Wollomonopoag Conservation Area, Wrentham, MA

Today I witnessed behavior that I have not observed before, and what the birds had to offer added fuel to my curiosity in the avian world. The lack of ducks on Lake Pearl persuaded me to branch out from my typical winter birding spots around my hometown of Franklin, Massachusetts, leading me to the Wollomonopoag Conservation Area. I had visited the area once before, when the heron rookery was full of life, but I knew that many, if not all, of the Great Blue Heron would be gone for the winter. As I arrived to the open water with dozens of snags, I was struck by silence. Not very often do I find myself in the woods unable to hear a road or construction or other signs of humans, so the silence set an eerie, but pleasant, tone for the adventure. I scanned the heron nests and the open water. Nothing in the nests, but two swans swam and sat in grass along the far edge of the pond. I crossed a flooded boardwalk and found a bench to sit on as I took in the beauty of the area. The stillness of the water combined with the silence of my surroundings made me feel free and intimately connected with the environment in which I sat. Even the wind had the day off.

Then, I heard something. Not a bird, but a sound that brought my attention to the unusual phenomena I was about to encounter. On the other side of the pond, I heard heavy snow slide off the branches of a tall Eastern White Pine and come crashing down on the forest floor. My eye was then drawn to disorderly head of feathers-- the crest of a female Hooded Merganser. The female Hooded Merganser stood on the stump of a snapped snag, about 10 feet above the water. She seemed to be on high guard, constantly turning her head to study her surroundings. In my past experience with hoodies, I had observed them in bodies of water without standing trees, so seeing one in a tree really peaked my curiosity. I hoped that she was alright and decided to focus on her story.

I set my tripod and aimed my scope at her, but by the time I had her in my sights, she took off from her perch. To my surprise, she was followed by a male hoodie. The male hoodie must have been behind some reeds or a downed log, as I did not see it while scanning the water. The two flew around the pond in its entirety, male closely behind female, until the female landed on a high branch on a snag in the open water, and about 15 feet from where I stood on the shore. The male glided into the water, creating a perfect sound that broke the stillness of the water. The silence was replaced with fascination.

The female, poised on the branch, continued to peer along the water. What was she looking for? I noticed the male at the base of the tree, seemingly looking up at what I assumed was his mate. She paid him not attention. Instead, she flew from her branch to a neighboring snag and clung to the rim of a big, circular hole about 20 feet in the air. In awe, I watched as she used her webbed feet to support herself against the tree and also to hoist herself up, extending her neck into the hole. Then she flew around the pond, followed by the same male, and returned to the hole yet again. This astonished me. She left the hole and landed in a snag at the other end of the pond.

As I was observing the pair, I noticed another pair of hoodies performing exactly the same pattern: female perches on a tree or stump above the water, female takes off from perch to look into a hole (checking on the same hole each time), male follows in flight and lands in water below the female, repeat. I had never experienced anything of the sorts before, especially with a diving duck that I had only seen in open water. I felt lucky to have witnessed this behavior and wondered how many before me had stood along the edge of this pond, watching in amazement as the drake seemingly chased the tree-perching hen through the air.

With a bit of research, I was able to answer a few of my questions. I found that hoodies, like Wood Ducks, nest in cavities or nest boxes that are near water. The size of the cavity can range from 3-5 inches. Wollomonopoag Conservation Area, with its pond, many snags, and woodpeckers, accounts for all these preferences. But, as I dug more into the hoodies life history, the less sense this occurrence made. Being the middle of March, I expect that many of the pairs would have already had a brood, and that the female would be busy incubating the eggs. In addition, it would be late in the season for the female to be establishing a nesting site, so it is unlikely that she was scoping out a cavity for nesting. My only explanation for now, before I get onto the university WiFi and can access the Birds of North America journal, is that the ducklings had already hatched and the female (momma) was checking up on her babies every-so-often. I did not hear any cries coming from the cavity, but that does not mean that they were not there. Until I have more information about breeding and nesting, I must remain awe-struck by the encounter and cannot definitively explain the phenomena. The rookery was filled with families of herons in my last visit, but I had not expected to see another species so dependent on the snags that tower above the water.

As I left the edge of the pond and headed into the forest, I could hear the whistling of the hoodies in flight. I pictured the female landing in a snag and the male floating below. I pictured the ducklings in the cavity, begging for mom to return. I pictured the families of Great Blue Heron sitting in their massive, woody nests. The silence of the Wollomonopoag Conservation Area was interrupted by my exclamations of confusion and intrigue. It is moments like these that reiterate the feeling that I will never stop observing, questioning, and learning from birds, and for that, I am grateful.

Posted on March 13, 2018 02:11 AM by mjperrin