I’d like to think that the nor’easter on April 4 was the final snowstorm of an otherwise lackluster winter. All it brought was a heavy, wet blanket of annoyance. Oh, and 50 dark-eyed juncos.
It seems the storm did little to slow down early migration. I’ve had a dozen dark-eyed juncos sneaking around my yard all winter. Suddenly, there were 50 under the feeder. It was a fallout — an occasion when a migrating flock of birds decided to settle down in one spot for a little while.
Weird things happen during migration. Some are routine, while others are extraordinary.
A flock of juncos dropping in for a meal is a little unusual, but not much. Juncos often migrate in big groups. That’s the way they left the state last autumn and they’re returning in big flocks. Soon, the group will disperse, as each individual goes off in search of a territory and mate.
Most songbirds migrate at night. On a big travel night, flocks will come to earth at daybreak wherever they happen to be. One morning, the neighborhood is quiet. The next day, there seems to be a surprising number of birds around.
Some species move around in big flocks of their own kind, such as the juncos. Most flocks are a mix of species that converged by coincidence. When time and weather conditions are right, they just all head north.
In about a week, you may notice the migration. You could see the first yellow-rumped warbler in your yard, and it’s likely that the season’s first pine and palm warblers came in on the same wave.
Ruby-crowned kinglets and yellow-bellied sapsuckers are early arrivals, too.
It’s not totally a coincidence. None of these species leave the continent. They spent the winter in the southern part of the country, and didn’t have far to travel. Hence, they’re among the first bug-eaters to return in spring.
Some fallouts are triggered by geography. Songbirds that winter in Central and South America must cross the Caribbean Sea and Gulf of Mexico to reach the United States. When they finally spot land, they’re tired and hungry.
Flocks routinely fall out at the first point of land they see after a long oceanic flight.
Fallouts also occur around the Great Lakes. In Ontario, Point Pelee extends southward into Lake Erie. It’s often the first land migrants see after crossing the lake. It’s been a renowned birding destination for longer than I can remember.
Some fallouts are caused by adverse weather. Storms can knock migrating flocks off course, or force them to land. Such events are rare because birds know a favorable weather pattern when they see one, and don’t tempt fate unnecessarily.
It’s unusual for good weather to suddenly meet bad weather at night, but it happens.
When flocks flying over water run into storms, epic fallouts occur. High Island, Texas, is a legendary landfall destination for northbound birds, making it a famous hotspot for southbound birders.
That’s why a nationally famous birdathon team happened to be on hand to witness a fallout of Biblical proportions. The team was prepping for a Big Day — an attempt to break the national record for most species seen in one day. What timing!
On April 24, 2013, a perfect storm of high wind and downpours caught migrating birds by surprise. The birds lucky enough to reach land rained from the sky. As the cold front passed, April 25 dawned sunny and beautiful.
By midnight, the team had tallied 294 species in a single day, beating the old record by a whopping 30 species. It’s a record that still stands. It may never be broken.
In some Maine spots, you may not even realize a fallout has happened until the birds start moving again.
When birds discover they’ve fallen out on an island, they’re often anxious to return to the mainland. If you stand in the right spot, you can witness this morning correction. Birds crowd toward the landward edge of the island, then cross the water one-by-one.
Sears Island in Searsport is one place where morning corrections get the attention of local birders. I’ve seen it happen at Scott’s Landing in Deer Isle.
Massive fallouts are as rare as a solar eclipse. Little ones are common, but easily overlooked.
I give myself a chance to notice every morning. I step onto the porch with that first cup of coffee, just to see if my yard is unusually lively.
When spring finally comes, it often arrives overnight.