Wren Wranch

YOU…DON’T…ALWAYS…HAVE…TO…KNOW! Bill hollered each word, punctuating his shouts with the sliding clanks of our 12’ extension ladder as he folded it back up. You’re right, I thought, as I dusted bits of Spanish moss off my shirt. But just in case, keep that ladder handy.

As I think back on this summer, I will remember it as the one when the Carolina wrens worked their way deep into my heart (as well as into every nook and cranny around the house). I think there were three and a half pairs living within a stone’s throw of our front door. Two honest pairs, and one male who I’m pretty sure was squiring two mates. Keeping track of even seven Carolina wrens necessitates a lot of note-taking and cross-checking of those notes. I’ll never know for sure how many adults nested here, but by summer’s end, I was determined to get an accurate count of all the young they produced. Hence the ladder.

I found my first clutch on April 11, incubation well under way in a tidy nest tucked into a stash of plastic grocery bags in the recycling depository in our garage. I was gathering them up to recycle in town when a little brown bullet spurted out, diving under my elbow. The female sat her eggs stoically, hatching four young. When they were 12 days old, I noticed the male wren visiting a little copper bucket I’d wired up under the eave by our front door. Ladder time. Five three-day old babies!

Lulled by the presence of the pair in the garage only 50’ away, I hadn’t even known there was another active nest! There had to be two females. I’d seen the same male feed the babies in the garage, then fly up to the copper bucket nest. My mind flew back to March 29, when a third wren had appeared in the yard and been involved in a vicious fight with one member of the resident pair. They rolled over and over, pecking each other’s vents. It was the avian equivalent of a catfight. Now, I guessed, the newcomer was the second female, the one who had laid her eggs, unnoticed, in an old nest in the copper bucket.

Both nests fledged uneventfully, bringing the total to nine fledglings. The garage female started a new nest in a joint compound bucket, hanging from a nail, ten days after first brood fledged. Five fledged from her second, joint compound bucket nest. Fourteen young from these three adults so far, and it was only June 20. I couldn’t wait to see what our season total would be. But it was getting confusing. A nest appeared in a hanging basket right by the front door on July 2. The garage was deserted. I couldn’t be sure which female was responsible. Three more young fledged from the hanging basket. By July 20, the count was 17, not bad for three adults.

Just down the hill in our backyard, I find a Carolina wren nest with five eggs in a nest box meant for titmice and chickadees. Five fledge on the 8th of July. Twenty-two baby wrens. I’m glad I’ve been keeping notes, though I have to admit I have no idea whether this box-nesting pair has anything to do with the three adults nesting around the house. I think we have to be done. And then, on the 5th of August, Bill spots a Carolina wren, identity and partner unknown, stuffing moss into a three-sided phoebe nesting shelter, 20’ up under an eave on the back side of the house. I lug the extension ladder out, finding four more eggs. Holy smokes. By the 20th of August, I just HAVE TO KNOW how many young are in that nest. Ladder time again. I wobble to the very top while Bill holds the ladder beneath me. I peer into the nest, and I can’t see anything. If I were smart, I’d realize that’s because all four baby wrens have their eyes screwed shut and are flattened into the nest lining. But I have to poke a tentative finger in, to lower the nest rim and see what’s inside. That’s when the nest explodes in my face. Baby wrens flutter to the ground and hop off in four directions. Bill and Phoebe scurry frantically to catch them. They hand them back up to me. I stuff them back in the nest. Four times. A couple are still in pinfeathers. This is not good. Let’s see. I can stand up here, holding the babies down, until nightfall, or I can come up with something better, right now.

I yell down to Bill as I’m holding all four down in the nest for the fourth time to go get me a big wad of dry Spanish moss from my potting supplies. With one hand I slip it over the frightened babies, slide my other hand out, then cautiously fashion an entrance to the newly domed nest so the parents can slip in and feed the babies. A baby immediately shoots out of the hole and hits me in the nose. By now I am laughing helplessly and in real danger of falling off the ladder. Bill catches the bird and hands it back up to me. I poke it back into the nest, hold my hand over the entry tunnel for a minute or two until the babies stop cheeping and popping around, then carefully climb back down the ladder. Bill silently lifts the ladder away from the house, carrying it back to the garage before he folds it and hollers his frustration at my inquisitiveness. YOU DON’T ALWAYS HAVE TO KNOW! Oh, but I do. I’m sorry, honey, but you knew I was a science monkey when you married me). Against all odds and expectations, my baby wren containment system works. The parents, whoever they are, are still feeding the young in the nest when they fledge, on time, two days later. Numbers 23, 24, 25, and 26. Never were numbers written in a spiral notebook with more satisfaction, and relief. Whewww. I can’t wait to see what next season holds for the Wren Wranch.