesting box that had been placed there by the state Department of Transportation. This endangered species appeared fully comfortable with his manmade home, yet another example of nature adapting.

When you're actually IN the Meadowlands, on the water and among the marsh grass, you're taken by how peaceful it is, as opposed to the stress of driving on the roads. Gulls and terns flew noisily overhead, putting one in the mind of boating through the back channels of the marshes down the shore. As we headed farther upriver, past the sports complex, we could see the Turnpike at ground level, the Vince Lombardi Service Area appearing like some bizarre rest stop in the middle of the Everglades.

At points, the trip even seemed to be turning into some sort of Disney World ride, with marquee birds making their appearances at strategic moments. An approaching riverside tree yielded two mature bald eagles, perched within full view as if they were waiting for us. Several osprey, still on the state's threatened species list, were perched on railroad and Turnpike bridges overhead. When we made a side trip into Mill Creek, a host of yellow- and black-crowned night herons accommodated us by taking wing and alighting onto convenient branches. Yellow-crowneds have proved particularly difficult for me to spot in my birding adventures, but I easily counted five of them foraging through the river's marshy banks and spartina grass as dusk darkened. That's a pretty big deal, and I was especially tickled to note that I saw them well before we spotted our first Canada geese for the evening. It's not surprising, actually, as the night herons have developed a rookery (nursery) near Harmon Cove in recent years.

Sunset on the Hackensack. Who'da thunk?

We weren't the only humans on the river, either. A jet skier zipped past us early in the trip, and we met up with a friendly kayaker just after we saw all the night herons. On the banks of the river at Laurel Hill Park, a father and his toddler son were enjoying the peaceful view of the sunset over the marsh. Another boat larger than ours waited patiently for a New Jersey Transit train to pass before the drawbridge could be lifted to allow both of us to motor back upriver. I couldn't help but be reminded of the long-ago days when the Hackensack was a major thoroughfare for schooners transporting raw materials and finished goods to dockside factories and merchants.

While the river has made remarkable progress in the past two decades, it's far from pristine. Crabbing is prohibited due to hazardous pollutants in the river sediment, and despite clean water regulations, outdated municipal sewerage systems continue to drain untreated wastewater (yes, that stuff) into the river after storms when their treatment facilities are overwhelmed. You're not going to get sick from boating or canoeing on the Hackensack, but it'll be some time before you can swim there on a daily basis. The Riverkeeper's work is far from done.

That, however, shouldn't keep you from checking it out for yourself. Hackensack Riverkeeper runs a full range of offerings to get you out onto the river, including canoe rentals at Laurel Hill Park and Overpeck Creek. You can even book passage to take the same sunset cruise we did. It's your river -- check it out. I guarantee you'll be pleasantly surprised by what you see.

On a road to nowhere in Manahawkin

We had a long day of ups and downs in the greater Cape May area on Saturday, looking for additions to our respective year lists and visiting the reported spots to see the more remarkable rarities that had been reported to be in the area.

As a quick update:

• A report of a king eider hen near a jetty in Cape May Point delivered a common eider for us. (That beach spot also yielded the rare bare-rumped jaybird, but that's another story.)
• A very yellow western tanager revealed himself after a very brief wait on a busy street corner in Cape May Court House.
• And... after what would have been deemed a wild goose chase in other circumstances, we caught a glimpse of a crested caracara (you might remember how rare these are in New Jersey, after our story of seeing one in West Windsor last year.)

All of the roaming around left us kind of spent and ready to call it a day, but Ivan suggested one more stop as we headed back up the Parkway. Dusk wasn't far off, making it a perfect time to stop in Manahawkin to visit the short-eared owls on the marsh.

A confession: whenever Ivan mentions owling, I do a mental eyeroll, especially in pine forests where they might be tucked in broad daylight. Don't get me wrong. I love owls. In fact, our first joint birding experience was a January visit to Wallkill WMA to visit the short-eared owls. He got one in the viewing scope within a few minutes, and it accommodatingly turned to face us just as I was getting my look. Since then, it's been a lot harder to tease them out, but in Ivan's defense, owls of any ilk do their best not to be seen. Finding them takes a certain amount of luck, regardless of how advanced your birding skills are.

This time around, when I started my usual jovial owl rant, Ivan simply said, "You'll like this place. It's the road to nowhere." Say no more. Let's check it out.

We got to Route 72 as twilight was descending. A few turns brought us away from the state highway hubbub and into marsh territory. One more right turn and we were on Stafford Avenue, a lightly-traveled road occasionally marked with a pothole. "This is better than I remembered it," Ivan told me, explaining that the road is rarely maintained and can get heavily rutted and uneven a mile or so in, when it turns to hard-packed sand and dirt.

The road goes first through a forest, adding a little spookiness to the trip, but then the horizon widens to accommodate marshgrass, with no trees to obstruct the view for acres. Harriers ordinarily would have been scouting for their last meals of the day, but we saw nothing in flight. Still, the terrain was incredibly cool, as was the feeling that absolutely nobody was within shouting distance. The only real sign of human progress was the utility poles on the side of the road, though four or five of them were tilted dangerously enough to take the whole system down into the brackish water with a good gust.

The bridge to nowhere. 

Then we got to the really cool part. The road ramped up a little before being blocked by a graffiti-laden Jersey barrier. Whoa. The car had barely stopped before I jumped out and walked up to the barrier to find remnants of an old wood bridge, its near end gone, making it impossible to walk across. It doesn't matter, anyway, as there's no road on the other side.

"Behold!" Ivan exclaimed as he stepped out of the car. "Nowhere!" He had that right. Marsh stretched out almost as far as the eye could see, and it was so quiet, well, so quiet that any of the usual analogies about quiet were useless. That, my friends, is Manahawkin Wildlife Management Area at dusk in January.

How was I not aware of this place? I pride myself on knowing these spots, and from what I can recall, our better-known friends who cover the odder parts of the state haven't featured this Road to Nowhere. It seems that perhaps it's a secret kept by sportsmen (the state DEP maps list the area as the Manahawkin Hunting and Fishing Grounds) and birders, with the occasional spray paint-wielding local teen for good measure. I could see where the hunters and fishing enthusiasts would value the area; the marsh was sparsely crossed by old mosquito-control channels they could use to get to a blind or favorite spot.

Gazing across the marsh from one of its few (maybe only) high spots, I was again reminded of the Meadowlands -- the rickety old abandoned bridges you can see as your train rumbles along to Newark or New York, the ditches dug in the futile hopes of keeping the skeeters at bay, the wisdom of letting a certain amount of marsh just be and be natural.

As for the owls, well, they were keeping to themselves during our visit. We saw none at all before daylight finally surrendered to darkness, though Ivan thought he might have heard a short-ear bark in the distance (some say they sound like terriers). Perhaps next time.

Mill Creek Marsh: the shorebirds' preferred Turnpike rest stop

On a hot Saturday morning, with not a cloud in the sky, we headed to the Meadowlands to find some shorebirds. Believe it or not, their migration season has already begun, and surely some would be making a pit stop in the area for rest and refreshments.

Our first stop was DeKorte Park, home to the New Jersey Meadowlands Commission, but it wasn't as productive as we'd hoped. Despite the substantial trail network there, much of our expected route was off limits, and besides, it was high tide. The sandpipers and plovers didn't have much space to peck about in the mud, because it was essentially flooded for the time being. It was time for plan B, Mill Creek Marsh off the Hackensack River in Secaucus.

Mill Creek is just a few miles away
from downtown Manhattan, as the crow flies.

If you've used the eastern spur of the NJ Turnpike just south of the Vince Lombardi Service Area, you know Mill Creek, even if you don't know its name. Tucked away in the Harmon Meadow shopping area near Bob's Discount Furniture, this spot indicates what the Meadowlands was like in the days before landfills and rampant development. Shoppers looking for great deals can easily take a walk back in time and learn a bit about the natural climate that predates the retail complex.

What we didn't see at DeKorte we saw at Mill Creek in abundance: sandpipers, yellowlegs, and both snowy and great egrets. Never having seen both kinds of egret together, I was amused to see that the great is quite a bit bigger than the snowy; but for the difference in beak color I'd have thought the snowy was the great's offspring. We also were treated to the sight of an immature Baltimore oriole, its orange markings not yet darkened from the juvenile yellow.

Marsh wrens, though clearly making their presence known vocally, were frustratingly difficult to spot. It seemed that every time we approached a substantial patch of spartina, one or two would start to sing, but they never came up to introduce themselves. After a few instances, I mused that there had to be some sort of trip wire along the path that triggers a recording of the song every time someone gets near. Well, even if we didn't actually spot them, I enjoyed their song.

Mill Creek offers a lot, even if you're not into birds. The area was regraded and restored to highlight the beauty of its original tidal flow, and this time of year you'll see plenty of blooming marsh mallow along the path along with healthy marsh grasses. Surprisingly, on our visit it wasn't buggy at all; while we saw the average number of dragonflies and butterflies, we were unscathed by mosquitoes. Proper tidal flow and ample insect-eating birds are doing their job, it seems.

Marsh mallow and other wetlands greenery
overtake an old cedar stump.

Once you get to one of the pools closer to the highway, you'll also see remnants of the Meadows' historic past -- the stumps of American cedar trees. Long ago, the marshes were home to large tracts of these fragrant hardwood trees, and their demise is the subject of a few interesting Colonial-era stories. Some say that the colonists burned the forest down before the Revolution, to root pirates out from the many hiding places on streams within the swamp. Others say that the forests were cut down to the point of extinction, their highly-prized wood sold off for various uses. The scientific answer is that human intervention (namely the construction of the Oradell Dam) changed the water composition, turning the marsh brackish and cutting off the fresh water the trees need. Regardless of what happened, the stumps remain, creating an interesting landscape of gnarled and weathered roots and perches for cormorants and the like.

The only real down side to Mill Creek is the incessant hum of Turnpike traffic, but you can still hear the sounds of the marsh without much trouble (where are those truck noise cancelling headphones when you need them?). It doesn't take much to see that the Meadowlands is on the rebound after years of environmental abuse. Just ask the birds: they're finding plenty of healthy food to eat, and the marsh is clearly on their maps.