Rite of Spring
The phenomenal courtship flight of the American woodcock

By Robert Winkler
About the Author

hen I arrive at the farm, conditions are perfect for viewing the aerial mating display of the American woodcock. The sun has slid away, and the moon is rising. The air is still and warm, the cornfield wet from melted snow. Muddy tire ruts warn me to leave the car at the edge of the field. My feet sink a good two inches with each step I take for the field's center. Beyond the matted grass of the farm, houses peek through leafless trees, and car noises break the evening silence.

With manmade sights and sounds crowding it, the field seems small and vulnerable. But soon it will turn green, and the trees will sprout leaves that screen out the houses and dampen the swishing of cars and the rumble of engines. And then it feels infinitely green and protected, like a field in Vermont.

It is 15 minutes after sunset. The woodcocks should begin at any moment. In the Northeast, their courtship ritual usually is in full force by early spring, but this stout, long-billed bird is no mere sign of the season. The flight of the woodcock is an avian phenomenon.

It begins at twilight, when the male woodcock moves from woods or thickets to an open area. On the ground, he throws back his head and vibrates his tongue, producing an odd buzz. Once I strapped a flashlight to my camera and photographed this curious behavior. The woodcock strutted a short distance between buzzes, and I was close enough to hear the clucks and gurgles that punctuate his bizarre strumming.

After several buzzes the woodcock leaps into the air, flies slowly on whistling wings, and climbs in wide spirals until he's almost out of sight. Nearing the top of his ascent, he beats his wings into a frenzy, and the whistling reaches a fever pitch. When his wings and his whistling can go no higher, the woodcock bursts into a cascading love song as he seesaws back to earth like a falling leaf. For the last 50 yards he glides in silence. After landing he buzzes again, and if he's lucky a female joins him.



The woodcock repeats this performance for about half an hour, competing with other males. The first male to go up may finish uninterrupted, but his rivals won't wait long. Soon the displays overlap, and for the woodcock's human audience the night becomes a festival.

One woodcock takes off as another's flight is reaching its climax. The heavens engulf one bird as a spent performer angles down to the grass. Recently landed birds and those about to fly challenge each other with buzzes. The dimming sky is filled with smudges of motion, and whistling wings electrify the air.

Last year in this field, at least 10 males regaled me, the best show I've seen in 25 years of woodcock watching. They flew on all sides of me and in a neighboring meadow. I whirled around to catch this one flying up, that one gliding down. Coming in for a landing, one woodcock zipped by my head, his wings softly whistling as he fluttered to a stop.



Like tonight, it was clear and warm, and the ground was moist, but there was no moon. Rising behind bare trees, this evening's moon floats pale orange under a veil of cloud.

I keep telling myself it's a perfect night for woodcocks, but there's no sign of them, and I begin to think that last year's gathering of so many males was a lucky anomaly.

According to "singing-ground" surveys conducted under the auspices of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, woodcock numbers have declined in the East by about 2.5 percent annually over the past three decades, possibly because of habitat loss. Woodland clearings and old fields have been reverting to forest, and farmland has been claimed by residential and commercial real estate developers. The effects of hunting on the bird's decline are being studied by federal and state wildlife agencies, which are using radio telemetry to track woodcock survival.



The calls of white-throated sparrows draw me from my observation post to thickets at the edge of the field. Listening to the sparrows gather for the night, I stamp my feet in a patch of snow to clean my boots, though I will cross the mud to return to my car.

My attention shifts to the cry of a killdeer coming across the field. I can't tell whether it's on the ground or in the air. Two quacking mallards slant across the sky and bank toward a stream. A cardinal sings, a blue jay screams—but the woodcocks are silent.

Giant spruces on the horizon pierce the orange-bottomed dome of sky. The moon has risen above the trees; fewer white-throated sparrows call. I play a game with myself. The woodcocks will start in exactly one minute. The second hand of my watch sweeps completely around and . . . nothing.

Starting back for the car, I see two figures moving about in the murky distance. Have they seen me? Who are they? I grope at my neck for my binoculars, then realize I left them home because, in the fading light of woodcock watching, binoculars quickly become excess weight. Getting closer, I deliberately step into crunchy snow, and the figures look in my direction—a man and a woman wearing binoculars.

"You must be here to see the woodcocks."

"Yes," the man answers. "Have you seen any?"

"No, and it's getting late. Either something isn't right, or the woodcocks aren't here."

They have never seen the mating display of the woodcock. I tell them they're in for a treat, but not tonight.

The next morning, robins, grackles, and blue jays rummage through the leafy slope outside my door. I hear the song of a red-winged blackbird. Perhaps there was a flight of migrating birds overnight. Perhaps the woodcock has arrived.

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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.

"American Woodcock" by Louis Agassiz Fuertes (c. 1920; watercolor)
Text and photos ("Woodcock Buzzing," "Woodcock Between Buzzes," "Woodcock Nest with Hatched Eggs") Copyright © 2002-2008 Robert Winkler

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