Category Archives: birds

Winter Storm Fern & the Quiet Resilience of an Old Spruce

biodiversity, birds, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, , ,

Winter Storm Fern moved through the Capital Region with wind, cold, and a heavy blanket of snow. For most of us, it meant shovels, forecasts, and staying put.

For the land, it meant a test.

In my side yard — part of what I call the Dodson Bird Observatory — an old spruce tree and a hedgerow stood exactly where they’ve stood for decades. Snow piled deep around them. Wind pressed hard from the open side. And yet, they did what they’ve always done.

They held.

The spruce, with its dense, layered branches, breaks the wind and creates pockets of calmer air beneath it. In winter, those pockets matter. Birds don’t need warmth so much as relief — relief from wind, exposure, and constant energy loss. The lower limbs, heavy with snow, still provide shelter where life can pause, even briefly.

The hedgerow does something just as important, though it’s less obvious. It catches drifting snow, softens the edge between open space and forest, and creates protected zones at ground level. Beneath the snow, life continues — insects, seeds, small mammals — all part of a food web that doesn’t stop just because the landscape looks frozen.

What struck me during this storm wasn’t drama, but steadiness.

No intervention.
No maintenance.
No management plan pinned to a clipboard.

Just long-established structure doing what it was shaped to do.

This is one of the quiet lessons the land offers in winter:
resilience is often already in place — if we allow it to remain.

The Dodson Bird Observatory isn’t about rare species or grand design. It’s about paying attention to what works, where you live, and choosing not to erase it in the name of neatness or convenience.

Winter Storm Fern will pass.
The snow will melt.
The spruce and the hedgerow will still be here.

And so will the life that depends on them.

At the Edge of the Pavement: A Gray Catbird’s Warning

biodiversity, birds, , ,

Earlier this evening, as Theresa and I took a slow stroll along the road near our home, we came upon the quiet form of a Gray Catbird lying still between a patch of roadside greenery and the unforgiving asphalt. It wasn’t the first bird we’ve found this way—and sadly, it won’t be the last.

The Catbird, a common but beloved songster known for its raspy “mew” call and playful mimicking of other birds, seemed out of place here—frozen mid-transition between nature and the human-built world. A few feet one way and it would’ve been safe in the low, tangled shrubs it calls home. A few feet the other, and—well, this is the story we often overlook.

We don’t know exactly what happened. It could have been a car, a window, the heat, or perhaps some other stress. But it did remind us of something important: nature doesn’t end at the edge of the sidewalk. It flows and flutters through the margins—into our yards, parking lots, utility corridors, and yes, even along country roads.

And that’s where danger lives too. The intersection between nature and human infrastructure is not always a peaceful one.

Birds like this Catbird are especially vulnerable in edge habitats. Roads create heat, host invasive species, emit toxins, and cause direct mortality through collisions. As our built world expands, these danger zones multiply. Yet, these same edges also offer opportunities—places where, if we’re mindful, we can soften the borders and offer refuge instead of risk.

A patch of native shrubs. A slower speed limit. A thoughtful landscape buffer. A moment of awareness.

If the air hadn’t been so thick with July heat and humidity, perhaps we might have taken the opportunity to film a quick video—a teachable moment about how each of us can do something to reduce harm. Maybe next time.

But for now, let this Catbird be a quiet messenger. One more reminder that the boundaries we build don’t always hold. Nature keeps coming—and we should meet it not with indifference, but with care.

A Hot and Buggy Hike at Van Dyke Preserve

biodiversity, birds, Communities, ecosystems, nature conservation, , ,


By Ron Dodson
The Nature of Things | July 9, 2025

Theresa and I decided to take advantage of a sunny day and stretch our legs on the loop trail at the Van Dyke Preserve. Even though the thermometer was pushing 90 degrees, we figured the shade of the forest would offer at least some relief from the heat. In hindsight, we should have added “humidity” and “insects” to our considerations!

The 33-acre Van Dyke Preserve, managed by the Mohawk Hudson Land Conservancy, is a lovely pocket of woodlands, wetlands, and meadows tucked into the Town of Bethlehem. The preserve winds along the Phillipin Kill, offering visitors a glimpse of native wildflowers, lush greenery, and, on most days, an impressive variety of birds.

Despite the intense heat, we were greeted by birdsong from several species, which I logged on eBird to contribute to citizen science efforts. The trail itself isn’t particularly long—we walked the loop twice—but the combination of high humidity and relentless insects made it feel much longer. The deer flies, gnats, and mosquitoes were some of the thickest I’ve ever experienced. I ended the hike with a shirt drenched in sweat, looking like I had taken a dip in the creek rather than just walked alongside it!

We spotted a few beautiful wildflowers along the way, including blooming Joe-Pye weed, delicate Forget-me-nots, and a lone Trillium still holding on with a late-season blossom. The creek was running quietly, reflecting the deep green of the surrounding forest. It was peaceful, despite the buzzing clouds of insects determined to keep us moving.

As we made our way back to the car, hot, sticky, and thoroughly bug-bitten, I told Theresa to remind me next time: Van Dyke Preserve is best saved for cooler, less buggy days. Still, it’s a lovely spot and worth returning to when the air is crisp and the bugs have called it quits for the season.

If you’re planning a visit, I recommend early spring or fall—and don’t forget to bring insect repellent no matter what time of year!

The Rain Knows What It’s Doing

biodiversity, birds, Communities, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, nature conservation, Neighborhoods,

A Reflection from Just Down the Road in Upstate New York

By Ron Dodson

Sometimes, nature writes the best stories. You just have to walk down the road to read them.

The photo above was taken just a short stroll from our home in upstate New York. While the scene might suggest calm and quiet, the story behind it is one of relentless rain and resilience. Since November 2024, we’ve had rain nearly every weekend—steady, sometimes unrelenting. For months, it felt like we were living in a stretched-out season of puddles and mud.

But now, looking out over this meadow in June, you can see what the rain has been up to.

The fields are lush and bursting with green—every shade you can imagine. The grasses are tall, the wetland margins thick with sedges and reeds. Wildflowers and forbs are pushing up wherever there’s a sliver of light. Even the trees, stretching in layers toward the horizon, look as if they’ve drunk their fill and are ready for the next chapter of the growing season.

And while it might have dampened our plans, the rain made this place a sanctuary.

Migratory birds have arrived in full voice, their songs layered over the steady hum of insects and frogs. Red-winged blackbirds cling to cattails, swallows swoop low over the wet patches, and warblers flicker like thoughts through the understory. The marshy lowlands that might once have seemed impassable are now teeming—alive with the quiet work of renewal.

There’s something deeply reassuring about that.

We often forget that seasons aren’t just about us—the plans we make, the weekends we hope to spend dry and comfortable. For the land, the long wet spring has been a gift. A drink after drought. A healing balm. An invitation to grow again.

This place—this field, this view—is not exceptional in the way a national park or a famous wildlife refuge might be. It’s just a piece of ordinary land at the edge of a rural road. But to those who live nearby, and to the creatures who pass through, it is home. It is a promise kept.

And maybe that’s the real nature of things: when we learn to see beauty in the overlooked, in the soggy corners and weedy edges, we come a little closer to understanding our place in the world. The rain may have changed our routines, but it also gave us this.

Let’s not forget to be grateful.

A Late Afternoon Walk Through Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary

biodiversity, birds, ecosystems, nature conservation

Yesterday, Theresa and I took advantage of the unseasonably warm weather and headed out for a late afternoon walk through Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary. The Mohawk Hudson Land Conservancy manages this 138-acre preserved wilderness, which has always been one of our favorite places to connect with nature and unwind. During my working life, my office was at Hollyhock Hollow from 1990-2013.

As we began our walk, it was clear that autumn’s peak had already passed. Most of the trees had shed their leaves, leaving a gentle rustling underfoot as we moved along the trails. But the oaks were still holding onto some of their leaves, although their once-brilliant colors had faded to muted browns and tans. There’s something bittersweet about those last leaves hanging on; they seemed to mark the quiet end of fall, standing as one of the season’s final touches before winter settles in.

The sanctuary felt very still today, almost like the warmth had lulled it into a lazy, end-of-season nap. Here and there, we spotted a few Black-capped Chickadees and Tufted Titmice flitting around, breaking the silence with their tiny chirps and rustling wings. They also seemed to enjoy the unexpected warmth, hopping from branch to branch in little bursts of energy.

One of the most fascinating parts of Hollyhock Hollow is the Onesquethaw Creek, a main drainage of the Helderberg Mountains. Today, in many spots, the creek was completely dry, a reminder of how adaptable nature is to the Karst geology here. In some places, the water had simply disappeared, finding its way underground, only to resurface farther along, creating pools of running water scattered throughout. It was surreal to walk along sections where the creek bed was dry, then suddenly come upon a small pool, its surface gently rippling as the underground water emerged.

Theresa and I stopped a few times to listen and just take in the serenity of the place. I don’t think we heard more than a handful of birds, and otherwise, it was just us, the oaks, and the creek, a quiet refuge away from the busy pace of daily life. There’s something restorative about walking through a place that’s both familiar and ever-changing. It was a peaceful reminder of how beautiful even the quieter, less colorful moments of fall can be.

As we headed back to the trailhead, we felt grateful for spaces like Hollyhock Hollow, where we can enjoy the rhythms of the natural world and find a moment of peace together.

Northern Harrier

biodiversity, birds, hawks, , ,

The snowpack so far this winter has been less than normal, but it has been seriously cold most days.  This has resulted in significantly fewer opportunities for hikes in area parks and preserves.

Luckily we live in a rural part of Albany County, NY, and are surrounded by woods and fields. So we still get to see many species of wildlife around our home and during short walks that we take down our country road.

One particular bird species that I have enjoyed watching this winter is a Northern Harrier that I see nearly every day soaring just a few yards from the Earth’s surface as it scours the fields for a tasty meal of a mouse, vole, or some other morsel.  On a few occasions, I have actually seen two Harriers flying side by side in search of prey.

Even in the coldest months nature seems to find a way!

If you would like to read about a few birds of prey from NY CLICK HERE