Algonquin
June 20, 2001
“Can you advise us on where we can best find warblers?” we asked the smiling, young thing behind the counter of the Algonquin Provincial Park Visitor’s Center in Ontario, Canada.
“Yes, just a moment and I’ll call Ron. He’s our expert.”
Ron Tozer soon appeared and announced his presence in a loud voice. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, we are looking for some of the warblers that breed here, such as Canada, Magnolia, Connecticut, Bay Breasted, Cape May, Chestnut Sided, American Redstart and Tennessee. Can you advise us on the best birding sites?”
Ron whipped out a map of the park and circled promising sites. “But you should know,” he warned, “warblers are very difficult to see in these thick north woods. It would be best if you can identify them by ear.”
“O.K.” I replied. (We have a CD of bird songs that can be played on the computer. Consequently, I thought we could review the warbler songs before trying to find them in the woods.) “Thanks for your help.”
“Oh yes,” he added. “You should also read this pamphlet and purchase a copy of the bird checklist. I wrote them both and you will find them very useful.”
We purchased the checklist, read the pamplet and listened to the Bird Song CD. Unfortunately, only a couple of the local warblers were on the CD. But, not to worry, our bird books illustrate the warbler songs as mnemonics. For example, the yellow warbler says, “sweet sweet little more sweet,” and the ovenbird says, “teacher teacher teacher.” OK, we were now all set. When Pat heard “teacher teacher teacher,” we knew to look for the ovenbird – and sure enough, there it was about eye level in the heavy forest. But then she heard one that said, “sweet sweet sweet seesaWEETchew.” very much like the sound of the yellow warbler. What to do!
We were walking the Bog Trail – one of the better birding spots in the park. The bird song was coming from high up in a group of pine, birch and spruce trees. We walked back and forth along the trail on one side of the trees for maybe 15 minutes. The bird was invisible to us but continued to sing “sweet sweet . . . .” On the sides of this group of trees were more trees and some heavy underbrush. We were not to be denied. On the far side of the trees was an open bog. “If I could just make it to the bog,” I reckoned, “maybe I could see this elusive bird.” As quietly as possible (to avoid scaring the warbler) I clawed my way through the dense Alder shrubs to the bog. The squishy sound of my boots on the soft, wet moss of the bog, alerted me to the fact that this might not be so easy. Before taking a second step onto the bog, Pat announced that the warbler had flown away. It suddenly entered my mind that maybe Pat had deceived me. Maybe there was no bird there at all. After all, I am totally deaf in the pitches that warblers normally use, so I am totally dependent on Pat for hearing the little critters. She could claim that she was hearing a warbler when there was none there and I would never know the difference. Could she just be playing games with me?
But why, why, why would she stand in this dark place with hoards of mosquitoes and black flies constantly sampling our insect repellent looking for an uncovered spot of skin, just to play a joke on me. Didn’t make sense.
A short distance down the trail, we learned more about this bog that caused us some degree of consternation. About 11,000 years ago, a retreating glacier left behind a big block of ice that was covered by sand and gravel. As the planet warmed, these ice blocks finally melted, leaving deep holes filled with water called kettles. Over time, a thick mat of moss grew over the surface. This floating mat is thick enough to support small Black Spruce trees, but also has some thin and weak spots. If, by chance, I had stepped onto one of those weak spots while looking for our warbler, my body might have ended up in the deep water below the bog mat. Some future archeologist might have found my well-preserved body, with binoculars still strapped around my neck, in the acidic, oxygen-poor peat about 18 feet below the bog surface.
Continuing our search for warblers, we soon realized that mnemonics were helpful in providing the rhythm or cadence of the bird song, but did little to explain the pitch or inflections of the song. Therefore, the only way we could learn the songs was to observe the bird while it was singing and then learn its mnemonic as an aid to our memory. Using this approach enabled us to tentatively learn the songs of eight different warblers. And, oh yes, the bird that sang “sweet sweet sweet seesaWEETchew” was a Chestnut Sided Warbler. We even added the Magnolia Warbler and the Yellow-bellied Flycatcher to our life list.
Our visit to this, the oldest of Canada’s parks, had been a great success. The huge moose we had seen up close and personal decided to let us live a while longer, the mosquitoes and blackflies left us just enough blood to make it back home, we did not drown in the bog and we got to see some neat warblers. What more could we expect of a first-rate park covered with lakes, forests, wildlife and canoe trails in the north woods?
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