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This process has been going on for weeks. Rufous hummingbirds were among the first to arrive in March along with tree and violet-green swallows. On March 18, a small flock of Townsend’s warblers skittered through the tree tops near my home staying just long enough to pick insects from the blooming madrones before continuing north. Two days later, a yellow-rumped warbler awakened me with its song. By April 6, I heard the undulating trill of an orange-crowned warbler and smiled. The breeding season was at hand.

A few days ago I drove to American Camp to see how the shift in seasons was progressing. I missed the bubbling chatter of the meadowlarks, but rebounded when I heard the faint song of a savannah sparrow newly arrived from southern climes. I found it perched on a lichen-covered boulder. The newcomer’s thin, reedy call floated across the prairie. Within minutes, more of the buffy brown birds with the golden lores appeared on fence railings and outcroppings adding their voices to the sparse spring chorus.

Next, I spied a kestrel hover hunting by the Redoubt. The little falcon is a common spring migrant stopping on the plain for a few hours (or days) of refueling before moving on. In the background, I listened to the strains of white-crowned sparrows announcing their arrival. They will replace the golden-crowned sparrows that wintered here and now are heading out. My visit to the prairie was complete when I saw a pair of American goldfinch bound over the grass toward the shoreline, then heard a common yellowthroat calling "wichity -wichity" from a thicket of Nootka rose.

Some of our most visible migrants are shorebirds, lithe beings who set upon the wind for journeys that sometimes take them from the tip of the southern hemisphere to the top of the world. I ended my bird survey with a visit to False Bay, an important stopover for them.

The bay’s curvaceous shoreline wraps around a variety of intertidal habitats where massive numbers of marine organisms including microscopic algae, worms, clams, mussels, tiny crabs and shrimp thrive in the sand, gravel and muck. The mud-dwellers are part of a protein-packed food chain that feeds tens of thousands of birds each year.

Among the hundreds of Thayer’s, Bonaparte’s and mew gulls dozing on the flats before starting their own migration, the high-strung greater yellowlegs made a dominant impression. Five long-legged waders raced about knee deep in a tidal stream stirring up tiny fish and crustacean and nabbing them with their long, slender bills.

At the tide line, a small flock of dunlins, easily recognized by their black belly patches and hunchbacked profiles, were picking at the mud for tiny shrimps, worms and insects. Not far away, I heard killdeer ranting, and in the distance the piercing screams of black oystercatchers hurtling onto the rocks at the mouth of the bay staying well out of the flight path of a flock of pintails.
The signature bird of the flats is the western sandpiper. The entire world population of this species migrates along the Pacific Coast and while the San Juans are a minor stop on their itinerary, it is still a crucial habitat for some individuals. The one hundred or so sandpipers I saw may have flown in from as far afield as South America on their way to breeding grounds in the arctic; not a small feat for a sparrow-sized bird that weights less than an ounce.

I had hoped to find more shorebirds at the bay but some days are quiet. Other times thousands of shorebirds including whimbrel, dowitchers and plovers descend upon the monotone scape in a feeding frenzy. Once refueled and rested, they cast again upon the wind bound for the northern lights.

I was the only person watching birds at False Bay and that is not unusual. Most of the birds pass through the archipelago unnoticed, yet they do not take the islands for granted. Every wetland, patch of mud, stand of trees or field of tall grass is important, for these habitats provide food and shelter for wayfarers working their way north. Here’s wishing all the birds a safe journey home.