Extreme migration

It is migration season again, in reverse. With most of our summer species, spring was the time of anticipation. Birders had their lists out, trying to be the first to spot each new arrival. Most would be species that we would then see for the rest of the season as they nested and rested before the return trip south.

As autumn approaches, it’s a time when so many things are coming to an end. The songbirds don’t sing anymore. The brightly colored species have mostly left, or are molting into drabber shades and are preparing to leave.

For many birders, it’s a time to hang up the binoculars and scopes and get the winter feeders out. But actually, for the intrepid, one of the most exciting seasons is at its peak.

Just as our summer birds are leaving and passing through someone else’s neighborhood to the south, the summer birds of the far north are passing over our neighborhoods, and stopping at whatever muddy and marshy areas they can find.

It’s the season of the southbound shorebird migration, and its the brief time in the Inland Northwest for us to see birds that nest at the arctic circle and winter in the tropics. Most of us don’t have the opportunity to go see them there, so this is our brief chance to see them here.

I am, of course, referring to the fall migration of the sandpipers. Fall is a relative term. Seasons are short to the far north and fall weather begins earlier there than here. And too, if you have a few thousand miles to go before you rest, you need an early start.

So, sandpiper fall migration begins almost before spring migration is over. But then it stretches, first as a hardly noticeable trickle in late June and early July, to a steady stream through late August into mid-September.

Spring sandpiper migration, for the most part, wasn’t seen. Birds are fresh and in a hurry to get north. The early sandpiper may not get any worms, but they’ll get the best nest sites, closest to the best feeding areas. Also, north-bound flyways are often different than those taken on the trip back home.

I guess some would say that where you raise your family – build a home, provide food and an education for your children, grow older and fatter – is where you’d call home. But not so with sandpipers.

They race north to a relatively barren and plain environment. They quickly scrape a depression in the dirt and maybe throw in some grass or dried leaves. This is what they’ll call their nest, their summer home. A pair will do some fancy flying, utter what will pass for a quick love song, and before you know it, the honeymoon is over.

The female will deposit a quartet of eggs that the male will mostly incubate. That’s the main part of her job, so often the female leaves before the eggs even hatch. Three weeks can seem like an eternity in such a place.

It’s late July, and mom’s already headed home. But she’s following in the wake of the nonbreeders of the season – those birds too late to find a good spot, or too ugly or disagreeable to find a mate.

Back north, the eggs hatch, the precocial downy balls bounce out, and they hit the tundra running. They have no fond memories of their childhood home, because they leave it, and never return, the same day they are born.

They are too busy to be sentimental. It’s two whole weeks before they can fly and there is so much to be done. Dad acts as a sentinel, but these kids are all self-taught. They feed themselves, they figure things out for themselves, and they even teach themselves to fly. And as soon as they do, dad is off, chasing mom back south.

Here it is, mid-August, you are only 15 days old, and you’re on your own. So what do you do? You eat like crazy, getting big and fat on the abundance of arctic fly larvae, and you fly like crazy, getting strong for your flight “home.”

By the way, where is home? Dad left without leaving directions. So what to do? You get a bunch of your siblings and buddies together, the ones that didn’t get eaten by the foxes or falcons, form a flock, learn to fly in tight and orderly synchronization the way the Blue Angels and the Thunderbirds do, and follow your dreams – or whatever it is that they follow.

That brings us back to where we began. All these juveniles, striking out on there own, on their first 2,000-mile odyssey, are the birds that can add such an enjoyable challenge to our late summer – their fall – birding.

These guys aren’t in such a hurry; after all, they don’t even know where they are going. So they’ll stop here for a little run through the mud, or there, for a few wiggly invertebrates. Anywhere that they can find some open water, bordered by wet dirt, bordered by green vegetation, is a likely spot to take a breather and get some fast food on the go.

I said earlier that our fall quest would be for sandpipers. Let me be a bit more specific. The general term “sandpiper” encompasses a lot of very different species. There are the curlews, the godwits, and the dowitchers. There are snipes, turnstones, and, in the east, woodcocks. These are all lumped together with “sandpipers,” but they are not what I think of when I envision a sandpiper.

A seventh group, the Tringine sandpipers, comes a bit closer to my ideal. They are mostly a bit large and awkward for what I’d call a sandpiper. These birds are more descriptively referred to as “marshpipers,” based on their habitat preferences.

Tringines include the greater and lesser yellowlegs, both with long, yellow legs, and one being larger than the other; the solitary sandpiper, which is usually seen alone; and the spotted sandpiper, which is no longer spotted by this time of year.

The final sandpiper group is what I’d call a “sandpiper.” These are the Calidridine sandpipers. These may be more correctly referred to as the “mudpipers.” These are the little guys that run around the beach, chasing waves back and forth. These are the little guys that can fly as a flock of a thousand and still make sudden banks and turns in perfect unison. To me, these are the sandpipers.

But actually, to most birders, these are the “peeps.” To me, peeps are a lot of different things and sandpipers are not among them. However, the Calidris sandpipers are called peeps and are often divided into the “large peeps” and the “small peeps.”

To be quite technical about my own ideas of “sandpipers,” I wouldn’t even call the large peeps “sandpipers,” except that “sandpiper” is a part of their name. In our area we may see four, this year five, large peeps: Baird’s and pectoral sandpipers are always around, sanderlings and dunlin stop by, but are harder to find, and this year, for the first time since I’ve been living in Kootenai County, a stilt sandpiper has been seen here.

So finally, we come to my “sandpipers” – the small Calidris, the “small peeps,” or the small “mudpipers.” And actually, you can add one more nomenclatural variant to the list. In Britain, these small peeps are called “stints.”

In North America there are three small peeps; the western sandpiper, the semipalmated sandpiper, and, last but not least – well, actually, it is least from a size standpoint – the least sandpiper. All three may be seen in Kootenai County now, and the three make for tantalizingly frustrating identification challenges.

These three sandpipers are small, sparrow-size shorebirds that look very much alike and are about the most difficult to tell apart of any of our North Idaho birds. Difficult, but not impossible. Do not simply turn your head and mumble “sandpiper” when you see one. Do not find excuses to avoid birding trips in September. They can be mastered.

Actually, it’s only the western and the semipalmated that are all that difficult up close. The least sandpiper, as its name suggests, is the smallest of all the sandpipers – weighing three quarters of an ounce and measuring only six inches long. When feeding rapidly through marsh grass in its hunched over posture, it might be mistaken for a mouse. In the sun, however, the juveniles, the only birds we’d expect to see now, have bright rufous backs.

This might cause one to confuse a least sandpiper with its larger cousin, the western sandpiper. Western juveniles have a less extensive stripe of rufous, but least sandpipers have one particularly unique characteristic. They are the only small shorebirds with greenish yellow legs.

If side by side, size difference will give you your least sandpiper. It’s actually quite obvious in the field. Even in a fast-moving flock, least sandpipers will stand out by size and a darker shading. But even if alone, when you see yellow legs, and it’s too small to be a yellowlegs, a pectoral, a sharp-tailed, or a stilt sandpiper, you have your least sandpiper.

That is, assuming that the legs are not covered in mud. It is a “mudpiper” after all. Still, don’t despair. Bill shape is different, too. In fact, shape of the beak may be one of the best traits to separate all three.

The least sandpiper has a thin, tapering bill. The western sandpiper has a longer, heavier bill that droops at the tip. The semipalmated sandpiper, intermediate between the other two in size, has a straighter, stubbier bill. The semipalmated is also more drab in body coloration than the other two.

There are two other clues you may use in separating out your peeps. First, despite being the most abundant North American shorebird, semipalmated sandpipers are not common here. A few wander off course and are seen every year, but if in doubt, it’s probably not a semipalmated.

The final key to identification is habitat. The three species have different tastes in shorelines. The western likes to be in the water, probing constantly into the submerged mud. The semipalmated prefers shallower water, or even the exposed mud itself, and picks more than probes. The least goes for high and dry, often feeding among vegetation and seldom probing, preferring to pick items from the surface.

It’s not really necessary, however, to correctly identify them to species to enjoy these little sandpipers. Watching a flock feeding methodically along, you may catch yourself wondering what their summer home was like, and what they’ve seen since leaving it.

Or you might softly ask them how they know what to do, where to go, without an adult to show the way. And when the cold of our fall finally hits, you may suddenly realize their hurry, and understand why the tropics were calling them so strongly.