by Clay and Pat Sutton: authors of Birds and Birding at Cape May (Stackpole Books, 2006)
At Cape May the seasons often overlap, and the combinations of birds they produce are one of the great draws and charm of birding the Cape. Recently, in early spring (yes, it was early spring here, even though the calendar read February 22), at Forsythe NWR, we found a Red-necked Grebe at point blank range, feeding in Mott’s Creek. It was a good find, our first of the season, and in this case the very last southbound arrival. You certainly couldn’t call it a fall migrant; it was a bird no doubt forced out of a northern lake by the final stages of winter freeze up. It fled south, seeking open water. As such, at least for our binoculars, it was the last southbound bird of the season.
But of interest, within minutes, and just a half-mile away, we found our first northbound birds of the year – five Tree Swallows, feeding along the salt marsh edge at Leeds Point. The swallows were fresh arrivals – riding the surging southwest winds of a late February warm-front. Such an intriguing overlap of birds is always a possibility and an engaging factor of birding at “Greater Cape May.”
Such overlaps of seasons and birds from the far north with those from the south are always part and parcel of birding the Cape. Yet we have always been fascinated by how arrivals are celebrated with pomp and fanfare – first sightings quickly reach hotlines and listserves – but there is little celebration for the last bird of the year. As we celebrated the swallows we took little notice that the Rough-legged Hawk hovering over the marsh was very likely the very last we would see for the season – with a nine month absence looming ahead. Earlier in the day, the Snow Buntings over Holgate were good, a nice find, but occasioned comparatively little ceremony compared to the very first Tree Swallows of the spring.
The reasons are many and obvious. Any spring arrival promises renewal, growth, the coming vernal rebirth. Even the first southbound arrivals of fall – the first Merlin, the first flock of Snow Geese, the first Bufflehead of fall, the first White-crowned Sparrow – elicit reaction and excited comment as we anticipate and herald the coming fall and winter season.
Yet who celebrates the last lowly Bufflehead? Actually, Cape May celebrates “the last” more than most places. “Lingerers,” those hardy species or individuals, are part of the Cape’s lure and lore. Such birds are attracted by and supported by the mild, sea temperature-driven climate and linger here later than almost anywhere else in the mid-Atlantic. Lingering birds play a huge, starring role in the venerable Cape May Christmas Bird Count, and are always major players in the World Series of Birding too – maybe the only times the last are given their due.
Mostly, it’s a matter of not knowing when you are seeing that last individual of the year. The first loud and lusty Laughing Gull of the year gets your attention (and the very first gets CMBO’s LAGU Award!), but the year’s last Laughing Gull is usually a distant shape during a cold northeaster at the Avalon Seawatch in early December. The first Osprey is a major benchmark of spring, yet the last may receive little notice as it passes far out behind the lighthouse on the fall’s final cold front. Even then, you don’t know, until later, whether it is truly the last.
Autumn is a time for celebration. Although Cape May is a place for all seasons, fall will always be the area’s main event. Yet in song and literature, and even in bird records, fall has long been given a melancholy flavor, as it is a time of loss rather than the renewal and hope of spring. Birds are leaving, the light is waning as days become shorter, and winter is coming. And yes, the last of many bird species are coming.
Yet this too can be a time for renewal and excitement. Maybe “our” birds – those birds we claim for our own – are leaving, heading for warmer climes but many others are coming. At Cape May, these replacements might be from any point of the compass. It is a changing of the guard, as the northern replaces the southern, a geographic overlap that is more prominent at Cape May than almost anywhere. Even fall can be a coming rather than a going.
But if this comforting thought is not enough to mitigate the losses of the changing seasons, we propose that we commemorate the last with the same fanfare as the first. We may never give the last Laughing Gull an award, yet it deserves a toast. It spent nine months bringing animation, color, and sound to our beaches and bays. May its journey south be a safe one, and its winter in Florida restorative. May the last Osprey find good fishing on the flows of the Orinoco; live well, be hardy, and good luck! Celebrate, if for no other reason than because at Cape May, you know the first will not be far behind.