New Jersey's pine barrens have an ethereal quality as the sun sets. In some areas there is extraordinary uniformity- nearly perfectly flat ground and vegetation all growing to the same height -that adds to this characteristic. As the light gets low, some of the barrens critters begin to awaken. A forlorn whippoorwill call whistles through the trees and accompanies a golden glow. There's almost unsettling stillness, and it becomes easier to understand why this area has garnered enough "spook" to spawn ghost stories aplenty and it's own legendary cryptid, the Jersey Devil, and plentiful rumors of these lands being a mafia body dumping ground. Perhaps these are more than rumors, with quite a few bodies being found over the years. It isn't easy to dismiss. If something needs hidden this would be a good place to do it. The actual pine barrens, in fact, look way more ethereal a creepy than the woods in The Sopranos episode of the same name. That episode was filmed in hilly, mixed forest in Harriman State Park... and at least for me, it shreds the illusion a bit. The real barrens are such a distinct environment that it's hard to fake it.
Spooky though it may be, the pine barrens cemented themselves quickly as one of my favorite places two years ago when I first visited for a few days of looking for amphibians and reptiles. I heard my first pine barrens tree frogs on that trip, though I wouldn't lay eyes on one until a year later. That species had a special place in my memory bank. When I was only little, my mother got me a set of wildlife call cards and a reader- such a 2000's thing -The reader was just a simple device that you slipped the card into and had a speaker. You'd push a button and it would play the corresponding animal call. One card, the only one I really cared about, was frog and toad calls. And perhaps the most annoying one on their was the pine barrens tree frog. They're a very distinct, quite loud caller. I'd long wanted to see one.
One the second trip that first year, in that waning light, I was trudging through habitat that was much too dry as the sun set just hoping beyond reason that one of those frogs might start calling. In the distance, I caught a brief, punctual, call that I thought was a green frog. Looking on the map there was no sign of water in that direction, but I started to wander in that direction. If there was a pool that had a green frog calling, maybe there was a chance there might be tree frogs around it. Trudging through the knee high ferns and other low brush I'm woefully ignorant on identifying, there was no sign of a pool. Then came another call, this time from a different direction. More futile searching ensued. Another call. At t his point, my field partner and I were right next to each other. I turned to him; "Are green frogs just calling from out in the dry woods?".
He just shrugged.
The sound kept happening, and I recalled hearing similar as darkness fell om the previous trip while sitting next to a breeding pool waiting for frogs to call. At the time I thought it was cars hitting rumble strips on the highway. This seemed far too distant, now. Was it the same sound? Could it really travel that far?
Then it happened right over our heads. A bird, diminutive in size with a distinct profile, performed a rapid acceleration right over the tree tops, dipping low to them as it did so, and made a tremendous booming sound. This was a common nighthawk, specifically a male. The sound was made by the air rushing through his primary feathers. He does this during the mating time, and may have been doing so over us to try to get us to leave. He does it to ladies too but with the opposite goal in mind. Though abundant and widespread (albeit diminishingly so as many species are), I'd never knowingly been privy to this show. What a wonderful one it was! Until we gave up our dreams of finding what we have concluded is North America's quintessential tree frog that night, I was kept in good spirits by the revelation of what was making the boom. The nighthawks swooped overhead and plummeted to the ground making that wonderful sound and I chuckled at how absurdly long it had taken to figure out what it was. Wildlife is fabulous and does fabulous things, and it never fails to enchant if you maintain a sense of wonder.
Common nighthawks are cryptic while on the ground, with patterns not unlike grouse or woodcock which rely on the same crypsis to go unnoticed. They don't nest either, and their chicks rely on the same camouflage. Their eyes are like black marbles and it always looks like they're squinting at you. There's an uncannily adorable look to them. Nighthawks are bug eaters, and they perform acrobatic shows in the evening as they take to the sky to chase down prey. The species has been around a while, with fossils dating back an estimated 400,000 years. Long may these weird little birds boom over the pines of southern New Jersey, and long may their brief displays add to the mystique of a desolate landscape where rumors of a hooved, winged devil persist. The booms dwindled with the daylight, and a setting sun was framed perfectly in the symmetry of a man made scar on the landscape. I wondered what other surprises the night bring.
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