Let's go fly a (Mississippi) kite: feasting on cicadas at Belleplain

I hate cicadas. There. I said it. As a nature lover, I know I should appreciate them. I know I should marvel at the recent brood, which has emerged from the ground after a 17 year wait. And I know I should probably be thrilled by the otherworldly spaceship-kinda sound that indicates their presence in a stand of trees. I know all that, but I just don't like 'em. There you go.

When several of my naturalist Facebook friends started posting their cicada sightings and observations, I asked the question, "Which birds feast on cicadas?" One particularly enthusiastic friend practically shouted, "Kites!" The smallish (14 inches from bill tip to end of tail feathers) Mississippi kite and his larger (22 inch long) swallow-tailed cousin survive on dragonflies and cicadas they capture midair.

Only thing is, neither is an abundant visitor to New Jersey. They generally spend all their time south of the state, and though Mississippi kites have been making a very slow progression northward, it's still a big treat to find breeding pairs here. In any case, a handful of accidental visitors would be no match for the millions of cicadas emerging from their long slumber in the soils of New Jersey. We could only hope that word would get out on the kite network, and much as seafood enthusiasts head to shellfish festivals, these raptors would zoom up to the Garden State for a once-in-a-lifetime gustatory event.

And, indeed, it didn't take long before an observant birder announced a sighting at Belleplain State Forest in Cape May County. Not just one Mississippi kite made it up here for the feast: as many as 15 at a time have been spotted roosting in a dead tree along Lake Nummy. Neither Ivan nor I had ever seen one in New Jersey, let alone more than a dozen, so we weren't going to let this opportunity pass us by.

Belleplain is situated midway between the Atlantic and Delaware bayshores in upper Cape May County, in the lower range of the Pinelands. A fair amount of the 2000 acre property is designated for small campsites, and the kites were said to be visible from one of them in particular. We drove in, found a place to park at a trailhead near the side of the road and asked two passing hikers for quick directions to the campsite area. I was inclined to just head toward the most intense cicada hum, but Ivan preferred a more direct route.

As an entry-level Pinelands experience, you couldn't ask for a nicer venue than Belleplain. Pitch pines dominate the woods, and the sandy level ground is cushioned with fallen and dried needles and leaves. Plenty in interpretive signs are posted along the hiking path, alerting strollers to the plants and natural features around them. We even found a bit of history near Lake Nummy, which had once been a cranberry bog owned by the Meisle family before the state acquired the land in 1928. During the late 1930s, members of the Civilian Conservation Corps had actually dug the lake by hand where the bog had been, creating a new recreational feature while also planting scores of pine trees to re-establish the forest.

After a bit of unintended additional exploring, we found the (fortunately uninhabited) camping area and searched for the appropriate site from which to see the kites. Another birder was already at one of the lakefront sites, spotting scope poised. Hmm, I guess we found the right place. Indeed, we looked across the lake to the top of a tall dead tree and found a good dozen large birds visible to the naked eye. A quick glance through the binoculars confirmed it.

Watching the congregated kites seemed almost a bit voyeuristic, as several were passing the time by preening and grooming. Others would lift off occasionally, presumably to nab a cicada in mid-flight. In general, they seemed pretty happy with where they were, no worries about having to seek out food. We were able to study them to our heart's content, a rare opportunity in our own state.

So, I guess I have to give the cicadas credit: they brought us good luck with the kites. The luck for the cicadas, well, not as good.

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.

Penn Station eagles come to roost in the Highlands

Several eagles from New York left Manhattan in 1963, taking a strange migration to places far afield. Some roosted and remain in the same locations to this day. Others have disappeared, never to be seen again, despite the fact they weigh well over two tons. (Yes, when these eagles sit around the house, they sit around the house.)

Two are located in Ringwood, guarding the entrance to Skylands Manor, which is where Ivan and I found them this past weekend. Gotta love it when our interests converge.

Why are these raptors so darn big? Some odd breed? Perhaps escapees from an updated Jurassic Park?

Not quite. The Skylands eagles are among the last remnants of the old New York Pennsylvania Station, which was demolished in 1963 to make way for the new Madison Square Garden. The passageways and corridors beneath the Garden are still considered Penn Station, of course, but they're in no way equivalent to the grand marble structure that once stood there.  Based on the Roman baths of Caracalla, the old station stood majestically on Seventh Avenue at 34th Street, with 14 large marble eagles and a host of smaller ones perched high above at strategic positions.

When the original station was pulled down, the Pennsylvania Railroad was inundated with requests for the eagles. Two found homes in front of the new Penn Station, but no markers explain their history, leaving me to wonder if anyone makes the connection. Another is at Cooper Union in Lower Manhattan. Others are at train stations, and four even grace a bridge in Philadelphia.

All of the large 14 are accounted for, according to this informative website, but the eight smaller ones, well, no-one is sure where they are, apparently. These aren't the only vestiges of the old Penn Station to rest in New Jersey. Some of the other statuary atop the station were rescued from a landfill and brought to Ringwood State Forest. I seem to recall seeing them there several years ago, still resting in pieces waiting to be reassembled, but now they're being kept at a New Jersey Transit training facility in Newark, as reported on this website.

Other, less artistically-important pieces of the Penn Station facade remain in the same less noble resting places they were carted to nearly 50 years ago. Intrepid writer and explorer Robert Sullivan wrote about his own search for Penn Station in New Jersey in his informative and entertaining book The Meadowlands. He tells the story a lot better than I ever could, but he ultimately found several Penn columns in a truck yard off Penhorn Creek in Secaucus. It is true, it seems: whatever you can think of is or was, at some point, carted to the Meadowlands. Anyone else getting the idea for a Hidden New Jersey trip to Secaucus?

Hawk eyes and more in Montclair

Following up on our hawk watch post a few weeks ago, Ivan and I ventured to the Montclair Hawk Watch site this past Sunday to see what was in the skies above. We'd been fortunate to see a variety of raptors (including a mature bald eagle -- extremely awesome!) at the Meadowlands Festival of Birding, so we hoped that we'd have the same luck a few miles south and a few hundred feet higher in altitude.

The Montclair Hawk Watch is New Jersey's oldest established hawk watch site, second only to Pennsylvania's Hawk Mountain in longevity nationally. Local birders started scanning for hawks from this site on the First Watchung Ridge in 1957, climbing up a rough trail from the neighborhood below. The site was eventually obtained by New Jersey Audubon and adjusted to make it more amenable to hawk watching. Today, viewers enjoy a large, flat, rock-covered platform with a sweeping view of eastern Essex, Bergen, Passaic and Hudson Counties and the New York City skyline.

It doesn't take rappelling gear to reach the summit, but the way up to the platform is a bit more than a walk in the park. After parking in a small lot for the nearby Lenape Trail, we crossed the street and made our way on an unlabeled path into the woods. Soon enough, the path rises on a series of railroad-tie-and-dirt steps leading to a steep wooden staircase built into a wide crevice between two rock faces. Once you're up a bit, you walk atop a broad, slightly angled rockface until you get to a metal staircase that Ivan described as a pool ladder. It's more substantial than that, but you get the idea.

The afternoon of our visit, a handful of other birders were already up there, chatting while keeping a keen eye out for hawks and others on the horizon. I learned that the best way to spot is to take sweeping views horizontally across the vision field through your binoculars, then moving down to the next plain and zag across the next lower field. The lulls between sightings create opportunities for conversation, and it's a friendly crowd, so it didn't take long before I felt comfortable calling out a sighting in the distance. I didn't necessarily know what I'd spotted, but others didn't take long to voice their theories until a consensus was met.

While we were there, a decent showing of birds came by, including plenty of sharp-shinned hawks, some osprey, kestrel, merlin and even a bald eagle. I always get a big kick out of watching them soar -- they look as if they're having so much fun (I know I would be if I were them), and being at a 500 foot elevation brought them so much nearer than you'd generally see them. Some of them even circled above the platform, giving us a lovely view of their undersides.

The watch season is just gearing up, and broad-winged hawks should be making their appearance in kettles (large groups) next week if experience is any indication. Other species will take up the march over the next two months, until migration is largely complete in November. Stop by and check it out for an hour or two -- I guarantee you'll gain a new respect for those large birds that we often see as just specks far up above us.

Watch the skies like a hawk!

Fall migration will be upon us before we know it. In fact, the shorebirds have already started their trek south, and since birds take more time to move in the fall, you'll have a longer amount of time to check them out.

For the beginning birder -- or even someone who's just interested in seeing a good show -- hawk watches are the way to go. Basically, you go to a hilly or mountainous place and watch as raptors take advantage of thermals and updrafts to make their way to their destination. It's not unusual to see scores of hawks in one visit, even in the spots nestled in the more populated areas of the state.

While I did stop by the Cape May viewing platform a few years ago, I'll be going to my first official hawk watch with Ivan in the next few weeks. He wanted me to let Hidden New Jersey readers know about some of the more popular hawk watching spots in the state, in the event that you want to check them out before we get there. Who knows -- you might even run into us!

Montclair Hawk Watch -- Montclair.  The state's oldest hawk watch site, and the second-oldest in the country!

Raccoon Ridge -- Blairstown

Chimney Rock -- Martinsville

Wildcat Ridge - Rockaway/Hibernia

Cape May -- at Cape May Point State Park, sponsored by NJ Audubon's Cape May Bird Observatory.

Sunrise Mountain -- Stokes State Forest

Be sure to bring your binoculars and dress for the weather. Of course, a decent birding field guide will help, too (I like the Sibley guide, personally), but it's still fun to watch even if you don't identify which birds they are.

Stay tuned for my report on our visit in the next few weeks.

Something fishy on Route 46

Route 46 is one of my new favorite New Jersey highways. No, I'm not talking about that six lane mess by Little Falls and all that. I'm talking about the meandering two lane road that winds through Hackettstown and points west, landing you somewhere near the Pennsylvania border in Warren County. Without a lot of effort, you can imagine the road as it was 60 or 70 years ago, when it was probably the easiest way to get from New York City to bucolic camping, fishing and hunting grounds for a weekend or longer. It also brings you to the scenic setting of Hot Dog Johnny's in Buttzville, where you can eat a tube steak and drink ice cold buttermilk beside the Pequest River, but that's a story for another day.

Having a free day ahead of us, Ivan and I got in the car and headed west along 46, open to whatever we came upon. One of our longer stops was the Pequest Fish Hatchery and Natural Resource Education Center, located in Oxford, Warren County and birthplace of many of the trout fished from New Jersey waters. More than just a fish farm, the facility has a host of educational displays and occasional programs to inform the public about the outdoors and fishing as a hobby.

First, though, the trout farm. If you've passed one of the state's lakes, ponds or rivers on a certain Saturday morning in April, you'll be treated to the sight of a host of people standing on the banks, rod and reel in hand, who spring into action at the stroke of eight. That's when fishing restrictions end in bodies of water that have been stocked with Pequest-born trout by the State Department of Environmental Protection. There's an entire production line of sorts that starts about a year before the trout are introduced to the outside world.

Follow the path of fishes painted on the sidewalk from the parking lot and you'll reach the business end of the hatchery and a step-by-step explanation of what happens there from season to season. When we were there, the indoor broodstock area was quiet, but explanatory signs and photos showed how fish eggs and sperm are collected from breeder stock; how the small fish, or fingerlings, are handled; and the length of their stay in the building. From there, we were directed to a series of raceways where the fish grow to adult size over the course of a year.

With fish, not surprisingly, come fish hawks. We saw several osprey flying above the outdoor fish pools and roosting on nearby lampposts. One even had its still-squirming trout lunch firmly grasped in his talons. It appears that the hatchery prevents the birds from grabbing the smaller fish by stringing wires across the tops of the pools, but we couldn't easily see any barriers on the raceways holding the larger trout. Management may see them as acceptable losses since osprey are on the state's threatened species list. Whatever the case,  it was a treat to see four or five osprey hunting in upland New Jersey, even if they were fishing in the proverbial barrel.

Weekday visitors can also check out the indoor education center, which holds plenty of informative exhibits on the state's natural environment and the status of endangered and threatened species. Live fish and taxidermy show the various animals found nearby, including several birds of prey. While the center is appropriate for visitors of all ages, it's neither too simplistic nor too technical in presenting environmental concerns and the need to protect and preserve our natural resources.

Regardless of how you feel about fishing, the Pequest facility points out the complex balance of our environment. If the rivers, lakes and streams aren't basically healthy, no amount of stocking will make them amenable to sustaining life. Plus, sport fishers (and hunters) are more apt to want to protect the environment if they understand that their 'catch' won't be there if the ecosystem is suffering. Like many of the places we've visited, the hatchery is committed to educating the public and hopefully creating some environmentalists, and that's a good thing.

Take Raritan, spell it backwards...

Based on a suggestion from a Hidden New Jersey reader, Ivan and I recently visited Natirar, a new park within the Somerset County Park System. Nestled in the rolling countryside of Peapack-Gladstone, it's in an area of old estates I've long been curious about.

So how did a county park get located in such lush and, most likely, costly real estate?

More than 100 years ago, lawyer Walter Graeme Ladd and his wife Kate Macy Ladd began purchasing land in Peapack/Gladstone and Bedminster, eventually amassing over 1000 acres. They built a 40-room Tudor mansion atop a hill on the land, also constructing additional outbuildings to accompany maintaining structures that had been on the land since the 18th century. The estate was named for the Raritan (spelled backward), the river that flows through it.

Not long after they acquired the property Mrs. Ladd built a convalescent home for women there, and that entity gained control of Natirar after her death in 1933. Consistent with Mr. Ladd’s will, the convalescent home was disbanded 50 years later, and the property was sold. The King of Morocco acquired the estate but never lived there, ultimately selling more than 400 acres of it to Somerset County. Rather than keeping the house and many of the buildings, the county is leasing them to outside operators, including entrepreneur Richard Branson, who’s turning the mansion into a spa.

Today, great expanses of well-manicured lawn and open space welcome you as you drive past the gatehouse onto the property. Park visitors are directed to a parking lot near some barns, while spa guests are guided up to the mansion, high on the hill.

The evidence of human intervention on the land is strong, as you'd expect on an old estate. This park definitely isn't a Sierra Club project. That said, there's about four miles of gravel pathway on the property, a good stroll for visitors and anyone wanting to take their regular daily walk in very pleasant surroundings. We visited on a very sunny, very hot day and pretty much had the paths to ourselves.

The closest path crosses the well-kept lawn, with very few trees nearby to provide shade or habitat for birds. We saw a bluebird or two, but other than that, the main attraction was a couple of vultures and hawks above. Eventually, the path started to hug a shady tributary of the Raritan River, which we crossed on a broad carriage bridge. A temporary sign advised us that bees were at work, and that we should stay on the path. Indeed they were. In droves.

Farther down, the path splits, with the left fork veering upward and through additional woods, including some very mature rhododendrons. Reaching the top of the hill, we found the designated nature path, a loop around a broad field of tall grasses, thistle and the like. Again, much of this path lacks trees, though a few benches are thoughtfully placed in shady nooks. An unoccupied stable stands pretty much in the middle of all of it.

The birding got a little better at this point, though most of the avian activity was either far above us or somewhere in the distance. The vultures and some redtail hawks seemed to find this area a bit more interesting. Plus, I was happy to spot a pileated woodpecker in the distance, bare-eyed (to be fair, Ivan made the ID by sound; I was just the first one to lay eyes on it).

The real fun was in the butterflies. Ivan spotted three or four different types, including a black swallowtail and a buckeye, and the volume of butterflies in the area seemed especially high. Neither of us is very well versed on the topic, so we couldn’t identify some of them accurately, except to say there’s a good variety.

Summing up the Natirar experience, it’s not exactly the place for a hiker or naturalist, but it would be a nice spot to share a cultured picnic, perhaps after the fox hunt.

Ticking away at Negri Nepote Grassland

Franklin Township (Somerset County) is one of those massive towns in the middle of the state that just seems to go on and on. Its reach is so vast, in fact, that it includes several unincorporated communities and three of the state’s six area codes hold sway there. With a history that goes back to colonial times, the township was largely rural for many years, until a building boom in the ‘80s that brought condo and townhouse development. Fortunately, though, there are still a few sizeable farms, and much of the open space is being preserved by the township and other entities so that about 75 percent of the acreage is still undeveloped.

It was one of those preserved entities where Ivan and I went for some light hiking and birding. He’d seen reports of dickcissels at the Negri Nepote Grassland and wanted to check out a new spot.

While I know some of Franklin Township, I wasn’t entirely sure of the exact location, and I was tickled to find it’s not far from the Trojan Cow. Yes, you read that right. Somewhere off South Middlebush Road, there’s a dairy farm with a massive Holstein cow in the yard. When we passed, it was standing, proud and freshly painted, with its living counterparts clustered around it. I don’t know anything about it; I’ve been aware of it for many years but haven’t yet had the guts to drive up and ask the farmer about it. Frankly, I’d rather keep the mystery going in my mind.

In any case, the Negri-Nepote property itself is largely grassland with some wooded areas thrown in for good measure. There’s also a very small, apparently man-made pond with an elevated blind; when we were there, the water level was pretty low and a lone mallard was hanging out. The field is traversed by a set of high-voltage transmission lines, which buzz ominously a hundred feet or so above you as you walk. (Old power company joke: Why do transformers hum? They don’t know the words.)

The path starts out as a gravel bed from a small parking lot, eventually turning into a wide swath of mowed grass when it veers to the right. After some of the places we’ve been, it was a bit of a relief not to have to bushwack or be overly concerned about brushing past high grass, but it’s no place to let your guard down. As we walked, we picked up a fair number of ticks that seemed to be laying in wait for us. Together, we must have attracted close to 20 of the suckers. Thank goodness for light-colored hiking pants.

Approaching the humming path of the transmission lines, Ivan noted a red-tailed hawk sitting atop one of the towers a few hundred yards away. Curious whether it might be keeping tabs on us, I took a quick scan of the other towers and found a large stick nest perched atop one of the higher-voltage towers. I could just about spy some feathers up there, but I couldn't tell whether it was the other parent or maybe a chick.

Not long after, we got our answer. We heard the distinctive scream of one of the parents, who’d taken wing ahead of us, warning us away from the nest. Little did he/she know, they’d selected what is probably one of the safest places around to raise a hawk family: not only would it be a tough climb up that tower, the surrounding voltage would quickly fry anyone foolish enough to try the ascent without the appropriate safety gear. Good luck to anyone who wants to band the chicks in that nest.

The dickcissels were quiet, perhaps because it was midday, but we saw a fair number of tree swallows and more than a couple of bluebirds making use of the nesting boxes off in the fields. We also spotted a kestrel perched on a ladder rung of one of the transmission towers. She obligingly took flight so we could fully appreciate her plumage.

All in all, it would have been a nice, leisurely walk in the field, but for the ticks hitching a ride on us. Next time, I’m bathing in DEET before we go… and perhaps wearing a Tyvek suit.

Dive-bombed by gulls

Another fine portion of our jaunt to Exit Zero was a visit to the Brigantine portion of the Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge. Actually, it was the second visit for me, as we'd been down there during the horrid cold snap a few weeks ago.

The refuge is within the geographic range of the famous New Jersey Pinelands and accessible from the Parkway through a secret exit in a rest stop. Taking that route, you end up on Jimmy Leeds Road, eventually to Route 9 and then the refuge itself. Personally, I find any reference to the Leeds name in South Jersey to be troubling. Leeds, after all, is the Jersey Devil's last name.

Given the amount of snow on the ground on our first visit, we didn't bother with any of the foot trails, preferring to take the drive along the marsh to see the waterfowl. The way the drive is situated makes it relatively easy to bird from the car, provided you see your desired subject in enough time to stop the vehicle and roll down the window. Most of the road is on a series of berms going through the marsh; it's just wide enough to give you room to pull over and stop and still let traffic behind you get through.

Last time we were there relatively early and were able to see some pretty neat stuff, including a bittern (my catch in the grass on the side of the road) and an immature bald eagle enjoying a mid-morning snack on the ice. This time, we were a bit later in the day, closer to dusk. While the marsh had thawed quite a bit, there didn't seem to be anyone remarkable out there. The real story came from the skies.

Or, more accurately, from about 10 feet above us. As we drove along the road, we were occasionally confronted by gulls hovering with morsels in their beaks. They were on a mission: crack open the shell or whatever the morsel was in, preferably on a hard surface. Like my car. Uh, no.

Most of the time, I'd wait them out, watching them hover until they finally dropped their stuff and dived down to collect their meals. Then I'd drive past them and they'd start the process all over again. One of the gulls, though, didn't seem to be getting the drill. He just floated there on the wind, not dropping his stuff and not letting me pass. "This one obviously took the short bus to gull school," Ivan observed. Yes, perhaps.

Beating the crowd

This weekend's jaunt brought us to the end of the Parkway. Yes, my friends, Exit Zero, Cape May. Given current work schedules and the need to get far away from the office, what had started as an offhand trip "maybe to Brigantine, maybe someplace else, uh, well, it's been a while since I've been to Avalon, so why not check it out" turned into a trek to the Cape May lighthouse and environs at the southernmost tip of New Jersey. From our starting point in Union County, that's well over 130 miles one way on the Parkway alone.

And, of course, there are sure to be birds there. Being a major rest stop on the Atlantic Flyway, Cape May has become renowned for the sheer variety of avian visitors. Thus, it was a good thing we had the optics with us. We figured we'd hit Avalon and whatever else on the way back.

Now, this trip was interesting in the fact that we were combining shared knowledge of locations, but seeing them from our respective angles. I've spent a few Labor Day weekends staying in the Victorian district of Cape May, hitting the beach, maybe stopping at a few of the nature preserves to check them out, but going very light on the birding. For Ivan, on the other hand, it's been all about the birds.

One thing we seemed to have in common: the ritual pit stop at the Parkway's southernmost rest stop, the Ocean View Service Area. It's my reliable place for getting a Roy Rogers cheeseburger and some Jersey tourist info. Imagine my shock and dismay to find that the Roy Rogers was CLOSED, its counter walled off. It rocked my world. I mean, I understand that I was probably one of the five people who ever bought food there, but come on! Am I expected to stop at the Atlantic City rest area instead? There's no charm to that place at all.

The other nasty thing they did was reconfigure the bathrooms, moving the entrances farther back toward the New Jersey Information center. You can see below that the whole thing is just a little confusing. I could make any number of jokes here about the fact that men never stop for directions, so maybe the only way to do it is to put urinals in the info center, but I'll refrain. (Interestingly, though, Ivan was the one who pointed out the photo op.)

It being winter and all, the Parkway trip was relatively quick and it seemed we were in Cape May in very little time (it probably also didn't hurt that I had company for a trip I usually drive solo -- good conversation does pass the time better than talking to oneself.). A few more miles, a quick stop at one of the Audubon centers, and we were at the Cape May lighthouse in Cape May Point State Park.

The park includes a beach, interpretive center, the lighthouse, a bird observation platform (with emphasis on raptors), a series of paths and, oh yeah, a World War II bunker on the beach. We saw an array of ducks and whatnot on the marshy side of the platform,

but the really remarkable aspect of the stay was the bare ground. Bare meaning NO SNOW.

The temperature was somewhere in the high 40s and had been for most of the previous week, giving the snow pack a good long time to melt away. We marveled in it as we walked along the paths and I took pictures. There's something really liberating about seeing grass or underbrush free of a white coating after so long. You can't help but feel that spring isn't far away. (Were the groundhogs right?)

Of course, I had to do my happy dance along the path at points. When the days are getting longer and the snow has disappeared, what else can you do?