Little Wanderer
A black-throated gray warbler comes to Connecticut

By Robert Winkler
About the Author

don't usually chase after staked-out birds, but I had business in Greenwich and would be driving past Byram Park, where a black-throated gray warbler had been seen on and off for a few days. On Interstate 95 I passed a car with birding decals on the windows and knew where its occupant, coffee cup in hand, was headed.

After correcting a wrong turn I arrived to find this birder scanning the reddish rock outcropping near the park exit. We walked along the rock face, checking every bird. It was a lively spot, with white-throated sparrows darting among the shrubs, rustling in the leaves, and occasionally breaking into song. A Carolina wren chimed in and its small cousin, a winter wren, momentarily emerged from a bush.

I raised my binoculars to every bird that showed itself, but most often found myself looking at house sparrows or house finches. Yet, there was a ruby-crowned kinglet; chickadees and titmice filtered in and out of the treetops; cardinals chipped and a mockingbird chacked; blue jays and crows scoffed at the morning chill with raucous voices. My heart quickened when I found a warbler, a Nashville—ordinarily a satisfying bird, but not the prize I wanted.

An hour after we started searching, the other birder and I stood at one end of the rock outcropping. At the opposite end, another pair of birders was focused on some weeds. We heard one of them say, "Here it is," and we ran to their spot.

There, the black-throated gray warbler foraged in the grass, oblivious to our gawking. Had it been here all along, or had it just flown into the area? The pleasure of viewing this striking rarity instantly eclipsed such questions. People driving through the park would never guess that our group of transfixed binocular-holders was communing with a feathered soul from the Far West, a bird that normally doesn't venture east of Colorado.

According to the state's official bird checklist, black-throated gray warblers have been seen in Connecticut fewer than five times in this century. Ornithologists call such a rarity an "accidental vagrant," a dispassionate description that hardly reflects the heroic odyssey of this little wanderer.

This five-inch bird, weighing no more than a few coins, in all likelihood scaled our mightiest mountain range and voyaged across treeless plains inhospitable to perching birds, traversing perhaps 3,000 miles of unfamiliar terrain. It must have endured storms, evaded hawks and human obstacles, known true isolation in darkest night.

Here it settled, on the shore of Long Island Sound, creating a stir among birders—more lost than I could imagine. But this is a human's view. The warbler hadn't read the field guides that say it should be there and not here. All nature is its home. It sees the same moon and stars here as in California, finds similar insect food, rides the same wind.

It may not have felt lost or noticed the absence of others of its kind. Still, its migratory compass was probably out of alignment. Would it perish when winter arrived or would instinct then guide it to milder climes?

 

We watched the warbler fly to the other end of the rock, but soon it returned, flitting along the ground, rising to the top of the ledge, moving between weeds, shrubs, and trees. The temperature seemed barely above freezing, but the rock, facing southeast, received the sun and radiated its warmth enough to stir insects, and we saw the warbler take a fly.

This bird had a black cap and ear patch, a conspicuous white stripe over the eye, flanks streaked with black, and a yellow spot between the eye and bill. A few fine black brush strokes painted its gray back, the constantly flitting tail showed flashes of white, and a narrow black wedge crossed the top of its white breast.

Though the bird was boldly patterned, its throat was white instead of black, a plumage not shown in my field guide. Adult male black-throated grays have a black throat; females have a white throat but usually are much duller overall than this bird, leading me to conclude that it was an immature male. Its call was like a myrtle warbler's—a rough-edged note, but shorter and softer.

The rock's vegetation teemed with birds and its flat surface amplified their sounds, but the black-throated gray did not join the others, and its faint chip was sometimes lost amid their calls. This seemed perfectly fine for the warbler, whose sprightly actions even emanated a sense of joy. Feeling a chill, I hoped it would turn south or somehow find its way back to the other side of the Rocky Mountains.

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A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world. So get your copy now, or buy one for your favorite birder or nature lover. Best deal on the Web: brand new, perfect copies $5 each (69% off) at National Geographic Books.

"Three Western Warblers" by John James Audubon, a plate in his Birds of America (1827-38)
Black-throated Gray Warbler by Louis Agassiz Fuertes, National Geographic (April 1917)
Text Copyright © 2000 Robert Winkler

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