Though they've declined recently in the northeastern United States as breeders, harriers are extremely widespread as breeders, especially across the vast boreal taiga and tundra. The harrier is one of few raptors that can be found migrating here in Cape May in fair numbers throughout the entire fall, from August until the bitter days of November and December. Additionally, they winter in fair numbers in New Jersey; happily, most winter trips through agricultural areas or marsh should turn up this incredibly beautiful animal.
In Cape May Point, harriers have many different creative ways of moving past the hawkwatch. Some pump over at extreme altitudes, clearly bound for Delaware and certainly points beyond. Others zigzag down the dunes low, looking for unlucky rodents or birds as they weave unsteadily (but profoundly, in a sense that only harriers can put forth). Perhaps the most popular of the harriers are the confiding, pumpkin-infused juveniles that tack back and forth over the marshes directly in front of the hawkwatch platform. When they get moderately close, these birds almost invariably veer off and avoid an intimate encounter with us, mere hominids, on the deck. Whether caused by the annoying rat-tat-tat of camera shutters or human conversation filtered into the harrier brain by owly facial disks or something else entirely, these birds seem to be more acutely aware of our noise and avoid our general presence more than other raptors. Regardless of the manner by which harriers migrate at the Point, they are always met by those watching with a sharp intake of breath, a quickening of the pulse, or at the very least, a slow smile.
Harriers of the adult male persuasion deserve a post (or perhaps even a leather-bound book) solely devoted to their incredible golden-eyed grayness, so I will defer further comment except to say that they are hauntingly lovely.
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