The bird flu completely destroyed our peregrine falcon population over the past few years. Locally, in Ocean County, we lost all but one of our breeding adults in a very short span of time. The loss is well north of 70% of the population, and it’s not just New Jersey. It’s all over, especially along the coast. It’s worse than what happened in the DDT era, which, when this broke out, we were still pretty much in the process of recovering from decades later.
You probably know this already, at least from things you’ve read about here. Maybe you know this from the things you haven’t read about here in quite some time. I still don’t know what to say. The traumatic impact of these events runs so deep, I haven’t even really worked through my own feelings about it yet, let alone have any idea how to share them in any way that isn’t just me begging you to help make me feel better; pleading with you to tell me it is going to be OK, even if you don’t mean it or know anything about it.
So I don’t want to talk about the past right now. I want to talk about the future; what the road ahead might look like; what might get us out of this mess.
I have a story to share which might offer a glimpse. The moral of this story is perhaps that we need more babies; just not in the way you think!
Ocean County has had an historic role in the comeback of peregrines. The first hacking towers where captive bred falcons were first introduced to re-establish a wild population in the ’70s were built here. It’s only a small stretch to claim that all eastern peregrine today are, at least partly, descendants of this region. So to see our legendary nesting sites vacant and desolate was not just heartbreaking, but downright spooky.
And then suddenly, after months of eerie, empty silence on our cameras, she just showed up one day.
A baby falcon. BN/29 was about 6 months old when she first landed off Long Beach Island. Before bird flu, she wouldn’t have been allowed to sit on that tower for more than a few minutes before one of our legendary resident females would have thrown her to the ground.
But in the void, there she stayed. To be fair, despite her age, she was striking. Unusually large and unrelentingly brutish, you could feel the tower shake as she stomped around on the platform; her shrieking calls could send chills down your spine. But still she was just a baby. It was equal parts comedy and tragedy watching this little falcon have control of the once great kingdom. She surely had no idea how lucky she was; in every way a young falcon could be lucky.
Yet she did make every effort to fill her new-found role. She was always at that tower. And while we could only see a small part of her life through the camera, we could hear her in the distance fighting and defending this place as if it was her birthright. Which maybe, in some strange way, it was.
By the spring, as she approached her one year mark, she even managed to attract a mate. Well, more like a friend. Peregrine falcons don’t really reach sexual maturity until age four or so. To call them mates would be generous beyond reason.
The young male was another youngster; a two year old from the Bonnet Island tower. One of Jo Durt’s last broods. Once again, it was strange mix of comedy and tragedy watching these two baby falcons “play house” all spring in what had historically been such a consistently important and competitive breeding ground in the species’ recovery from DDT.
The biggest joy was definitely watching them attempt the courtship rituals despite their young age: he would bring her food to prove his worth, but she would just take it and fly off with it. Over and over again. She got fed by poor little BH/51 for absolutely no reason whatsoever. All spring long! Luckily, by the summer, the hormones wore off, or maybe he just wisened up, and he, smartly, stopped doing that. But they stayed together and continued to practice being the queen and king of an empire they clearly were not ready for, yet somehow found themselves gifted with.
Sadly, we lost BH/51 in the winter of 2024/2025; another victim of this cursed flu. But she remained, albeit lonely, glued to her tower.
By the spring, her very first steel blue adult feathers were just coming in when a new suitor landed on the deck. He was banded BH/85 and had hatched in the Sedge Islands in the early summer on 2023; the same year as she. He was another two year old, and it was a thrill to see him alive. Because the last time he’d been seen was in Miami, Florida, with a severely broken foot.
Yet here he was, limping around the tower and visiting the water towers of Long Beach Island, barely able to clutch the railings with his disability.
It wasn’t long before BN/29 was up to her old tricks, playing house, and trying to get this poor, broken footed new friend to deliver her free meals for the rest of the summer. I remember watching him bring her the first prey on camera in the spring of 2025 and, literally, yelling at the screen “Don’t do it, bro! Run! It’s a trap! RUNNNN!!!”
Yet the courtship persisted, and grew quite serious last spring. Kathy and I were impressed enough that we began watching closely on cam, often discussing if it would even be biologically possible for these two two-year-olds to reproduce. It would be unheard of, and something for the record books. No. It couldn’t be.
As they kept increasing the intensity of the courtship, we dared not hope, but it would be a lie to say there was not a touch of eager anticipation last spring as we watched for signs on nesting between these two.
But the spring passed, the activity slowed, and we were content with the thought “maybe next year!”
Soon, as activity slowed, I turned off the video on the camera to save money, and set it to just send us pictures, so at least we could keep an eye on them. By then it was deep summer, things got busy, and I only checked the photos once in a while. It was long past peregrine nesting season by this point.
In July I was struck down by a nasty case of Lyme disease. Lethargic beyond imagination, I spent a lot time on the couch reading. I was just about to take my tenth nap of the day when I decided to check in on the Two Year Olds for a moment, just to cheer myself up a little.
That’s when I saw this photo had come in. A moment I will never forget:
I could not believe my eyes. The jolt of adrenaline, part panic, part joy, was enough to bolt me upright in a way I hadn’t been able to since that tick bit me. I hesitated for just a moment before txting Kathy… how in the world did I miss this??? I have a 24/7 camera on them! A momentary flash of shame reddened my cheeks, but the joy was too much to contain. My phone rang seconds after I shot off the text.
I don’t know what you call it… absurdity? What’s the emotion that’s a mix pure bliss and complete confusion? Whatever it is, that’s what we felt as we fumbled for words, both to describe what was happening and to express how we were feeling.
But there was some urgency too. These surprise babies were HUGE. Aging them from the picture, it looked like we only had about a week, tops, before they were too old to band.
Thankfully, Melissa and Zac ran up right away to band these two little rascals and witness this miracle.
We watched them thrive up there for the rest of the summer, through fledge, guided expertly by their brute of a mother and their gimpy footed dad, both who were barely more than fledglings themselves.
Anyway, that’s the story of the Two Year Olds. For me, this is really the first story, the genesis story, of the next era; of the new recovery.
So stay tuned for the second story: The Two Year Olds II: The Three Year Olds!
BN/29 first arrives at just a few months old. I am so thankful I invented NestStory, and so thankful Kathy used it to upload this photo because I had already lost it long ago!