Naturalists love meeting new critters. For professional biologists and casual wildlife enthusiasts alike, the opportunity to observe an animal that one has never previously encountered is one of the greatest joys associated with the craft. Birders, in particular, are famous for the incredible lengths they are willing to go to in order to add new species to their life lists. The eternal quest for lifers often requires crossing state lines, international borders, or entire hemispheres in search of prized rarities. There are times, however, when it is possible to scratch that itch without needing to leave the familiar setting of one’s own neighborhood. Such local novelties are the lifeblood of the avocation, providing welcome sustenance to the curious nature-lover even when options for travel further afield are restricted by busy schedules and unavoidable obligations.
One of the major perks of birding compared to other ecological pursuits is the frequency with which new species turn up out of range. By dint of having wings, birds are vastly more prone to vagrancy than earthbound animals like reptiles and most mammals. Although there are other organisms that have the means to disperse similarly long distances, including certain insects and fish, birds tend to be more conspicuous and are thus easier to seek out with intentional, targeted effort. Over the course of my birding career, I have observed a diverse array of remarkable vagrants that found themselves far from their own homes and closer to mine. My New York state list features species hailing from nearly every corner of the continent, and in some cases entirely different continents altogether. I even managed to make a new contribution to the state’s official checklist without setting foot beyond the threshold of my apartment building! Of course, even with this nearly limitless potential taken into consideration, locally-focused birding efforts do face the inescapable realities of diminishing returns. While the spectacular strays may never dry up entirely, opportunities for at-home additions tend to get fewer and further apart as the life list continues to grow. During these lulls between mind-blowing megararities, it is critical to remember that there are other types of critters on offer for those who care to search for them!
Considering how much time I spent splashing through creeks and flipping logs when I was a kid, it comes as little surprise that I recently got back into herping in a big way. The early months of 2024 marked the official kickoff of my grand reentry into the wonderful world of vernal pools and the marvelous creatures that inhabit them. In just a few short seasons, I have managed to track down every kind of salamander that can be found on Long Island and in New York City, as well as a few additional pickups slightly further afield. While some of these encounters involved reunions with beloved old friends like Spotted Salamanders and Red Efts, the vast majority involved species that were new to my life list, including state-endangered Eastern Tiger Salamanders and relict urban populations of Northern Dusky Salamanders. On the reptile front, I also crossed paths with a handful of new snakes in recent years, ranging from the conspicuous and widespread Northern Black Racer to the secretive and habitat-specific Eastern Wormsnake.
There was one surprising species, however, that somehow continued to elude my search efforts despite its ubiquity in my neck of the woods: the DeKay’s Brownsnake. These small, nonvenomous serpents are impressively adept at living alongside humans, commonly found in heavily modified, anthropogenic habitats like parks, gardens, and even construction sites. The species is known to occur in good numbers on Randall’s Island, my primary birding patch, but I just could not seem to find one no matter how hard I tried. I regularly stumbled upon recently deceased individuals, typically pancaked on park roads and once dangling lifeless from the talons of an American Kestrel. My friends also had a remarkable penchant for turning up live brownsnakes whenever I was absent, including several occasions when they discovered one shortly after I split off from the group. My baffling inability to connect with this common, unassuming critter was genuinely comical; I had somehow found myself with a Nemesis Reptile on my hands! Fortunately, spring 2026 saw the curse broken at long last. I got to meet these charming little snakes on several different occasions this year, including a few impressive congregations of individuals basking in the warmth of the sunshine. After so many years of missed connections, it was something of a relief to finally make the acquaintance of these beloved local residents.
Perhaps the most unexpected lifer experience of my year to date involved an animal that most folks have never heard of. In late April, word began to spread within the New York naturalist community that something incredible was unfolding on the South Shore of Long Island. Wonderstruck observers at various sites along the barrier beaches reported the sudden appearance of many thousands of strange, translucent creatures: sea angels, Clione limacina. Despite their ethereal, almost alien aspect, these marine mollusks are actually a type of shell-less snail, typically found in deep, cold waters around the upper latitudes of the globe. Flapping their wing-like fins, sea angels drift on ocean currents in search of prey, which they ensnare using a hidden set of grasping tentacles. Though their habits and distribution render these wee sea beasties largely unknown to most landlubbers, they have achieved a measure of popularity in certain circles due to their endearingly peculiar appearance. Thanks to their prevalence around the chilly coasts of Hokkaido, sea angels are disproportionately well-represented in Japanese culture, making appearances in globally beloved franchises like Animal Crossing, Hello Kitty, and Pokémon. They also starred in a mesmerizing sequence from the first episode of Planet Earth III, showcasing their predatory prowess and taste for distantly related marine snails known as sea butterflies. On much of the East Coast, however, these otherworldly invertebrates are virtually unheard of. Review of iNaturalist records revealed only a tiny handful of incidental observations ever recorded in New York, so the massive hordes that had suddenly appeared in our region made for a truly shocking development. Even though I had admired sea angels from afar for many years, I never considered the possibility that I might one day meet them along the shorelines of my own home state. The prospect of doing so was genuinely thrilling to me!
Work responsibilities and family obligations wound up delaying my sea angel search efforts by several weeks, so by the time I found a window of opportunity to make an attempt I was unsure whether there would still be any around. I rustled up a posse of fellow Clione-curious naturalists, striking out for the Robert Moses State Park boat basin with my pals Ryan Mandelbaum and Ryan Zucker. As birders, my friends and I are no strangers to the thrill of the chase, but none of us had ever imagined that we might go to such great lengths in search of a wayward marine invertebrate! Upon our arrival at the marina, we were overjoyed to discover good numbers of sea angels gently drifting past the docks with the tide. Using a homemade dipnet constructed from a clear plastic tub, a long-handled sidewalk scraper, and some masking tape, we carefully scooped a handful of individuals so we could marvel at them up close. The three of us were positively giddy with excitement over the wild success of our harebrained scheme, and the sea angels themselves vastly exceeded our sky-high expectations! Watching these remarkable little critters flapping about and turning lazy loops on the current was a delightfully tranquil and pleasant experience. These spectacular sea snails were truly unlike any other organism I had ever encountered before.
As we trolled the boat basin for sea angels, we also stumbled upon a number of bonus critters to add to our life lists. Our makeshift miniature aquarium temporarily hosted a few Metallic Isopods, a marine cousin of the pill bug, as well as a pair of Sea Gooseberries, a kind of strikingly see-through comb jelly. Incidental invertebrate lifers are nearly always on offer for naturalists who regularly put themselves into new situations, provided that one actually takes the time to attempt sorting them out to species.
It is not an exaggeration to say that my encounter with the sea angels proved to be one of the natural highlights of my year, and one of the most unexpectedly fascinating wildlife observations of my entire career here in New York. The experience was all the more memorable because I was able to share it with some good friends who were able to match and amplify my own boundless enthusiasm. Nature nerdery is always more fun with company!
The onset of summer vacation saw my schedule opening up considerably, and I found myself with a lot more free time for dedicated critter searches. One of my primary objectives for 2026 was to finally track down a species that had been giving me the runaround for the past few years: the Eastern Spadefoot. These bizarre, burrowing frogs are exceedingly rare and localized on Long Island, inhabiting only a few disjunct sites with suitably sandy soil. They also spend the vast majority of their lives hidden away underground, typically only emerging in the wake of heavy rains. Even when they do visit the surface, they conduct most of their affairs under cover of darkness, briefly congregating at vernal pools to breed and prowling for prey on suitably wet nights. The concept of a subterranean amphibian that can be summoned by rain has captivated me ever since I was a youngster, but I was completely unaware that spadefoots could be found in New York until relatively recently.
As much as I desperately wanted to meet this species in the flesh, getting out into appropriate habitat in appropriate conditions proved to be a bit of a challenge. Waltzing around the woods in the dark and the rain is a difficult commitment to make under the best of circumstances, and as a new dad I was not especially enthused about skipping out on bedtime to engage in such escapades. I partook in a few targeted attempts when suitable forecasts aligned with my limited availability, but every single time my efforts came up short. My long-awaited lifer came about in a rather unorthodox fashion when Ryan and I incidentally discovered an Eastern Spadefoot trapped inside a sprinkler valve box, an all-too-common fate for various herps and creepy-crawlies that take refuge in these dark, damp hideaways and then find themselves unable to escape. We gently rescued the hapless frog, rehydrating it with a sprinkle of water before relocating it to more natural cover close by. These close-up views also allowed me to admire various subtle details at length, including the mesmerizing golden eyes, the lyre-shaped markings on the back, and the keratinized shovels on the hindfeet that give the species its name. I was thrilled to finally connect with this amazing amphibian, and even more honored that I was able to lend a helping hand to an individual in need!
With now more than a decade under my belt in the field of science education, I have learned that summer vacation is a fantastic time to take on pet projects for my betterment as a naturalist. In 2026, my primary seasonal objective was finally leveling up my dragonfly game. The warmer months are consistently the best, and for many species only, time of year to observe these intriguing insects anyway, so I decided to take full advantage of my coincident freedom from work. I have always held a certain innate fondness for both dragonflies and their damselfly cousins, forged over the course of countless childhood adventures along the banks of creeks and lakes throughout New York State. Their incredible aerial acrobatics and precision hunting skills are nothing short of awe-inspiring, and their flashy, distinctive looks only add to the appeal. That said, for much of my life my relationship with odonates was one of casual admiration rather than any deep, meaningful understanding. A baseline awareness of familiar, widespread species like Common Green Darner, Blue Dasher, and Wandering Glider essentially represented the full extent of my knowledge. I had been tentatively dipping my toes into the wonderful world of odonates for several years now, serving as Ryan’s chauffeur as he quested after hyperlocal Long Island specialties like Scarlet Bluet and Double-ringed Pennant. This summer, I fully committed to plunging in with both feet and taking a more active role in these schemes.
2026 dragonfly-watching highlights thus far have included Needham’s Skimmer, an eye-catching orange bruiser that I stumbled upon at several sites, and Saffron-winged Meadowhawk, a delightfully subtle variation on the classic template of innumerable lookalikes in the genus Sympetrum. My personal favorite ode of the season, however, was the jaw-droppingly minuscule Elfin Skimmer. Measuring a mere three-quarters of an inch in length, this species is the smallest dragonfly in all of North America, tinier than even our daintiest damselflies. Males are clad in an attractive shade of powder blue while females are decked out in black and yellow stripes, mimicking the aposematic patterns of similarly sized wasps. Elfin Skimmer is a habitat specialist restricted to bogs and fens, with only a few known strongholds in downstate New York. I must confess that I was unprepared for how comically tiny this species is in life, and the sight of a lone individual patrolling an isolated patch of sedges completely blew me away. Yes, I know that the concept of a small bug is not exactly groundbreaking, but there is something uniquely surreal about seeing the iconic dragonfly base model scaled down to such diminutive dimensions, a perfect miniature of its familiar, larger cousins. Meeting this charming wee dragon was the final push I needed to purchase the exceptional Dragonflies of North America by Ed Lam, a famously well-regarded tome that has already greatly furthered my understanding of these fascinating flyers.
In a splendid twist of good fortune, I wound up climbing aboard the dragonfly bandwagon at the perfect time to cash in on one of this year’s most spectacular natural phenomena: an incredible incursion of Striped Saddlebags far beyond the limits of their typical range. This handsome, predominantly Neotropical species is normally found no further north than Florida and Texas, but their aerial lifestyle makes them especially prone to vagrancy. In early August, records began cropping up across the eastern United States, with dozens reported at migratory choke points like Cape May and the shores of the Great Lakes. A single surprise report from Suffolk County inspired my friends and me to get out and search for our own. Established odonate aficionado Ryan managed to do some serious damage on this front, conducting a solo expedition to Governors Island that turned up several individuals and documenting a few more around Staten Island during a joint venture with with Jay. I spent several days searching for Stripes at promising sites along the South Shore of Long Island, disappointingly coming up empty everywhere I looked. Rather than risk missing out on the chance to add an exciting regional rarity to my burgeoning dragonfly life list, I finally caved and decided to twitch the Staten Island reports. For the second time this year, I was chasing an out-of-range invertebrate just as I would a vagrant bird! To my shock and delight, I found multiple individuals continuing near the observation platform at Clay Pit Ponds State Park Preserve. I even made a scientifically significant contribution of my own when I discovered a mated pair actively ovipositing, representing the first documented breeding record of Striped Saddlebags for the entire state of New York! The introductory page of Dragonflies of North America authoritatively states that “there remains ample opportunity for observers of all levels of experience to contribute” to the community’s collective understanding of species distribution, but I was nevertheless stunned and elated that I actually managed to do so myself! I could get used to this whole dragonfly-watching thing!
Over the course of our summer expeditionary outings, Ryan and I found ourselves racking up a surprisingly impressive total of bonus insects. Orthopterans like grasshoppers and katydids became the subjects of some intentional secondary focus as the new odonates on offer began to dry up. One of the standout species of the season was the magnificently camouflaged Marbled Grasshopper, a locally scarce species that required careful study to distinguish between it and the abundant and superficially similar Longhorn Band-wing Grasshopper. While the latter features hidden red patches on its hindwings, the former is instead emblazoned with brilliant yellow, which made for a fun learning experience as we sifted through the cryptically patterned hoppers. Additional lifer pickups in this category included Admirable, Spotted-winged, Huckleberry Spur-throat, and Keeler’s Spur-throat Grasshoppers, as well as both Lesser Pine Katydid and Saltmarsh Meadow Katydid.
One of the major obstacles associated with insect listing is the general pervasiveness of impossibly confounding identification challenges that put the birding world’s flycatchers and leaf warblers to shame. It is not at all uncommon to upload a reasonably detailed photo to iNaturalist and never come away with a satisfactory species-level designation, which necessitates a bit of adjustment in terms of expectations. Another factor worth considering is the reality that countless invertebrate taxa have no common names at all. Even though my own working knowledge of avian scientific names is better than average, it is still a bit of a culture shock to refer to critters exclusively by their formal binomials. The common names that do exist, however, are generally pretty memorable. There were a number of entertaining monikers among the ranks of the recent additions to my insect life list, including bees like Two-spotted Longhorn Bee and Sand Bee, flies such as Eastern Beebandit and Eastern Red-tailed Marauder, and even a few bee flies in the form of Band-winged Bee Fly and Tiger Bee Fly.
One of the liveliest nights of bug listing of the year thus far was the annual migration survey conducted at the Tribute in Light. 2026 marked the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, so there was unsurprisingly a great deal of extra attention surrounding the proceedings this year, including a livestreamed commemorative concert that was held right at the base of the beams themselves. As always, my colleagues with the New York City Bird Alliance worked alongside event coordinators to minimize potential harm to migrating birds while still maintaining a respectful atmosphere to honor this solemn occasion. With gentle, sustained northerlies and mostly clear skies, conditions were primed for a busy night of avian migration this year, and my friends and I documented an impressive array of species entrained in the towering, illuminated pillars. In total, the lights needed to be shut down 8 times between sunset and sunrise, which allowed the assembled birds to quickly disperse and safely resume their migratory journeys. Birds are not the only creatures attracted to this luminous display, however. Like a gigantic, irresistible lamp, the twin beams lure in countless moths, beetles, and other insects from far and wide. This season proved particularly productive on this front, providing me with several unexpected lifers including White-lined Sphinx, Bedstraw Hawkmoth, and Carolina Sphinx. Over the course of the past several years volunteering as a monitor at Tribute, I find myself consistently awestruck at the fascinating glimpse this event offers into the hidden world of nocturnal migration. There is always something new to be learned from these yearly observations, and I am perpetually grateful for the small role I get to play in this collaborative vigil.
Thus far, my only avian lifers for 2026 have been travel pickups. I have had the good fortune to visit the lovely state of Colorado twice this year, and each trip produced a new bird for my life list. In June, a trip to Vail for my friends’ Lizzy and Austin’s wedding furnished me with an unexpected Lewis’s Woodpecker along the road back to Denver for our flight home. Despite my extensive adventures in the Intermountain West, this handsome species had somehow always managed to elude me, so I was particularly pleased about this unexpected introduction. Just over a month later, a visit to Rocky Mountain National Park for my buddy Edem’s bachelor party saw me finally connecting with White-tailed Ptarmigan, my long-reigning number one Nemesis Bird. I had conducted countless intentional searches for these chilled chickens in suitable alpine tundra habitat across multiple states and provinces since 2005, so I was especially relieved to finally spy a family group picking their way across the rocky slopes at Medicine Bow Curve. Triumphing over a well-established Nemesis is always a welcome victory, even if it means that I will get my bio blurb updated for this site!
I know not when my next local life bird will make its grand entrance, but the beauty of birding is that it could conceivably happen at just about any moment! In the meantime, I will continue to make the most of the new herps, insects, and sea critters still available to me, as well as any further unexpected surprises that may come about before the end of 2026! The fall migration season is only just now hitting its stride, and we all know that the tail end of the autumn is when things start to get truly weird. I eagerly look forward to seeing what comes next!