The Washed Masses

Watching out the window while answering a Sprint telephone survey, I spotted a little wren shape. Only an hour ago, a downpour rinsed the dust on my car to make mud on the ground for me to splatter on the wheels. I discovered two nights ago that more than one Bewick's Wren think our parking lot an enjoyable place to hop around in the evening.

As is usually the case when there is something to stare at, I was already late and had little time for staring. But there was one hopping around underneath my neighbor's car. He eyed me warily. I took slow steps closer.

Excuse me for a moment while I chase a rabbit. It is most difficult to avoid bemused looks from friends and strangers when one is a 24-hour birder. The same evening I tore myself away from the wrens to go to class, I was speaking with a classmate in the school parking lot. In the middle of our conversation about our class paper, she said, "What kind is it?"

"What kind of paper?"

"No, the bird you're looking at over my shoulder."

She knows me well.

It was actually a pair of cormorants. At least, I think so. That's what they looked like.

Back to my parking-lot wrens. I'm sure if my neighbors had emerged I would have looked quite strange to them. I have done little to combat this perception of me. I brought my crocheting to their marketing presentation the other night.

The wren hopped out of view with each step I took. Perhaps they are shy. Perhaps they think I can shoot laser rays with my eyes. But I wish we could have gotten better acquainted.

Envy with Green

Today's episode focuses on the experiences of others. My mom sent me a picture from my parents' recent vacation in southwestern Canada.


No, I wouldn't have been able to tell either, but this is a Clark's Nutcracker. Mom says they were everywhere, adding to an already lovely and charming place of relaxation. I go that part of the continent nearly every summer and deeply regret missing it this year, not least because of Clark's Nutcracker.

Another country heard from, almost literally, is the guru himself. Birding has been different for him on a tiny island in the South Pacific, and I cannot deny I am rather envious of his rapidly-widening experience. His descriptions of Fairy Terns, also prosaically labeled White Terns, make them sound like Ariel of The Tempest.

I have had little leisure for birding of late, and I must confess that temperatures and other temptations have kept me inside more than usual.

Though envious, I cannot be sad. Rejoice with those who rejoice.

Photography

Encouraged by an LOL colleague to use my remaining film photographing birds, I gave it a shot. I didn't expect to see anything extraordinary to photograph. It's a good thing, because I didn't see anything extraordinary.

(Please note that I attempt to use the word "extraordinary" in its literal meaning, which in my understanding is something like "not like the usual course of things." In the hyperbolic sense meaning simply "delightful," I see extraordinary things every day.)

One obliging mockingbird took a picturesque posture on a street sign.



Believe me, it really is a mockingbird. I am not a good photographer of anything, let alone these fidgety little flight-capable photophobes. Then again, this shadowy blur looks like most views I've had of birds, so I cannot fault its accuracy.



This is the arbor in the cemetery, under which I have spent one or two deliciously peaceful hours. Here I met Bewick's charming little wren.



If only I had a camera without "autofocus." My bubbling brook in the park has recently lost much of its water and bubbles no more. I look forward to a few hard rains and many a pleasant vigil. Perhaps I will again see my mythical juvenile Red-shouldered Hawk.

Perhaps time or divine intervention will bring me the camera, the skill and the perseverance to do better. Perseverance alone might even do the trick. Most skills come with perseverance, and sometimes skill is materially rewarded.

Ax^2 + Bxy + Cy^2 = 0

A Red-bellied Woodpecker surprised me yesterday. I was thirty feet or so from my apartment complex on the way to work when a woodpeckerish streak zipped across the street. I stopped and stared, amazed at how much closer he allowed me to get in the car than he would have if I were on foot.

I watched him crawl all over my neighbor's tree, my eyes straining to discern the red belly. Alas.

I wonder why it is just in recent months that I am beginning to see many different things than I used to see here--Eurasian Collared-doves, Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Inca Doves? Sibley, at least, says many of the things I am seeing are present year-round. So am I just paying more attention now? Do they get bolder in hot weather? I know I never liked dealing with more than one variable in algebra classes, and I think I understand why now.

Either way, each discovery invigorates me for more.

Birding from a Tractor

My visit to the grasslands of the Red River area was more productive for birding than I expected. My friend's job puts her in a tractor all day every day it doesn't rain, and I was allowed to ride along for several hours on Saturday.

While she fixed and greased the tractor, I watched a little birdie singing his heart out on a tall weed. He had a black goatee and a yellow breast, but I could not see him as well as I would have liked. I had been warned of the chiggers that lived in the grass.

A hawk hung directly above and my friend told me he follows her, hunting rats. He landed fifteen feet away as we drove by and I got a good look at him. He looked just like an image I recalled from my Sibley--but I could not remember of whom. Numerous medium-sized birds with white patches on their tails flew from here to there, but the tractor kept them at a distance my naked eye could not negotiate. Savannah Sparrows and a nighthawk perched on a fence rail until the tractor got a little too close.

I forgot the fifth point of birding calvinism and neglected to bring my Sibley on the trip. Thankfully I was able to look closely enough to remember definite characteristics to look up later. Further study revealed that I had become more intimate with Swainson's Hawk, the Eastern Meadowlark, and the Horned Lark. I have seen none of them regularly and the lark never before.

One must take advantage of opportunities to commune with nature, whether cutting hay or treading softly through thickets. Leeches, chiggers, and sweat can be daunting, but they are nothing when opposed to the open air.

Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—

I Think An Inca Crossed My Path

You have to read the title out loud. Dr. Seuss is a hero of mine--or as Lynne Truss might suggest, a hero of me.

My roommate actually deigned to pick up my binoculars as she rode with me the other day. She was even willing to look at White-winged and Mourning Doves to see the differences. But she drew the line when I stopped in the road in front of our apartment to show her what I assumed was a juvenile Mourning Dove.

The more I looked at the specimen strutting about in the street, the more uncertain I was about that. I grabbed the binoculars from her and looked for myself. The dove had heavy scaly markings all over. I hadn't yet seen any Inca Doves in Stephenville, but this looked exactly as I remembered from other trips. I was only beginning to coo over it when Samantha's non-birder patience ran out and she got out of the car to walk the rest of the way. The dove flew when she shut the door; my memory mischievously tells me I saw reddish wings as it flew.

My follow-up time with the Sibley made me eager to see it again, but my strolls up and down the street were fruitless. Vainly have I watched to see it more.

Go, Go Gadget Eyes!

Yesterday I went to the park for some idyllic peace and fresh air, but I brought the binocs just in case.

Immediately after arriving, I twice caught a glimpse of a smallish hawk-like guy (or gal) flying over the trees, but each time my view was quickly obscured as quem descended again. I walked in the direction quem had gone, but did not get my hopes too high.

(If you've been paying attention to this site, you already know that my senses for these types of birds are quite dull. I long for and eagerly await the day I will not be flummoxed by every bird of prey that crosses my path or flits through the trees at the side of it. It would also be handy to have flexible telescoping eyes.)

Like a true self-centered human, I chose to make myself comfortable and wait for it to come to me. Above my favorite nook by the babbling brook, I heard a persistent screech/squeak which sounded like it might come from a bird of that size. There were at least two birds in the trees across the water, but even though their calls sounded so near, I saw not a trace of them for at least ten minutes.

I finally spotted a movement, and for three or four seconds trained my binoculars on a shadowy figure in the trees. This was the best look I got at it, and at this inopportune moment I realized that I should have studied what would be most helpful to look for. I didn't get much further past hooked bill, drab colors, and spotted/streaky breast before the figure moved, perched for another two or three seconds, and then disappeared in yonder trees.

I heard it several more times, but I didn't see it again. I mulled over what I had seen. It was a small hawk if it was a hawk. The spotted/streaky breast was just shouting, "Juvenile!"--but not necessarily. The best shot I had was to find a recording of the calls of the most likely suspects.

Checking with Sibley on my return home, I had no success pinpointing something that looked like I remembered; the description of habitat, call, and behavior, however, threw my suspicions on the juvenile Red-Shouldered Hawk. The good ol' Internet then came through again with a call recording, and the calls seemed at least close enough. I am 85% certain I was squaring off with a sunburned buteo. But that's the hardest 15% of all.

A Little M-bird Never Hurt Anything

Today's title is a quote from my brother upon observing my cousin's astute representation of "beach" during a Pictionary-like game last Thanksgiving.

I went back to the graveyard last night and sat under the arbor where a Bewick's Wren had been so cooperative a few weeks before. It was bewitchingly peaceful, but neither my wren friend nor any others visited me in the overhead vines.

Still, I sat. Doves, kingbirds, robins, and grackles passed by overhead, but the featured species of the evening was that beloved crooner of Texas, the Northern Mockingbird. Little crooning was heard; laryngitis seems to have hit the central Texas population and all they seemed to manage was the voiceless buzzing that sounds pitiful from any species, including mine. A cold has afflicted my own vocal cords over the past week, and a refrain of "This Is My Father's World," which always seems to bubble up when I am enjoying the outdoors, fell flat upon the breeze.

The mockingbirds didn't mind me. I watched their behavior as they perched on the headstones for minutes at a time, twitching their wings and making themselves look poofy. One behavior I had missed by not spending time observing mockingbirds is their pattern of hopping, unfolding their wings for a split second, waiting, and then hopping again. Why?

Sibley explains why, but I never would have checked without a half-hour perch of my own in the mellow evening. I love summer.

One with Nature

Unexpectedly, I found myself at Lake Cherokee for the 4th of July. Relatives of people we know have a house there and they were very hospitable to strangers. The water was so inviting that I plunged right in, only to find that it was several degrees warmer than refreshing.

Aduma and I swam maybe a half-mile over to the other side of the lake (our friend accompanied us in the paddleboat) and played on a sandbar for a while, feeling the mud between our toes and the strong wind which convinced us not to try the swim back. I had already seen hundreds of swallows and a couple of bluebirds near the edges of the water, but I was among non-birders and kept quiet about it. But when a Green Heron flew over I could not contain myself. The sun glinted off its rich, dark colors as it swept by just a few feet away. "Green Heron, Green Heron!"

No response. I really should get this by now.

Later, as we played on the beach and Aduma was trying to explain something to me, he asked what was so fascinating about the view over his left shoulder. I hadn't realized that two Eastern Kingbirds in a tree had so wholly absorbed my visual attention. When I explained, he actually looked at them for at least five seconds. Maybe someday he will find his calling.

When we emerged from the water and prepared to go in to supper, Aduma casually looked down and removed a leech from his foot. There were two attached to my leg. The horror, the horror! My appreciation of nature still excludes hospitality to parasites, and I must confess that a short period of semi-hysteria followed the discovery that I could not remove the second from the back of my calf.

Nature is not always friendly. Sometimes it wants your very lifeblood. So much for the universal consciousness.

VAAM Victories and Hopeless Hawks

Saturday was a great day for Cattle Egrets.

Not only did I see hundreds of them between Stephenville and Houston; I was also satisfied in the name of their species, even by my exacting standards. For the first time, I saw an egret happily perched on the back of a steer in a nice soggy grass field.

The rest of them didn't stray far from the cattle either, and I got to wondering why I ever had difficulty telling them from Great Egrets (in flight, anyway). I'm getting to be a pretty good guesser, since this little rule of thumb has so far held water: Greats rarely fly in pairs or groups and Cattles rarely fly alone. Maybe this is the answer to the burning question: "What's so dang 'Great' about 'em?"

Sometimes the obvious just needs to be stated.

My trip to Houston had to be taken under cover; a pair of good friends were getting married and getting to the church on time took precedence over the allure of the Galveston coast. Afterwards, I'm ashamed to admit, returning home awake and alive took precedence over what I might see if I headed there. Having not done any research beforehand, I couldn't expect to drive up to the beach, say "Here I am," and spot a pair of scoters--though I've heard it has been done.

I contented myself with counting upwards of 17 different species as I barreled down the highways. Identification at high speed is difficult for me, especially for the several hawks I could not put my finger on. They simply don't cooperate by flying low in good light along my own route, wheeling so as to reveal all possible shapes. Even if they did, I would need a chauffeur because of the dangers inherent in blindly operating a vehicle solo on a two-lane highway right after the first rain in a month. As far as I can tell, one of them was a Cooper's-Shinned Kestrel.

*Audible sigh to indicate wistfulness* I'm just making excuses. Really, I just need more practice and more commitment to learning. It's like school or something.

Standing Upon the Heights

"He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; He enables me to stand upon the heights." Psalm 18:33

The birds and I have taken shelter from the oppressive heat in the last few days, but that does not keep me from recounting birding memories.

I went to Yosemite with my family this Memorial Day. We have lived about an hour and a half away from the park for as long as I can remember, but I think it was my third time. Shameful. Thousands of people travel thousands of miles to see it, and we allowed familiarity to breed contempt.

I brought my binoculars and my parents', hoping I might interest them or my brother and sister-in-law in keeping a lookout. I didn't have much of a clue whether the birds would show themselves or which ones would be there. My mom and dad accepted the binocs, but I could not interest them in a leisurely trail walk. The other younguns were already fifty yards ahead toward the hike to the falls, and it seems it was our duty to overtake them.

Finally I was to learn three things I should already have surmised:

• Serious hiking and birding are mutually exclusive
• Yosemite Park on Memorial Day is not exactly a quiet habitat
• In some countries, women think nothing of hiking steep trails in skirts and flip flops

The trail was so steep, narrow, rocky and crowded that there was no leisure for looking up, and if fifteen Harlequin Ducks had walked by, I might not have noticed them except to try to make room for them to pass without falling down a very steep and very unprotected cliffside. Thousands of people traveled up and down, and the only birds we were privileged to see were two Barn Swallows having it out over the valley. As they engaged, they dropped like stones in the struggle and we watched them pull up just as they were about to hit the ground. My mom, the only one with me by this point, and I enjoyed the scene.

My brother took my binoculars with him as he and his wife left us to ascend the top of the falls. He brought them back with a broken strap, freeing me to shop for new ones--new ones I very much enjoy. Thanks, bro!

Even apart from the swallows, the day was not birdless; Common Ravens and Steller's Jays were numerous, and a Brown Creeper caught me without my binoculars while we picnicked on a mosquito-infested log. I enjoyed the raven's croak as it sent shivers down my spine: "nevermore." "Nevermore" indeed will I expect a hike with non-birders to yield the satisfaction I am accustomed to enjoy in birding.