Out with a whimper – Gangneung, March 20-31, 2019

Coal Tit Periparus ater

Eurasian Nuthatch Sitta europaea

Large-billed Crow Corvus macrorhynchos

Barn Swallow Hirundo rustica

Barn Swallow Hirundo rustica

White-cheeked Starling Spodiopsar cineraceus

Mandarin Duck Aix galericulata

Siberian Chipmunk Eutamias sibiricus

Dione Ratsnake Elaphe dione
(showing drab pre-moult markings)

Odaesan

Sangwongsa Temple

Not used to seeing such old trees in Korea...

Cherry blossoms on the back canals of Gyeongpo

An islet stripped of bushes and scrub, trees mauled...

Sweet progress! Back up those concrete trucks!

'Old school' farm ditches...

...being converted into concrete death traps...

  What to report? Ah yes, more habitat loss – I see examples of it literally every single time I go birding…which is 3-5 times a week. Yep. Preparations continue for a final spring hurrah on the islands, then I migrate too. Spring migration is almost herrrrrre. I must have been high on smog on the 20th when I wrote: Still relatively calm in Gangneung, but the tension, the ‘migration anxiety,’ is palpable out there. Maybe it’s just me, but I can sense the quivering, imminent, potential energy of mass migration like a taught bow, resonating in the wind. What?! How lame does that sound, what was I thinking? Nice adjectives, dude.

  Terrible smog, and much quieter than last week in the hills behind my house on March 20th. Highlight was a possible Grey-capped Pygmy Woodpecker heard on a hill near the original sighting location from back in November – this one not yet visited by the backhoes of progress.
  Seasonal movement was hinted at by several singing leucopsis White Wagtails that were moving through the fields (and past my window at dawn!), the first I’ve seen there. Through the pines, I spied a dark smudge of 200+ Rooks streaming north. Still some restless White-cheeked Starlings around as well.

  Windy and clear along the river the next day. At the mid-river point, the impressive sight of 23 Grey Herons kettling towards migratory altitude, then heading north. Seven individuals changed their minds and peeled back down to the river, perhaps realizing they were in fact local birds.
  Soon after, more visible migration. Over the course of 15 minutes, I watched a vein of 340+ Rooks, composed of smaller squads of 20-50, also on the move. Folded within each of those sub-groups were the requisite 1-3 Daurian Jackdaws. I watched as most of these flocks also circled higher over the river on thermals, before winging with purpose towards the Amur lands.
  Near the river’s mouth, a lone Dunlin paced, my first of the season, followed by a pair of flyby Mandarin Ducks.

  March doldrums still on the river and lake on March 23rd. An evident clear-out of gulls and waterfowl on the lake, with perhaps 60-70% of winter’s numbers gone. The fields were mostly devoid of Far Eastern Skylarks, with only six seen, where there were normally at least 100. Still four Little Ringed Plover and a Dusky Thrush around.

  On March 24th, I finally made it up to Odaesan (Birobong). It’s a hard-ish place to get to, so not many folks were up there on a fresh and windy morning. Lovely. No crazy birds in the temple-ridden hills, with the expected blend of tits, woodpeckers, and nuthatches, as well as a Eurasian Wren, semi-tame Large-billed Crows on the trails, and a Carrion Crow in fields on the way. I was expecting to see a Brown Dipper on the mountain streams – it’s been a while. I had grand winter plans of finding a Spotted Nutcracker in these hills, but I frittered away the one true month of winter we had here obsessed with finding a Black Woodpecker. Fair trade-off, I regret nothing.

  First Barn Swallow of the year on the 29th, lazy over the river towards noon. A lone Red-billed Starling was observed skulking at the river’s edge, acting wary, creeping around where mud meets brush.

  I walked the Namdae River and Gyeongpo Lake the following day. Still overall quiet, with more clear-out of much of winter’s birds, but still no real influx of migrants expected for another week or two. Five flyby Mandarin Ducks at the river’s mouth were notable. At the Plumbeous Water Redstart spot, a Grey Wagtail on territory, but no PWR.
  I was surprised, but perhaps I shouldn’t have been, to find an audacious example of habitat destruction at a formerly scrubby islet. This little oasis in the river has always been ‘birdy,’ teeming with resident birds all winter, and sheltering migrants, including warblers, last October. All of the scrub, and many of the mature trees have been stripped, with the backhoes peeling everything back to bare soil. Did an excavator reach across to do this? Why the hell would this be done? Surely this islet is too small to host a building? Reduction of brush to prevent fire risk would make little sense, as…it’s surrounded by water. Anyway, gross.
  The lake was besieged with clots of extremely festive weekenders taking selfies with the cherry blossoms. Of note: no Skylarks; two more Mandarin Ducks; 9 Falcated Ducks; two low-flying Eurasian Sparrowhawks heading north over the lake together; 8 Little Ringed Plovers; White Wagtail activity on the rise, with at least 30 along the various small waterways (lugens, ocularis, and leucopsis); 20+ Daurian Redstarts, bunched up in places; a singing male Blue Rock Thrush; a skulky Dusky Thrush still; still a dozen Pallas’s Reed Buntings; 25+ Rooks on the move; groups of 20-40 White-cheeked Starlings out and about.
  In the fields, I nearly tripped on my first snake of the season, a Dione Ratsnake. It had more subdued/washed-out markings than I’ve ever seen. Apparently their markings are muted right before shedding. Thanks to Dr. A.B. again for the tip.

  On the final day of the month, several Goldcrest still in Disappointment Valley, but no signs of the Ural Owl I heard there exactly one lifetime ago. No Black Woodpeckers spotted or heard, but plenty of evidence of recent feeding activity on their favoured ‘old-growth’ ridge.
  Coal Tits were in full song, and quite bold in approaching me closer than arm’s length, I thought. Three Eurasian Siskins were spotted in almost the exact same spot (a stand of birch and pines high on a ridge) where I saw a dozen back on January 5th – the only Siskins I’ve seen in Gangneung.
  I was surprised to find a skulky Tristram’s Bunting up near the peak of a ridge. I got good looks at it – it was not a breeding-plumaged Rustic Bunting. My first thought was that it was an extremely early migrant, but my memory ticked over to when I encountered six Tristram’s in similar habitat on Jeju in early March. I dug through the Birds Korea archives and came across several records of Tristram’s being recorded in winter (and summer!) in this part of the country – so it seems not all Tristram’s Buntings are passage migrants here. Cool!
  Back in town, a squadron of 25 Barn Swallows revelled in the strong winds, and skimmed low on the river where the lone scout was spotted two days earlier.

Winter Wane – Gangneung/Gangwon February 20–24, 2019

Sokcho

Fake plastic trees

Tim scanning gulls at Ayajin

Tim standing on what used to be a rocky stretch of Brant Goose habitat

Northern Shoveler Anas clypeata

Buff-bellied Pipit Anthus rubescens

Naumann’s Thrush Turdus naumanni

Cinereous Vulture Aegypius monachus

Eurasian Kestrel Falco tinnunculus

Eurasian Kestrel Falco tinnunculus

Eurasian Kestrel in a hover

  Habitat loss, outrageous smog levels, unseasonably warm weather, and profound unbirdiness have been the four thematic pillars of birding in Gangneung for the past few weeks. When I leave this country, I sure won’t miss birding in a mask, or the dirty heat of a layer of smog coating my face. And I will never take clean air for granted again, that is for damn sure.
  On all birding days, the weather was in the low double digits – feels like winter is done. That snuck up on me, as I still have some winter birds I need to catch up with. Ah well, I guess I can blame that on the fact that I sleepwalked my way through January, obsessed with that Black Woodpecker. I regret nothing. Looking out the window now, buds are visible on most trees. I wonder if all of this means an early spring, birdwise…
  On February 20th, notable at Gyeongpo Lake were single examples of Cinereous Vulture, Green Sandpiper, Buff-bellied Pipit, and Japanese Bush Warbler. Two days later at the lake, in deteriorating air conditions, an uptick in thrush activity got my attention. At least four Dusky Thrush and a few Naumann’s Thrush lurked in the scrubby wooded area around some canals. Skulky buggers. I’ve only seen one Dusky Thrush there all winter – is this a sign of early spring movement, or just wintering birds roaming as their favoured fruit trees get depleted? A hovering Eurasian Kestrel and a squad of five Siberian Accentors were also memorable.
  The following day, I walked the Namdae River in the morning smog. I got good looks at a Northern Shoveler that I originally had pegged as a female. It turned out to be a male coming out of eclipse plumage (yellow eyes), or “supplementary sub-eclipse plumage,” or whatever it’s called.
  On the 24th Tim rolled into town and we bussed it up to Sokcho, then points further north. It was smoggy as all get-out, but the smog didn’t seem to bother Tim much, guess he’s made of stiffer stuff. After a spot of seawatching and a lovely breakfast of Korean stew, we headed up to Ayajin in search of Brant Goose. Up until fairly recently, the quaint port used to be reliable for the rare species, which favoured the rocky western flank of the harbour. Black-legged Kittiwake, Sanderling, and a motley collection of other sea-going waterfowl also could be found in the harbour.
  Unfortunately (but perhaps predictably), since Tim’s last visit, this entire area of rocks had been walled off, drained, and filled in with concrete. The reclaimed land now features a shiny new picnic area with park benches and rubberized floor cladding, and a convenient place for drunks to erect tents. Completely pointless, but let’s keep those lads pouring concrete, innit, it’s what makes the world go round. It goes without saying there were no Brant Geese there, as those rocks are now buried under ten feet of concrete. There weren’t any around the corner and down the coast either, as the coastal rocks there that may have provided secondary refuge to the shy species were teeming with weekenders playing at fishing – guests of the row of new hotels on the ocean road catering to such activity.
  We retreated into the hills to nosy around the scrubby hills where Ural Owls were once reputed to haunt. Much of the narrow wooded trail network had also been altered for the worse since Tim last visited, this time with extensive clearing of vegetation and conversion of wild fields into flat gravel lots. Tim seemed to be in a daze, checking if his memory had failed him, or if it really all had been destroyed.
  Apologies if I come off as a salty, embittered curmudgeon, but it’s hard to hang in there and remain bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when the dual themes of malignant habitat loss and air pollution truncheon me over the head with every trip out of doors. Humbug.
  The lake at Sokcho was dead quiet in the haze, with Tim noting more habitat loss since his last visit – a lengthy tract of reeds has been replaced by a kayak dock. A lone Greater White-fronted Goose rested with several Mallards and Spot-billed Ducks.
  Doom and gloom aside, it was awesome to bird with Tim. We puzzled over yellow-legged Vega Gulls, and leapfrogged our way up and down the east coast, jumping off buses whenever the harbour out the window looked promising.
  On a side-note, on returning to my neighbourhood I saw my first handful of Red-billed Starlings since late December. Perhaps they’re also wandering as the persimmon trees in the area are denuded?

Cranes in the haze – Gangwha Island, January 30, 2019

Red-crowned Crane Grus japonensis

Red-crowned Crane Grus japonensis

Siberian Accentor Prunella montanella (levitating)

Gangwha mudflats

Southwest corner of Gangwha Island in the smog

  Last Wednesday I zoomed west on the KTX to chill in Seoul for a few days…and to tick a couple of nagging and elusive lifers, of course. First on the list was a crane. I’ve seen a few crane species in Korea, but never the crane – the iconic Red-crowned Crane, so familiar from both nature documentaries and cultural depictions. Not wanting to spend a whole day faffing around near the North Korean border (Cheorwon) to see them, I went for the soft option – Gangwha Island, just west of Gimpo and just south of ‘The North.’
  The theme for the day, and the whole Seoul trip, was smog. Profound, industrial, blinding, horrific smog. The landscape west of Seoul unfolded in a yellow daydream haze, borne of sleep deprivation and smog-toxication. Passing through Gimpo, my one-time home, I didn’t recognize anything, especially the skyline. A lot changes in Korea in ten years, yikes.
  Gangwha is a funny sort of place. Closer to the Seoul side of the island, standard shiny apartment valleys flanked the road. These soon gave way to shabby out-towns, before dark hills groped though the miasma, and finally the mudflats on the south coast appeared. The tidal range in the area is second only to the Bay of Fundy, by the way.
  After the groggy drive, I was dropped at a long seawall along the mudflats, where I spied the cranes almost immediately. Well, that was somewhat anticlimactic! Park Gun Suk’s incredibly detailed intel was crucial to finding them in a prompt manner, so many thanks go to him.
  The cranes were seen from a long way out, in bad light, and through thick smog. But there they were, 21 in all, feeding on the flats at their own pace. I spent an hour watching the docile birds, then went for some much-needed caffeine at the strangest little convenience store ever. I could have waited around for a few hours to secure better views in photog-friendly lighting, but if you want money shots of Red-crowned Cranes, go check Google, innit.
  There were seven hours to kill before a scheduled rendezvous with a friend in Seoul, so I headed up a local mountain in search of my second target species for the trip, Alpine Accentor. I didn’t find any, but there were Naumann’s Thrushes around, and I also saw some tree damage that looked suspiciously like the work done by Black Woodpeckers…but I could have been just bird-lucinating, ha ha. Oh, I blew my legs out in the process of hiking. Coming down the mountain, I heard an ungodly hollering, and was sure someone had snapped both ankles. Nope, just a guy primal-screaming the entire way down. Yep.

Signing off from Success Valley

The valley of mixed emotions
(The Black Woodpecker was seen just below the tree-line
at 12 o'clock in this pic, which explains the quality/crop of the record shot)

Black Woodpecker Dryocopus martius

Eurasian Sparrowhawk Accipiter nisus

  I SAW IT.
  *Typing breathlessly.* I had a battle plan for finding the Black Woodpecker this morning – return to my raised observation perch stupid early, to get up there for a chance at surveying the valleys before the busloads rumble up. After a 45-minute sweaty scramble up the slopes, I got to the platform as the winds built. D’oh. In spite of being alone and having commanding views into three valleys, I had a foreboding tickle as I settled into my stakeout.
  After only 20 minutes in the birdless wind, caustic despair boiled in my loins as the sun tried to rise above the slopes. I won’t see the bird. Will I really come all the way back up here tomorrow? WTF am I doing up here? My resolve was tested further when a woman materialized on the platform, making a complete set of bizarre noises, unaware of my presence. Then I heard someone's ridiculous hip-mounted ‘trail radio’ blaring from the valley floor below. Was Noisy Woman the vanguard of an inevitable crush of sloshed hikers?
  Drrrt! The flight trill of a Black Woodpecker jangled out through the smog, and from quite close. I panicked, and bolted up the hill towards where the trill came from…then checked myself, and noticed I was back in the dense, closed-in woods. I forced myself to breathe deeply a few times, and headed back down to the only spot where I had a chance of seeing a Black Woodpecker in flight. When I got back down, the woman was gone, the wind had ebbed, and the flight calls were back. Then I heard a loudish pecking – not the machine-gun bursts from last weekend (for display?), but the steady thunking of a foraging Black Woodpecker.
  I ceased breathing as the knocking stopped and the flight calls got ever closer…why am I not seeing it…it sounds so fuggin' close. Then nothing. Nothing for 30 seconds, or maybe it was 10 minutes – whichever it was, my breath was held the entire time. Two chattering Eurasian Jays broke the stalemate with an aggressive pass at a dead tree, flushing a black, crow-like bird into view on the far side of the valley. It called, brrt brrt, and perched upright. I got the bins on it with trembling hands. Big black bird. Red crown. Ivory bill. Yellow eye. Black Woodpecker! This isn't real. It let out a squonky song as I watched it, then proceeded to forage for about ten minutes, before brrting off in a poof of sparkling purple ghost-smoke.

  I saw it. Seventh time’s the charm! This bird has me feeling good. You could punch me in the throat right now, and I’d giggle.
  On my way down the hill, I heard (what sounded to my ears like) a Spotted Nutcracker screeling from a high peak...but still not ruling out a Eurasian Jay acting goofy. Also heard another odd finch call.
  With hours to kill before the bus, I went for a Ural Owl nosy. I faffed along some deer trails, and ended up lying down in the woods for a bit to eat fistfuls of celebratory jelly beans. There was some interesting tree damage in one stand of old pines – large, flaked-off sections of bark. Probably nothing...
  As I came around a sharp bend on the way out, I almost stepped on a Eurasian Sparrowhawk that was feeding on the trail. It blurred up into a tree, trying to lug its prey along. It failed, and the headless, half-plucked horror torso of an Oriental Turtle Dove fell at my feet with a hollow clumpk. When I was far enough down the trail, the sparrowhawk retuned to its brunch feast. Impressively large kill for such a dainty raptor, I thought!
  Anyway, I saw the Black Woodpecker. I saw it. What the hell will I do with my Sunday now? Time to head higher into the hills I guess.

All Disappointment Valley, all the time

A wan veil of toxic smog

Owl! Owl!

Mask birding weather (from Misei Misei app)

Well, at least I'm not in Seoul, sigh
(from Asia Air Quality app)

Widespread arboreal evidence of Black Woodpeckers

My own perfect little slice of birder hell: busloads of tipsy pensioners
seethe onto the platform where I had set up my Black Woodpecker stakeout,
harshing my mellow…serenity now…serenity now… 

Just a Eurasian Nuthatch Sitta europaea doing nuthatch things...

  Sadly I’ve become fixated on the bird, the place. Black Woodpecker. Disappointment Valley. On Saturday morning (January 12th), the theme was smog and rain, together at last. It burns! It burns!
  I focused first on the spot where I heard the Ural Owl call last weekend. Problem is, it’s a pretty damn large spot – ‘the entire side of a valley’ large. After two hours of what I figured what a fairly thorough scouring of the treetops of the tall pines in the area, when I pulled back to a side ridge for perspective I realized I had only managed to check maybe 10% of the trees on that side. Or 5%. Or whatever. Point is, it’s a huge place, so not easy to locate one roosting owl. I’ll keep at it, I suppose. One interesting thing I noticed was the absolute tit-lessness of that side of the valley, compared to the other side, which is always teeming with tits (well-titted?).
  Onto the next frustrating target, Black Woodpecker. I was gobsmacked by the extent and volume of Black Woodpecker damage on trees around the ‘new’ side of the valley I surveyed, betraying extensive foraging, and even probable nesting – both very recent, and less so. The preferred zone of foraging appeared to be 200-350 meters above sea level.
  I ended up hearing 'regular' and flight calls from Black Woodpeckers on four separate occasions, but the pine forest was much too thick to see further than 100 feet, so the birds remained unseen.
  After putting all the aural encounters together and getting a feel for the topography, I started to put together a picture of birds with a massive individual range, skipping from valley to valley, calling rarely, but always crossing at narrow points. Towards mid-afternoon, I found the perfect spot to observe the Black Woodpeckers in potential flight – a narrow spot in the valley, overlooking both sides, with great views. Unfortunately, I had to get going to catch the ‘one per afternoon’ bus back into town, but vowed to return to this ideal overlook early on Sunday.
  There was a soupçon of frost mixed in with the smog in Disappointment Valley the following morning – I shall call it smost. Or frog. Hmm, smost it is. I hustled my way back to the choke-point bright and early, in the spot overlooking the valley. As I set up for my planned lengthy stakeout, I giggled Today is the day! to myself. Shouldn’t have done that.
  I had my first hit fairly quickly – ten minutes after settling down in the quiet spot, I heard a Black Woodpecker calling, then tracked a flight call heading towards me. Yes, keep coming, that’s it…one more minute…get those bins ready…and then it all went to shit.
  It started as a sparkle of yelps coming up the trail towards me, but quickly built to an ungodly, cackling roar. Just as a Black Woodpecker in flight should have burst into glorious view, 50 tipsy pensioners staggered onto the platform where I sat, bringing along an absolute ruckus. My placid perch swiftly devolved into ridiculously noisy shitshow shenanigans, harshing my mellow fully and completely.
  I Bittersweet Symphony’d my way down the trail, swimming upstream against the human centipede of chattering humanity – never-ending busloads of screamers, squawkers, scowlers, hooters, and horkers.
  With much haste, I skedaddled over to the other half of the choke-point. While it is on the quieter side of the valley, it does offer far more impeded views. As I was heading from one side valley to another, I heard, for the first time, the unmistakable machine-gun clatter of the Black Woodpecker pecking a dead tree, and from quite close. By the time I got up the small hill two minutes later, of course I heard a brief bripp of the flight call, then the salvoes of knocking continued from the far side of the valley. After a face-palm and further 90-minute stakeout from that side of the choke-point…nothing.
  Yes, both target species are susceptible to being lured in with playback, but that’s not how I want this story to end. When I look at the ticks in my field guides next to the species I’ve seen, it’s not about the ticks for me, it’s about the memories. Sounds cheesy, but yeah, each illustration calls up the memory of the first time I saw a given bird, for better or worse. I can flick through a bird book and zone out for hours on all the birding stories that play out on the pages. When it’s all said and done, I’d rather not have my birding story read like one of those birding memoirs that goes: “Then the guide did playback and we saw the rare species, then we went to the next spot, and the guide did playback and we saw…etc.”
  When I look at the tick next to the Black Woodpecker in my tattered Birds of Korea guide, I will remember each of the ups and many downs I faced on my endless (6 days/34.5 hours so far) time spent shivering in the woods, shaking my fist at the sky and cursing the fates. I will fondly remember that indescribable feeling when I first saw the vaunted king of the woods. If only I could bottle that feeling, I’d be something something. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, who knows. I keenly await that day where I can transition from birding self-flagellation to self-adulation when it comes to this bird. I’m not entirely convinced it’s not some dark forest spirit, sent to test my resolve.
  All in all it’s been a real kick in the fire eggs, but I’ll be back. Heck, It’s usually nice and quiet up there, in any case, and there’s a swell supporting cast of lesser imps, sprites, and demons in those woods.

Dispatches from Disappointment Valley

The valley of the Black Woodpeckers

Suspected Black Woodpecker work

Jebi! Jebi!

Varied Tit Parus varius

Brown-eared Bulbul Hypsipetes amaurotis

Daurian Redstart Phoenicurus auroreus

  On December 30th, I decided to check out a wooded series of valleys just outside town on a whim. I blinked, and somehow I’ve been there four times in the past week. Every time I go, I hear something potentially rare (and long-awaited)…but cannot for the life of me manage to clap eyeballs on it. I have now heard four (three) presumptive scarce species in this valley without seeing the birds. I was hoping my ‘heard but not seen’ list would shrink this year, not expand.
  On that first day (December 30th), I heard what I presume were two Black Woodpeckers (both the regular call and flight call), from the next ravine over. Instead of heading towards the birds, I dumbly stood on a bluff and hoped they would head my way or show themselves. They did not. A Goshawk sent them one valley further, and by the time I caught up to them again, a guy cutting down trees with a chainsaw clinched their retreat.
  I returned on the first day of the new year and stood in the cold, windy woods for about five hours with no sign of the woodpeckers, other than numerous examples of tree damage typical of Black Woodpeckers – large, oblong holes low on dead trees (with some noted on the trees that have been cut down). I spotted about 40 White-cheeked Starlings on the long walk back to civilization.
  On the 5th, I was cranky due to the horrendous smog (and resultant need to hike and bird in a mask), and my continuing and prodigious inability to see any of the potentially rare birds I kept hearing in the maddening valley of perdition.
  No sign of ‘the’ woodpeckers, but a Spotted Nutcracker did call twice from the tallest of the peaks that loom above the valley. Of course, not having seen the bird, which is high on my wish list, I can’t rule out mimicry from a Eurasian Jay, and definitely will not be ticking it.
  The day took a positive turn when I found a male Hazel Grouse in a remote ravine, then a dozen Eurasian Siskins feeding on catkins, both Gangneung firsts for me. Things again went off the rails with a glimpse of several finches, and a piercing, atonal trill from some pines 20 feet directly above me. I’ve never heard the striking call before, and, you guessed it, was unable to see the birds that produced it. I highly suspect they were Red Crossbills. Bah humbug.
  Gorgeous weather the following day, and mercifully haze-free. At 8:30 a.m., I heard a single, bassy “BOO” from the opposite side of the steep valley. Hooo was that? After more extensive Xeno-canto rummaging, I again settled on a rare species as the culprit – Ural Owl. Yaayyy, another elusive bird I came within 100 feet of, but did not see.
  Forty-five minutes later, as I was descending the final ridge before “Black Woodpecker Ravine,” I again heard the flight call of a Black Woodpecker – flying away from the whine of a chainsaw that had just started up. I didn’t hear one again all day. I took that as a cue to lie down next to a burial mound and take a sun-nap – eyes closed, ears wide open. When I returned from the land of wind and ghosts, I Spidermanned (or is it Tarzanned) my way up a super-steep and sketchy mountainside with no trail, pulling myself up an extended cliffy bit by clinging onto saplings, just to claim some small measure of victory over the Valley of Disappointment.
  Maybe I oughta let myself and the cursed site breathe a little, take a break. Maybe I should try a new, higher mountain. Maybe I should stop neglecting the lake and river. Or just maybe I should spend every free moment I have there, progressively losing my mind in the woods, one bird, one strange day at a time.
  Anyway, here are some mediocre pictures of common-as-muck birds that also live in the valley.