Around the world, in every land, birders have their meccas. Within the continental US, a few storied places rank high on my list of “someday” destinations: Chiricahua Mountains, Rio Grande Valley, Magee Marsh Wildlife Area, Sax-Zim Bog…
Sax-Zim Bog, Minnesota. Just pronouncing the name conjured visions of dark, snow-crusted forest, where shy boreal birds peek out from the shadows. Perhaps, being raised in the South, I find the cold latitudes exotic and desirable. Perhaps it’s Sax-Zim Bog’s reputation for rare owl sightings. Whatever the reason, this is one place I felt I had to go.
My chance finally came late last year, when Solomon said, “I’m going to the American Physical Society meeting in Minneapolis the first week of March. Would you like to join me?” He might have thought he was joking, but I replied, “We’re going to the Bog. Yippee!”
Arranging for the visit was consuming. Although Sax-Zim Bog isn’t truly remote, it isn’t a focus for the travel industry either (adding to its attraction), and the conditions at all seasons require preparation. Frightened by tales of birders getting stuck in snowy ditches, I plunged into a concentrated shopping spree for base layers, neck gaiters, and insulated hiking boots. Along the way, I hired a local Bog guide to keep us out of the ditches, recruited our friend Karen to join us, studied maps and eBird, and all in all spent half the winter preparing for a 3-day trip.
In the event, I might have gone a tad far; Minnesota’s lack of snow made headlines this winter. But the study wasn’t wasted, because it put me in the frame of mind for some novice but serious Bog appreciation. Treated by many as a short stop for a handful of life birds, Sax-Zim Bog definitely deserves deeper investigation from both a nature- and social-study standpoint. From the beautifully austere habitat, to the skittish animals trekking across it, to the small group of people populating and caretaking it – these elements create a fascinating, interdependent community that could take years to absorb.
The heart of this world is, of course, the bog: a squishy squashy carpet of sphagnum moss (peat!), from which black spruce and tamarack trees rise slender and huddled together, as if for warmth. Here, at the southern end of the boreal forest, Sax-Zim Bog comprises thousands of acres of peat forest, as well as aspen woods, open meadow, rivers and lakes. This nifty mix forms a cozy resort for hardy boreal and grassland birds – including that supernova of avian stars, the Great Gray Owl – as well such enigmatic creatures as moose, timber wolf, pine marten, and snowshoe hares.
Getting a view of these wonderful creatures requires a hand from the folks living and working the Bog. There aren’t many for the size of the place. The 300 square miles are intersected by a handful of long, straight, lonely roads and populated by a few private houses and farms, one homey ‘Friends of the Bog’ visitor center, one couple providing “accommodations,” a café or two in the neighboring towns, and the wandering bunch of birders you run into over and over again. But this friendly network keeps the bird-attracting feeders full, and a check-in provides critical intelligence on where the wild things are.
A few things become evident when launching a search for Sax-Zim’s winter birds. First, you must drive. And drive and drive; the space is vast, and the numbers of birds on view – except around feeders – is limited. (Counting up, Sax Zim Bog has 77 species on its winter eBird checklist, compared to 108 in the Maryland county where I live. But what species!) Our good judgment in hiring Judd, our guide, was the second thing that became more obvious with each hour of our stay. He minimized miles by knowing exactly how to travel the roads, and he knew the habitats and inhabitants like the back of his hand.
Delightfully, certain finch species that can be hard to see in Maryland were simply cramming themselves at the feeders here. Canadian breeders such as Purple Finch, Pine Siskin, and Evening Grosbeak, along with Red-breasted Nuthatch, were cavorting happily in numbers. While these were not ‘lifers’ for us, I was extremely happy to be able to take snaps of birds that through scarcity had eluded my camera at home.
Not that I got many pictures. Always true to myself, I’d carefully packed my camera while forgetting one of the two camera batteries as well as the battery charger. Yes. After a futile hour of e-shopping for an obtainable replacement (the Bog being remote enough in this respect), I resigned myself to nursing my sole battery through both days of birding, with a strict “clicks for lifers” policy. (Spoiler alert: I’m glad I did!) To mitigate the pain of missing beautiful shots, I’d think “sketch, sketch, sketch,” reminding myself I had an alternative way to make memories.
The feeders were not the only places to find some old, long-lost friends. Some years back in New Mexico, I added a single Canada Jay to my life list, but discovering them in the Bog was seeing them in their proper setting. While not as showy as other jay species, the Canada Jay’s roguish receding hairline, monochromatic suit, and ingratiating manner make this so-called “Whiskey Jack” an eminently lovable figure.
Away from the bog forest, the open fields offered opportunities for different sightings. Northern Harriers, Black-billed Magpie, and Northern Shrikes were the treasures of the field, and we eventually struck lucky on all three. We were particularly pleased to find the Butcher Bird, aka Northern Shrike, relaxing on a high wire and looking very demure for a songbird with a sinister reputation.
The last of these ‘almost lifers’ came to us near sunset on the first day. We had arrived at Stone Lake, situated at the far northeast corner of the Bog. There was a little ice, but the lake was half open and looking very beautiful and blue in the late day sun. Looking out, we saw, holding aloof from the paddling Canada Geese – a regal pair of Trumpeter Swans.
Satisfying? Completely. But that’s not half the story …
To be continued.