Nature Note #199: Birding on Bogue Inlet
It's amazing how spending a little time outside can revitalize your sense of well being. For me, nothing makes me happier than when I'm birding. Being able to spend time with birds is necessary for my well being as a human being, they speak to my very soul. That said, after spending a week on the Bogue Banks, I knew I needed to start finding hotspots to check out.
While the Outer Banks is a prime migratory stopover for shorebirds, getting there can be difficult especially if you haven't gotten a handle on the ferry schedule yet. For my purposes starting out, the closest and easiest to reach was the public beach access at Bogue Inlet in Emerald Isle, NC. Finding the beach access was easy enough, but finding adequate parking was trickier.
Like many towns with beachfront property, parking on the sides of roads is prohibited with limited opportunities to find free parking unless you are within proximity of a business district or public beach lot. Initially, the only lot I could find was a handicapped spot close to the walkway leading to the beach. Worried I was going to miss the glut of shorebirds the eBird checklists had promised me, I thought about my options. After accidentally driving into a cul de sac, I remembered seeing a small lot a few blocks away from the main public access. A short drive later, I secured a spot and began my two hour, two mile walk around the edge of Bogue Inlet.
A huge expanse of sand lay before me while the sun beamed down behind fluffy cumulus clouds. Holiday makers were scattered along the beach sitting on deck chairs or gleefully playing in the waves. A few fishermen and women dotted along the shore plied the waters, hoping to feel a strike. I hoped that the shorebirds hadn't scarpered for some hidden glade of dune grass. Before I had arrived, I consulted an online tide chart that predicted the high tide would peak within the hour.
Despite this, the water stayed far from the supratidal zone near the dunes. Sea oats (Uniola paniculata) waved sturdily in the wind, like a phalanx of Spartan soldiers, waiting dutifully for the surf and wind to charge their sandy stacks. What makes them so sturdy is a tangled rat's nest of rhizomes and roots that can be buried up to 15 feet underground. This allows them to provide a natural barrier against storm surges, as well as accessing freshwater deep under the sand. An important shoreline plant, it is protected from destruction and degradation by state law in recognition for its importance as a dune reinforcement and by proxy, protector of coastline property.
The sand seemed to stretch forever out ahead of me and my progress was slowed by my wide sandals failing miserably to navigate the substrate. Every time I took a step, the sand strafed away causing my foot to sink backwards and impeding my forward momentum. Each step was accompanied by a small squeak which deepened my confusion and curiosity. I eventually removed them off all together since my strategy was becoming akin to "two steps forward, one step back".
"After all", I thought. "I was spending the day at the beach."
I followed tire tracks that lead across the beach towards the end of the beach. Looking onward, I saw more beach goers further up and sighed.
"I guess coming on a Saturday wasn't the best idea", I muttered to myself.
My self pity was interrupted by a sudden yapping above me. I trained my binoculars on two white birds about 100 feet ahead, soaring skillfully on gusts of wind. They had short tails, white bodies, grey wingtips, and a black cap that resembled the receding hairline of an aging mafioso. A pair of terns danced in the wind for a while longer while I scoped them out. Were they sandwich terns (Thalasseus sanviciensis)?
I wouldn't feel certain about my sighting until I reviewed my photos later that day, but for now, I had a potential addition to my year list. As pleasing as this sighting was, I was about to embark on a spotting spree the likes of which I hadn't engaged with in months. Upon rounding the bend, I looked over the inlet to see several species of terns, as well as laughing gulls (Leucophaeus atricilla) and brown pelicans (Pelecanus occidentalis) diving in pursuit of fish.
I couldn't wait to get over there, but my little revery was interrupted by the nerve endings in my feet frantically informing me that they were about to catch on fire. As quickly as my tender British feet could carry me, I headed for the crashing waves. I heard more yapping as water lapped my molten feet. Overhead, the bright red and orange bills of Caspian (Hydroprogne caspia) and royal terns (T. maximus) shone like fresh carrots embedded in a snowman's face. Riding the winds, they peered into the waters below and waited for the right moment to escape the air and invade the fish's world to steal them from the safety of the school. Those that were satisfied with their quest, returned to a small flooded section of beach a few hundred feet to my right.
I had found them. As I scanned the inlet, my eye was drawn to a growing flock of birds near a fenced off area of dunes. Signs warned the viewer that these dunes were protected breeding and foraging areas for waterbirds and that disturbing them was highly frowned upon. Fortunately, everyone on the beach was heeding those warnings. Besides, the birds seemed to be congregating outside of the exclusion zones. After all, according to our current scientific knowledge, birds can't read.
Then, I saw them. All of them. There were birds everywhere. Terns and gulls mingled freely while a cluster of plovers and sandpipers loafed on the beach near the dunes. Two snowy egrets (Egretta thula) jabbed at one another in the pool beyond, too deep into their disagreement to pay any mind to the small irritating children who would run up to the flocks in an effort to scare them into flight. Several times I watched with anguish as these little kids ran headlong into the flocks of resting birds, giggling with delight at their power to terrify these once earthbound creatures into leaving the Earth in front of them. After the flock departed a few hundred yards down the beach, it would settle beyond the reach of those children whose little legs would tire long before they could scare them up again.
Despite the occasional intrusions from my fellow humans, the next forty minutes would be some of the most productive birding I've had all summer. From my sitting spot, I scanned the three nearest flocks, noting where I was seeing year list species, and photographing them as I went. In addition to Caspian and royal terns, I managed to find three black skimmers (Rhynchops niger) resting in the throng of white bodies. It was like finding three goths in a crowd of preppy kids.
The skimmers weren't the only dark birds seemingly out of place amongst those large yapping giants. Five black terns (Chlidonias niger) and six least terns (Sternula antillarum) fluttered about the beach in an indecisive quest to determine which part of the beach would be the best part to hang out on. While the black terns were less picky about their companions and freely associated with leasts, Caspians, and a few Forster's (Sterna forsteri), the leasts were far more cliquey and preferred to squabble amongst themselves than concern themselves with the other birds nearby.
As I scanned the flocks, more surprises popped up. Near the Caspian terns was a roosting flock of plovers and sandpipers which spent most of the time lying down, occasionally getting up to stretch their legs. Eventually a few of them scattered and took flight over my head. It was a magical moment as these little birds almost effortlessly took to the wind and jetted away from the open sand to my left and to the fenced in safety of the dunes beyond. The flock was mostly made up of semipalmated plovers (Charadrius semipalmatus), a sparrow-sized shorebird with brown backs and distinctive black rings around their head and breast. I scanned them each carefully. I had read that there might be Wilson's plovers (C. wilsonia) roosting alongside their semipalmated cousins. Sure enough, with some scrutiny, one made its appearance. Superficially, it looked the same as the semis, but later upon closer inspection of my photographs, I noticed that the bird's back was a duller brown, with a single breast band and a thick beak. I was happy to have a lifer under my belt and equally enthused that I had gotten photographic proof as well.
As my time drew to a close, I spied a few more year list additions. Black-bellied plovers (Pluvialis squatarola) loafed on the sand near the Caspians, while a lone sandwich tern made an appearance with some nearby common terns (S. hirundo).
Eventually, my attention was drawn to some snipe-like shorebirds hanging out with some roosting willets (Tringa semipalmatus). Contrary to popular belief, the snipe is a real creature and is rather difficult to catch using the traditional gunny sack and blindfold method. This technique is usually employed by pranksters wishing to scare the pants off their friends by daring them to look for a "snipe" deep in the woods after dark. The bird prefers wet fields, marsh edges, and wetlands and has a long bill, striped plumage, and a shy disposition. The birds I was seeing that resembled these introverts of the marsh are dowitchers.
Dowitchers are a bitch to identify. The two species that can be found in North America are the short-billed (Limnodromus griseus) and long-billed dowitcher (L. scolopaceus) and are some of the most difficult to tell apart from one another. Most field guides recommend forgoing attempting to separate them by plumage (unless you have the patience of a zen monk needed to scrutinize tertial feather patterns) and attempt instead, to identify them by voice. Unfortunately two things prevented me from making even a convincing attempt of confirming their identity. The first was obvious. They were as quiet as a graveyard. Most weren't even awake, let alone chatty. The second was the changing light conditions. As the large cumulus clouds wafted over the beach, they would block the sun for a few minutes before moving on and the shade made an already difficult job practically impossible.
In light of this (pun fully intended), I gave up. Checking my watch, I decided it was time to leave. I slowly headed up the beach. As with all hikes, it can sometimes be deceptive about how far you've actually traveled. It seemed that I'd taken the long way around the edge of the beach when there had been a corridor between the fenced off dunes that I hadn't noticed before. Glad that it would shorten my trek back to the car, I walked towards to wooden boardwalk. Eventually, my feet reminded me that my journey would be literally cut short if my feet continued to catch fire on the baking sands. I put on my sandals and headed back to my car under the burning summer sun. Though I was now dehydrated after drinking all of my water within the first thirty minutes of my trip, I was pleased to find all that I had. My total haul for the day was nine species including one lifer (name in bold).
Additions to the 2017 Year List
While the Outer Banks is a prime migratory stopover for shorebirds, getting there can be difficult especially if you haven't gotten a handle on the ferry schedule yet. For my purposes starting out, the closest and easiest to reach was the public beach access at Bogue Inlet in Emerald Isle, NC. Finding the beach access was easy enough, but finding adequate parking was trickier.
Like many towns with beachfront property, parking on the sides of roads is prohibited with limited opportunities to find free parking unless you are within proximity of a business district or public beach lot. Initially, the only lot I could find was a handicapped spot close to the walkway leading to the beach. Worried I was going to miss the glut of shorebirds the eBird checklists had promised me, I thought about my options. After accidentally driving into a cul de sac, I remembered seeing a small lot a few blocks away from the main public access. A short drive later, I secured a spot and began my two hour, two mile walk around the edge of Bogue Inlet.
 |
| A day at the beach. Photo by me. |
 |
| Sturdy sea oats. Photo by me. |
A huge expanse of sand lay before me while the sun beamed down behind fluffy cumulus clouds. Holiday makers were scattered along the beach sitting on deck chairs or gleefully playing in the waves. A few fishermen and women dotted along the shore plied the waters, hoping to feel a strike. I hoped that the shorebirds hadn't scarpered for some hidden glade of dune grass. Before I had arrived, I consulted an online tide chart that predicted the high tide would peak within the hour.
Despite this, the water stayed far from the supratidal zone near the dunes. Sea oats (Uniola paniculata) waved sturdily in the wind, like a phalanx of Spartan soldiers, waiting dutifully for the surf and wind to charge their sandy stacks. What makes them so sturdy is a tangled rat's nest of rhizomes and roots that can be buried up to 15 feet underground. This allows them to provide a natural barrier against storm surges, as well as accessing freshwater deep under the sand. An important shoreline plant, it is protected from destruction and degradation by state law in recognition for its importance as a dune reinforcement and by proxy, protector of coastline property.
The sand seemed to stretch forever out ahead of me and my progress was slowed by my wide sandals failing miserably to navigate the substrate. Every time I took a step, the sand strafed away causing my foot to sink backwards and impeding my forward momentum. Each step was accompanied by a small squeak which deepened my confusion and curiosity. I eventually removed them off all together since my strategy was becoming akin to "two steps forward, one step back".
"After all", I thought. "I was spending the day at the beach."
I followed tire tracks that lead across the beach towards the end of the beach. Looking onward, I saw more beach goers further up and sighed.
"I guess coming on a Saturday wasn't the best idea", I muttered to myself.
My self pity was interrupted by a sudden yapping above me. I trained my binoculars on two white birds about 100 feet ahead, soaring skillfully on gusts of wind. They had short tails, white bodies, grey wingtips, and a black cap that resembled the receding hairline of an aging mafioso. A pair of terns danced in the wind for a while longer while I scoped them out. Were they sandwich terns (Thalasseus sanviciensis)?
I wouldn't feel certain about my sighting until I reviewed my photos later that day, but for now, I had a potential addition to my year list. As pleasing as this sighting was, I was about to embark on a spotting spree the likes of which I hadn't engaged with in months. Upon rounding the bend, I looked over the inlet to see several species of terns, as well as laughing gulls (Leucophaeus atricilla) and brown pelicans (Pelecanus occidentalis) diving in pursuit of fish.
 |
| Brown pelican glides over the pounding surf. Photo by me. |
I couldn't wait to get over there, but my little revery was interrupted by the nerve endings in my feet frantically informing me that they were about to catch on fire. As quickly as my tender British feet could carry me, I headed for the crashing waves. I heard more yapping as water lapped my molten feet. Overhead, the bright red and orange bills of Caspian (Hydroprogne caspia) and royal terns (T. maximus) shone like fresh carrots embedded in a snowman's face. Riding the winds, they peered into the waters below and waited for the right moment to escape the air and invade the fish's world to steal them from the safety of the school. Those that were satisfied with their quest, returned to a small flooded section of beach a few hundred feet to my right.
 |
| Caspian tern flock. Photo by me. |
I had found them. As I scanned the inlet, my eye was drawn to a growing flock of birds near a fenced off area of dunes. Signs warned the viewer that these dunes were protected breeding and foraging areas for waterbirds and that disturbing them was highly frowned upon. Fortunately, everyone on the beach was heeding those warnings. Besides, the birds seemed to be congregating outside of the exclusion zones. After all, according to our current scientific knowledge, birds can't read.
Then, I saw them. All of them. There were birds everywhere. Terns and gulls mingled freely while a cluster of plovers and sandpipers loafed on the beach near the dunes. Two snowy egrets (Egretta thula) jabbed at one another in the pool beyond, too deep into their disagreement to pay any mind to the small irritating children who would run up to the flocks in an effort to scare them into flight. Several times I watched with anguish as these little kids ran headlong into the flocks of resting birds, giggling with delight at their power to terrify these once earthbound creatures into leaving the Earth in front of them. After the flock departed a few hundred yards down the beach, it would settle beyond the reach of those children whose little legs would tire long before they could scare them up again.
 |
| Forced into flight once more. Photo by me. |
Despite the occasional intrusions from my fellow humans, the next forty minutes would be some of the most productive birding I've had all summer. From my sitting spot, I scanned the three nearest flocks, noting where I was seeing year list species, and photographing them as I went. In addition to Caspian and royal terns, I managed to find three black skimmers (Rhynchops niger) resting in the throng of white bodies. It was like finding three goths in a crowd of preppy kids.
 |
| Black skimmers rest in front of Caspian terns, while a Forster's tern sits in the foreground. Photo by me. |
The skimmers weren't the only dark birds seemingly out of place amongst those large yapping giants. Five black terns (Chlidonias niger) and six least terns (Sternula antillarum) fluttered about the beach in an indecisive quest to determine which part of the beach would be the best part to hang out on. While the black terns were less picky about their companions and freely associated with leasts, Caspians, and a few Forster's (Sterna forsteri), the leasts were far more cliquey and preferred to squabble amongst themselves than concern themselves with the other birds nearby.
 |
| The black tern is the smaller darker bird left of center in the foreground. Photo by me. |
As I scanned the flocks, more surprises popped up. Near the Caspian terns was a roosting flock of plovers and sandpipers which spent most of the time lying down, occasionally getting up to stretch their legs. Eventually a few of them scattered and took flight over my head. It was a magical moment as these little birds almost effortlessly took to the wind and jetted away from the open sand to my left and to the fenced in safety of the dunes beyond. The flock was mostly made up of semipalmated plovers (Charadrius semipalmatus), a sparrow-sized shorebird with brown backs and distinctive black rings around their head and breast. I scanned them each carefully. I had read that there might be Wilson's plovers (C. wilsonia) roosting alongside their semipalmated cousins. Sure enough, with some scrutiny, one made its appearance. Superficially, it looked the same as the semis, but later upon closer inspection of my photographs, I noticed that the bird's back was a duller brown, with a single breast band and a thick beak. I was happy to have a lifer under my belt and equally enthused that I had gotten photographic proof as well.
 |
| Wilson's plover circled in red. Photo by me. |
As my time drew to a close, I spied a few more year list additions. Black-bellied plovers (Pluvialis squatarola) loafed on the sand near the Caspians, while a lone sandwich tern made an appearance with some nearby common terns (S. hirundo).
 |
| Four black-bellied plovers walk above a roosting group of willet and dowitchers. In the foreground, a black tern and pair of Forster's tern can be seen. Photo by me. |
 |
| Common terns (grey birds to the far left and center) flank a sandwich tern (second from the left) and Caspian tern (largest bird near center) near the semipalmated plover roost. Photo by me. |
Eventually, my attention was drawn to some snipe-like shorebirds hanging out with some roosting willets (Tringa semipalmatus). Contrary to popular belief, the snipe is a real creature and is rather difficult to catch using the traditional gunny sack and blindfold method. This technique is usually employed by pranksters wishing to scare the pants off their friends by daring them to look for a "snipe" deep in the woods after dark. The bird prefers wet fields, marsh edges, and wetlands and has a long bill, striped plumage, and a shy disposition. The birds I was seeing that resembled these introverts of the marsh are dowitchers.
Dowitchers are a bitch to identify. The two species that can be found in North America are the short-billed (Limnodromus griseus) and long-billed dowitcher (L. scolopaceus) and are some of the most difficult to tell apart from one another. Most field guides recommend forgoing attempting to separate them by plumage (unless you have the patience of a zen monk needed to scrutinize tertial feather patterns) and attempt instead, to identify them by voice. Unfortunately two things prevented me from making even a convincing attempt of confirming their identity. The first was obvious. They were as quiet as a graveyard. Most weren't even awake, let alone chatty. The second was the changing light conditions. As the large cumulus clouds wafted over the beach, they would block the sun for a few minutes before moving on and the shade made an already difficult job practically impossible.
 |
| Just when you think you have a handle on their identity, a roosting dowitcher in breeding plumage throws a monkey wrench in the works. Ugh. Photo by me. |
In light of this (pun fully intended), I gave up. Checking my watch, I decided it was time to leave. I slowly headed up the beach. As with all hikes, it can sometimes be deceptive about how far you've actually traveled. It seemed that I'd taken the long way around the edge of the beach when there had been a corridor between the fenced off dunes that I hadn't noticed before. Glad that it would shorten my trek back to the car, I walked towards to wooden boardwalk. Eventually, my feet reminded me that my journey would be literally cut short if my feet continued to catch fire on the baking sands. I put on my sandals and headed back to my car under the burning summer sun. Though I was now dehydrated after drinking all of my water within the first thirty minutes of my trip, I was pleased to find all that I had. My total haul for the day was nine species including one lifer (name in bold).
Additions to the 2017 Year List
- Black-bellied plover - 4 molting individuals
- Wilson's plover - 2 to 3
- Semipalmated plover - 50+
- Western sandpiper - 1 minimum
- Caspian tern - 50+
- Black tern - 5 molting individuals
- Forster's tern - 3 minimum
- Sandwich tern - 2 minimum, 1 photographed
- Black skimmer - 3 adults
This puts my year list total at 181 species. It is now within spitting distance of 200 species and it's at the perfect time of year as well. Migrants of all shapes and sizes are streaming through the forests, fields, and flood tides of the East Coast giving me plenty of opportunities to reach my goal before the end of the year. Only time will tell, but with four months left in the year, I have a really good feeling I'm going to make my goal.
"Birds have wings; they're free; they can fly where they want. They have the kind of mobility many people envy" - Roger Tory Peterson
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