Duck!

Oklahoma was the place to be. We tried one shorefront, but day admission would have cost us each a dollar, so we figured we would explore our other options. At the next stop the rate posted was the same, but there were no fences and we figured we might pilfer a peek at the water without being molested. After Bolt began to park on the side of the road conspicuously near the admission booth, Courtney pointed out a row of parking spaces right behind us. She was expeditiously nominated as LOL Director of Common Sense.

Walking through the waterside park, with its tall trees, we flushed Blue Jays, a couple of flickers, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Red-bellied Woodpeckers and meadowlarks. Their twittering was peaceful and our wandering bodies weary; when we reached the bank we all sat in the grass to gaze out upon the water.

There weren't many birds in sight; cormorants flew over regularly and occasionally a few gulls passed by higher in the air. A goose chased a cormorant low over the water. Killdeer cried mercilessly in the distance. The silence in between flowed over our ears in waves.

Presently two Ospreys swooped over and acted as if they would be dining with us; one dived once, and it didn't look like it caught anything. They must not have been hungry, but they were majestic. No wonder the ancient inhabitants of America wore feathers as a sign of warrior glory.

We spent some time there; but probably none of us could tell you how long. Presently we wandered to the other side of the small peninsula we occupied, where the sunlight piercingly reflected off the water to match its originator in the sky.

To the left were several irresistible items: a slide, a swingset, a merry-go-round, and a teeter-totter (also known in other regions as a seesaw). I, as LOL Executive Officer of Childlike Play, led my reluctant colleagues in what can only be called (alas!) a romp.

When we finished, it was time to mosey back, but driver and navigator still had not given up their scheme of finding this mysterious Loy Lake and, finding it oh too late on the map, embarked on a final search for this fabled aquatic landmark. After a roundabout, but not entirely futile itinerary, we found it.

Getting out of the car in the mellow evening of what had been an entirely perfect day climatically, we scanned the mostly-still water. David spotted something and chuckled. "You won't believe this."

It had to be a Pectoral Sandpiper. What else could it be?

I looked in the same direction and saw nothing. The light was beginning to give out.

David got out the scope, pointed it, and handed it off. And there in that darkish circle stood, on one foot....

...a duck. A Wood Duck. A beautifully painted, perfectly serene specimen of this elusive little bird I hadn't seen yet except on postage stamps. He stood there the whole time we watched, and then some, I am certain. Just what I was hoping to see today. Nothing like those geese....

Rattattattatt! A lady kingfisher wanted attention. Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk! A gaggle of Canada Geese were in and out of the picture in a matter of seconds. What a splendid day.

We made it home. 67 species. 11 life birds. The rest is history.

Globs in the Distance

We resolved to leave Hagerman, in a leisurely manner of course, to go to nearby Denison for lunch. David recalled a city park surrounding Loy Lake, in which he and Jason once witnessed a Barrow's Goldeneye. We would swing by there, head into Oklahoma as long as daylight allowed, and then head home.

The first glitch in the plan was a pleasant one; we stopped for one last scan of the lake in which we saw thousands of floating ducks in the distance. After we had the scope trained on them, however, instead we could see hundreds of floating ducks in the distance.

I strained to see anything that would help me, though it looked like nearly every other raft of ducks I've ever looked at: half something with white on it, half plain brown. Finally I thought I saw the dark head and white sides of a Lesser Scaup, and David confirmed that was probably what it was. He also pointed out a Ruddy Duck, of which I could only see the existence rather than any characteristics.

Soon the nearby sounds made the tree a few feet away much more interesting than the distant water birds. David saw an Orange-crowned Warbler, and as Courtney and I searched after it, he spotted a Golden-crowned Kinglet. This one stayed relatively still, and its bright yellow crest was unmistakeable. Numerous chickadees, yellow-rumps and a Downy Woodpecker also inhabited the tree. As a crowning surprise, from behind it swooped a kestrel on the hunt.

As we proceeded out of the park, we honed our plans for Denison: lunch first, then a quick trip to the park. We used our special Texas A+M map to determine our course; it was difficult, as the map had very few actual street names and we encountered Highway 75 several miles before it could be reasonably expected. After a quick repast at Arby's, David in true masculine spirit decided we would wander through town until we found the city park. Ask for directions? Pfffh.

The quick trip to the park turned into a longer detour than we had hoped; in fact, it was probably an hour later by the time we got to Lake Texoma, creatively titled considering its location on the Texas-Oklahoma border. We stopped short of the dam to give the water a once-over.

The only water birds in sight were cormorants, but a large group of vultures, Black and Turkey, perched on a pole overlooking the water. They took turns circling above, giving us a closer-than-usual view of the subtle differences between them. I reflected on my first birding lesson, which consisted of this distinction. That was on a gray day and the birds were further away; of course, it was mainly the fault of the untrained eye that I couldn't see any difference whatsoever in the length of their tails.

After a short jaunt down the stairs and down the Red River, we climbed back to cross the dam to a new state and a new playplace.

Come back again for the final episode of the October 22 trip: Duck!

Sparrow Road

Moving on from the scene of such drama, we drove further on the "Auto Tour" path. Something flew toward us; it looked like a heron; it was! Bittern! Bittern! It continued on and descended into the marsh, not to be seen again.

We ended up on a road with dried-up trees on either side, and sparrows flocked ahead of us, flushing just as we would get into view. We were forced to get out of the car and see if we could get any closer as our pink, soft, helpless human selves.

They still flushed ahead of us, but not before we got meaningful glimpses at the guests of this party. With the sparrows were bluebirds and Red-bellied Woodpeckers. Since I gave up on sparrows long ago, I tried to look at them closely but waited for the guru's pronouncement on what they were. "White-crowned Sparrows," came the conclusion before I had the chance to see one well.

As we struggled to get adequate looks at them, we tried to see if other types were mixing with the twenty-or-so White-crowneds, and David finally pointed out one that was (supposedly, though I certainly couldn't confirm it) larger than the others. "A Vesper Sparrow!"

I tried. I really did. I strained to tell what made the one I thought he was indicating different from the others. But they were not considerate birds; they refused to hold still. Savannah Sparrows also supposedly mixed in, and though I have more experience with those, I felt completely defeated by their whole family. It had been so nice and simple when the Lincoln's sat still, all alone, ten feet away.

After a briefly embarrassing but quickly corrected misidentification of immature White-crowneds by David, we moved on to the other side of the lake. More oil wells! No wonder gas is so cheap here!

Down one of these peninsulas, we scanned the water to see if there was more to see than coots. Lifting our binoculars, we saw in the distant sky a flock of hundreds--perhaps thousands--of whitish-looking birds flapping around in an amorphous group and wheeling around in no definite direction.

I didn't know enough about flight behavior to be able to make these things out unless they came a lot closer. They briefly came to where we could see the individual birds as more than specks, but sadly they turned and eventually passed from sight. David and I looked at each other. What was that? It seems he had never seen anything quite like it, and all I could confirm of his guess of "Franklin's Gulls" was that whatever I had seen did look somewhat like a gull.

At least the mystification was mutual. I was ready when we came to another place where grebes, cormorants and a couple of Mallards were easily seen and identified. David pointed out another pintail in the marsh, and through a few minutes of patient waiting I saw him (the pintail) relatively in the open. I wouldn't mind getting a better look in the future.

Returning from the last oil well, we discussed lunch and where we would go next, but our chatter was stilled by the appearance of a roadrunner only a few feet away. He went into the brush as we approached, but he was still close and the red and blue above his eye were visible. David reached for his camera, but our quarry slowly disappeared into the brush before the shot could be taken. It was the closest look we had all had in a while, though I somewhat nervously anticipated a TNT blast and the chuckle of a coyote in the distance.

Check in later for the next installment in our October 22 series: Globs in the Distance

Student Revolt

Once we separated from the white van, we combed through the numerous oil-well-occupied peninsulas in search of Green-winged Teal and other residents. We startled a beautifully marked Red-shouldered Hawk and watched it fly away. On the left, David spotted three geese. We stopped to get a better look. "They aren't that shy," I spoke from my vast experience with wild geese. The guru didn't let this pass unnoted.

And that was only the beginning. They didn't flee us, but these Greater White-fronted Geese didn't do much of anything else either. They walked around in the same 10-foot diameter circle the whole time we stayed. Sometimes, as positive-minded David pointed out, they sat down.

It is the first time a bird has bored me, and I still don't know why. I just wanted them to do something. I never make those demands on other species; most other species don't need it.

Soon enough, things started to happen. Several swallows flew over, and though we could never look closely enough at their hurtling bodies, we were fairly sure they were Barn Swallows. A kingfisher flew over and hovered over the water, making its special rat-a-tat sound. I was amazed at how it hovered; it appears hummingbirds aren't the only ones.

We saw a Red-shouldered Hawk in a tree across the inlet; a shrike perched much nearer in a tree scarcely 20 feet away. Two harriers coasted low over the marsh and only allowed brief glimpses. I was alerted to the approach and attack of a large spider at my feet and did a short but (I'm sure) entertaining little dance to warn him off.

David set up the scope to look at the boring geese, but soon enough conflict brought excitement. Several shorebirds swooped back and forth and landed behind a large stand of trees around which we couldn't see. Two, however, finally landed and remained motionless in clear view. David trained the scope on one and looked for several moments, then passed it off to me. "What is it?" I queried, as I have done hundreds of times before.

"I think I'm going to start asking you that."

Shoot. He's right. I should be able to do this.

He retrieved the Sibley while I spouted off my first thought: it's always a Sanderling, no matter what it looks like. "There's a simple reason that is not true," he calmly replied. I got the simple reason at my second guess; the specimen we were looking at had yellow legs.

Okay, then. I scanned and hemmed and hawed and didn't commit to anything until I had looked over several species. Finally, I had to take the step. "It's a Least Sandpiper."

"No."

I was ready enough to hear the reasons it was not. I'd had enough potential humiliation. He didn't seem to want to help yet, so Courtney and I scanned together, unable to come up with a better identification. The Pectoral Sandpiper obviously looked similar, but it was bigger and had more streaking on its front. I voiced my concern that it was the only other possibility, because what I saw in the scope didn't look right when I looked at Sibley.

A dispute ensued. "If it were a Least, it would be tiny." "It is tiny!" "Not that tiny!" And on and on.

Finally, I won. He slowly conceded that in all likelihood it was a Least Sandpiper. I had lost many times that day, though losing at least indicated I was playing. Winning, however, was sweet to an emaciated palette; losing, obviously, was bitter to the sated one.

But I am certain he rejoiced with me as I rejoiced. It was a successful flight by one of his fledglings.

Stay tuned for the next episode in the October 22 saga: Sparrow Road

Good Morning

We arose relatively early to depart by 7am, picking up Courtney for a jaunt to Hagerman. I'm glad the guru is back in the country for the time being, because he's better at planning birding trips than I am. But following through on the plan took all three of us.

With the help of some adroit map-reading skills, we ended up on Refuge Road without a single wrong turn. Along the road, we saw lots of meadowlarks, doves, and starlings. I mutely pointed at a perched Red-tailed Hawk but the driver failed to stop and our presence scared him into flight; this allowed us a look at his distinctly red tail and large frame. Kestrels and a harrier rounded out a good road for raptors, and bluebirds, phoebes and signs for the visitor center straight ahead dotted the roadside.

At Hagerman we entered the visitor center after a short hesitation based on the sign that said "Office hours: 10-7 Monday through Friday." This being Saturday, it took a leap from the moving car for me to check the door to see if it was really locked. There were actually two employees there, and they were eager to provide birding lists, posters, bookmarks, and information. After absorbing many options and directional gestures, we backed away and went to the car to put away our extra things. David pointed out a small flock of juncos flitting around in the bushes.

After a moment of indecision, we went on to look out upon the low marshes. Our first stop next to a bridge revealed coots, a distant Great Egret and Great Blue Heron, and several flocks of water birds flying over, one of which David identified as Redheads. I found ducks in flight difficult throughout the day, so I would have to wait to be able to know for myself. He assured us we'd see them all later on the water.

Meanwhile, closer in, a Lincoln's Sparrow hopped onto the bridge railing and allowed us an extended look at her. She even had a companion close by and they provided Courtney and me with a short sparrow lesson. I gave up on them a while ago, but the field marks seemed to make so much sense coming from the guru. I doubt, however, that the next time I run into a Lincoln's Sparrow, I will "just know" that is what it is.

Down in the brushy marsh a Sora wandered around, and a Marsh Wren was momentarily visible. Three long-legged, long-billed shorebirds flew over and David said they were yellowlegses. Somehow he managed both to hear and remember their calls as they flew, and he later pronounced that those were the Greater variety.

We proceeded to an apparently man-made peninsula with an oil rig in the middle of it providing a peaceful outdoor ambiance to our wanderings. We looked out in to marsh and open water, of which coots were the primary denizens. There were Blue-winged Teal and Gadwall on one side, Pied-billed Grebes a little further off, and a raft of ducks which David with a scope confirmed were mostly Redheads. As he scanned through them, a Canvasback and a Northern Pintail also emerged. The pintail evaded my gaze, but his race and I would meet again later.

A white van, which we had seen earlier at the visitor center, pulled up alongside us and several elderly people disembarked. The leader asked if we were members of the Audubon, and she seemed surprised to find that no, we were "just interested in birds" (her second option). After a short glance into the water, a man in the group saw the Redheads, Canvasback, a distant American Pelican, and Green-winged Teal.

These last two had escaped us so far, and they continued to do so until we left; the American Pelican turned out to be a piece of white trash, and the Green-winged Teal, we concluded, were the product either of crack or senility. Our departure was speeded by the man's surprised confirmation of David's observation: "Y'know, I think he's right about the pintail!"

For the rest of the trip, the white van symbolized terror, stalking, and all forms of evil. Despite these unfortunate associations, it no longer harassed our observations and we freely moved along.

Stay tuned for the next installment of our October 22 adventure: Student Revolt

Pairs

The weather was idyllic throughout the day yesterday. After my satisfying morning trip to the park, I headed to the office to tuck in a few loose ends. Again, just outside my apartment complex a fluttering caught my eye and I fixed on the flutterer's perch in the tree. I don't know why I haven't been keeping my binoculars in the passenger seat before now.

There on the branch were two Inca Doves snuggled together just like the cutesy paintings of unidentifiable birds some people hang up. They sat contentedly, not minding the car parked in the road and not sweating on one another as people would have done in the warm afternoon.

This place seems to be suddenly rife with Inca Doves, and the guru even glimpsed one during his visit. I smiled to myself and proceeded, fortunate not to have honking neighbors behind me yet.

The soft effulgence from the window drew me out of the office again two hours later, and I brought my homework to the cemetery. Though the afternoon was still, I laid my binoculars in my lap just in case. Only one movement drew up my eyes, as a startled female cardinal and Eurasian Collared-dove fluttered to separate perches. The dove sat atop a light pole for the duration of my visit.

As I gathered my things to leave, movement and a new sound in a tree behind me drew me between the stones toward it. The first thing I saw looked like one of those indistinguishable empidonax flycatchers, but I only saw it for a tenth of a second. A Bewick's Wren proved more visible and I noted his plain grayishness compared to a Carolina Wren of the morning.

Seeing another movement and hoping the flycatcher had not gone, I realized that it wasn't a flycatcher. The movement itself should have warned me; it was a Ruby-crowned Kinglet. I watched it for full five minutes without a satisfactory look at its whole tiny frame. Perhaps it sensed the violation of its privacy. I stepped back, respectful of the continual workings of the wild whether I noticed it or not.

These Birds Are Made For Walking

My brother's budgerigar used to walk around our kitchen table at breakfast. His (the bird, named Captain) wings were clipped and I doubt that he wanted to do much else, considering how well he liked soggy granola.

I remember thinking that God could not possibly have made these creatures for walking. They certainly looked clumsy doing it and moved much more slowly.

But when I first paid attention to shorebirds and their long-legged smoothness of gait, I thought differently. Just as there are forty different kinds of mayonnaise in the supermarket, there are thousands of different kinds of creatures, each with its own specialty.

I was reminded again of the uniqueness of each at the close of my romp through the park this morning. I was strolling back to the car when I saw two Killdeer also strolling through the grass.

They rounded out a delightful morning, one foregrounded by Red-bellied Woodpeckers (which, try as I might, I could not find red bellies on), Eurasian Collared-doves (in greater profusion than I have yet seen) and Carolina Chickadees.

I am still mystified by the loud machine-gun scolding bird which I glimpsed flying for less than a second through the overhanging branches. It was my first confirmation that it wasn't an overzealous squirrel.

I still admire the flying more than the familiar walking. A Killdeerish variety of abilities seems to me quite enviable, but we all do best what we were created for.

No Worms Today

I got to the park too early this morning to see anything, and too early not to regret my choice of shorts and t-shirt. But as the glowing coral-tinted sunrise brightened the trees and the twittering got louder, I hoped very soon to see something spectacular.

Alas. As the minutes ticked by, even the metallic cheeping of what I assumed were cardinals did not result in a single sighting. They tread softly despite their big mouths. The squirrels do not.

I walked along the edge of the wood that banked sharply down to the creek. I started seeing grackles and scissortails flying overhead, but none intended to take a breather in one of the trees. Cluckings similar to the ones David pointed out as Red-bellied Woodpeckers started to sound as well. How much longer could I go on without seeing something?

Not much. I froze as I looked down through a gap in the brush to the low creek water. A Great Blue Heron, not more than 20 feet away, was getting a morning's fishing in. He [randomly imposed gender identification] eyed me for a few moments to make sure I was going to be a spectator only. He gripped a large fish crossways, which momentarily he looked as if he was going to put back in the water.

Up and down, up and down--what was he doing with that fish? Finally, he gingerly placed it on the bank for half a second and grabbed it again. Of course! I, with my handy carpals and metacarpals, had forgotten how difficult it must be to get a whole large fish down a skinny neck unless it is pointed the right direction. He dispatched the poor fish in a flourish and continued to wade slowly around.

I surveyed him for several minutes. His legs looked like sticks covered with algae, which must be convenient. He didn't have any plumes that I could see, and his markings were more complex than Sibley seems to imply. Finally, he had had enough with my speculation and he flapped out of sight down the creek.

I was turning to leave when I spotted a little visitor in the foreground--a Carolina Wren, who for the moment found no need to sing. It was so close that my binoculars hung untouched. Hello, little fella! I feel so charitable to all the world when the little ones trustingly show themselves. Presently, the moment passed and he fluttered away.

I strolled back to the car, spotting that Red-bellied Woodpecker on a light pole and startling a small bird from one tree to another. My best guess at it would have been a phoebe. I drove slowly to exit the park, stopping only to look at the flicker and large flocks of robins and scissortails.

The early bird may get the worm, but the early birder doesn't get anything until a little later.

In Ancient Footsteps

Neither the guru nor I had ever been to Dinosaur Valley, so on Saturday we arbitrarily chose a spot to park and decided to tromp around a little bit. The pride of the place lies in what the signs say are ancient dinosaur footprints, which have been preserved in the rocky bed of the Paluxy River. Never having been a dinosaur enthusiast or a geologist, I was more interested in what might be seen flitting through the trees.

I think 'seen' would be too strong of a word to describe our interactions with many of our birds during the morning. Aside from the hyperactive but certainly not shy Ruby-crowned Kinglets and the prominently perched Red-bellied Woodpeckers and bluebirds, our quarries tended to stay just on the other side of the bushes, in the deeper part of the brush, or too far away for certainty of identification.

This made it a morning of adventure. Despite my gloomy and temptingly self-fulfilling prophecies of river-plunging, we made it back dry and relatively free of damage. Neither the cacti through which we tromped after Bewick's Wrens and a mysterious warbler nor the barbed wire we were forced to o'erperch after a wayward path choice damped our spirits or fatigued our bodies.

The wayward path choice was not entirely unfortuitous. As we hiked down the stony, mostly dry riverbed, David suddenly pointed. There was a dinosaur footprint, deeper and clearer than all the other, more public ones. Nevermind that we were later compelled to turn back and crawl through sticky brush following David's near miss of a faceful of poison ivy. We were in the presence of an ancient wonder.

The chickadees and flickers were happy to see us. A kettle of Swainson's Hawks mixed with the ever-present vultures for a breathtaking spectacle overhead. The cries of distant juvenile homo sapiens chimed with the cawing crows.

A balmy climate and the excitement of the chase made it a memorable morning, and our sleep was sweet when anon it closed weary eyes.

Deep Down Under

When people discover I'm a birder, they either look upon the fact with utter indifference or expect me to answer any bird-related question, no matter how difficult or vaguely-worded. Not wishing to disgrace the vocation, I usually am unsure how to answer.

Even though I am secure in my election, I by no means have confidence that I will ever know all of what I need to know to be a good birder. Any opportunity to learn more is welcome.

Here's a picture from a bird show in Australia. A friend of a relative took it and cannot remember what bird it is; I was commissioned to try to figure it out.



Though my knowledge of Australian birds has increased exponentially in the past few months, that is not saying much. Whether or not I ever find out what species this is, it is still a cool picture. It looks like the USPS symbol.

I have been dreaming of birds again; I don't usually awaken with them still on my mind, but Red-shouldered Hawks and mysterious passerines come back to me at strange times of morning and afternoon. Perhaps my subconscious is starving for real images and feeding upon itself.

I think there should be national holidays during the fall and spring migrations.