tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60017134069131033022024-03-14T01:37:14.242-04:00< defunct birding blog >there is a time to blog and a time to let blogs die. Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.comBlogger391125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-66732098530387119432016-12-31T16:24:00.005-05:002016-12-31T16:26:12.985-05:00Top 10 birds of 2016 2016 was a big year for me. I forayed to the Neotropics for the first time, staged two cross-continental road trips, and entered graduate school. We shall see what 2017 holds--hopefully, many birds (and possibly a new blog--but more on that later). For now, here are my favorite ten birds of the year.<br />
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<b>10. Hooded Warbler –8/9/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Just a Hooded Warbler, you say? Well—I <i>do</i> love Hooded Warblers. This one was particularly special—I saw it
down the street from my house in my first week or so of living there. I heard
the metallic <i>chink</i> and tracked down a
handsome male. It inspired me to regularly bird my yard and neighborhood. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S31042810">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S31042810</a></div>
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<b>9. American Tree Sparrow—11/23/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Trish Gussler</td></tr>
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Finding a rare bird is the ultimate dream for birders.
Serious avian addicts crave vagrants like narcotics, and a self-found waif is
especially desirable. I grew up seeing American Tree Sparrows on a regular
basis in Michigan, but this one that I found at Bolsa Chica with my friend Maxx
represents only the third record for Orange County. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S32682289">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S32682289</a></div>
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<b>8. Pinyon
Jay—5/11/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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“Have you ever seen a Pinyon Jay around here?” Joel asked as
we coursed down the highway that leads to the Such lair in the foothills above
Boulder. “Don’t think so,” I said. Moments later, a blue bird flew across the
road—followed by a battalion scores strong of Pinyon Jays. Joel claims that it
was a coincidence. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S29577952">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S29577952</a></div>
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<b>7. Williamson’s Sapsucker—5/7/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ucy-eDhYxPs/WGgYhJoTqVI/AAAAAAAABhg/6cXTcYyKV4IaPpBh9fjOqcN8fJC7iI5LgCLcB/s1600/wisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ucy-eDhYxPs/WGgYhJoTqVI/AAAAAAAABhg/6cXTcYyKV4IaPpBh9fjOqcN8fJC7iI5LgCLcB/s400/wisa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My long-lost friend Andrew guided me around Montana for a
couple days. We launched a campaign to the Bridger Mountains in search of this,
the smartest of the sapsuckers. We eventually found a male and watched it until
our attention was stolen by a pair of goshawks. I don’t see either of these
species frequently enough. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S29478376">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S29478376</a></div>
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<b>6. Hispaniolan Trogon—3/16/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Trogons are crowd-pleasers. This—one of Hispaniola’s
endemics—inhabits pine and cloud forest. My comrades and I undertook an epic
hike and finally—after multiple false alarms and alluring calls—spotted one. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S28254913">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S28254913</a></div>
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<b>5. Sharp-tailed Sandpiper—11/20/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandpiper success with Dad!</td></tr>
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A vagrant common enough in North America to be illustrated
in field guides but rare enough to never actually be seen. A wayfaring juvenile
was kind enough to coincide its visit to the Los Angeles River with my
pilgrimage home to California for Thanksgiving. I went to see it with my dad,
who shared and facilitated many of my formative birding experiences and with
whom I don’t bird with often enough anymore! We saw the bird despite a
ferocious downpour that forced us to retreat to the shelter of a bridge. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S32646838">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S32646838</a></div>
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<b>4. Gray-throated Chat—1/15/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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A pretty bird of the tropical dry forests of Mexico, Belize,
and Guatamala, and one that I very much wanted to see on my Mexico trip for
reasons I can’t explain. While birding the nonpareil Calakmul ruins, my friend
Joel encountered a pair attending an ant swarm. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27003082">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27003082</a></div>
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<b>3. Red Phalarope—10/14/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncropped phone photo!</td></tr>
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A great rarity in Alabama. The sighting was all the more
notable by the fact that the bird was fearless, floating within five feet of
our astonished faces and lenses. <a href="https://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist?subID=S32039996">https://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist?subID=S32039996</a></div>
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<b>2. Hispaniolan Woodpecker – 1/24/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3bf12_yAaSw/WGgYhKoYnsI/AAAAAAAABhc/pRUCf8l2ZwMos9_qiGjlPvR8zp5F0n-PACLcB/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3bf12_yAaSw/WGgYhKoYnsI/AAAAAAAABhc/pRUCf8l2ZwMos9_qiGjlPvR8zp5F0n-PACLcB/s400/3.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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I spent many hours this winter observing Hispaniolan
Woodpeckers and suffered greatly for it—lichen particulates lodged in the
eyeball, feet planted in hidden piles of cow excrement, arcs of bat guano
raining down upon my head, sore muscles from hunching in a burlap blind. <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27099270">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27099270</a></div>
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<b>1. Keel-billed Toucan—1/11/2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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It was my first full day of birding in the Neotropics. The
end of the day was approaching; my friend Joel and I had had a long day of
being traumatized by Mexican driving and being overwhelmed by a dizzying array
of new tanagers, orioles, and flycatchers. We were standing beside a small pond
when we heard it coming. <i>Whoosh whoosh
whoosh</i>—the wingbeats of a large bird. A pair appeared overhead—my first
toucans! <a href="http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27005037">http://ebird.org/ebird/view/checklist/S27005037</a></div>
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Farewell, 2016. </div>
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Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-66104708408783092212016-09-08T21:47:00.001-04:002016-09-08T21:50:09.038-04:00Close to home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I-VnbOBju50/V9IUUzc-e9I/AAAAAAAABfM/0TZokbl4JO8Zoq5qYHO5ZgZZHHMPFJ1ZgCLcB/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I-VnbOBju50/V9IUUzc-e9I/AAAAAAAABfM/0TZokbl4JO8Zoq5qYHO5ZgZZHHMPFJ1ZgCLcB/s640/unnamed.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Home is for now a modest house in a modest
neighborhood populated by working class families and students. The lots are
small. The trees, big. It is no Cape May, no Whitefish Point, but it is home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The alarm tinkles. I do not want to get up but do
anyway. Stagger to the bathroom, pee. Then stumble to the coffeemaker. While
the coffee percolates, I set my binoculars on the back deck so they won’t be
fog-crippled for the morning bird walk. Alabama’s reputation for humidity is
merited. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Day by day I force myself to bird the quarter-mile loop,
coffee mug in one hand, binoculars in the other. It’s just a twenty-minute
ramble, a daily contraction of my birding muscle, just the briefest set of avian
calisthenics wedged into an overspilling schedule. I fear atrophy. I want to know what birds are near me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The number of birds on this humble street ever
surprises me. Of course, 95% of them are doves, robins, and jays, but every day
I get a mouthful of migrants. Parula Tuesday, an oriole Thursday, two
high-flying Eastern Kingbirds today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anything can fly over. One morning it was a Caspian
Tern. Want to maximize your yard list? Watch the sky. No, seriously. Never
abandon your post. Eventually, something like a <a href="http://blog.aba.org/2016/09/abarare-juan-fernandez-petrel-wedge-tailed-shearwater-others-arizona.html" target="_blank">Juan Fernandez Petrel</a> will
traverse your slice of sky. Will you be there to see it?</span></span></div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-13199734264383670932016-07-27T22:41:00.001-04:002016-07-27T22:46:12.903-04:00A day afield<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yTAsop_WRP4/V5lvVeQBnKI/AAAAAAAABaM/f4FP7Gf12HwUyXI5TZVmZFnNL5JUj_JBgCLcB/s1600/09COMMA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yTAsop_WRP4/V5lvVeQBnKI/AAAAAAAABaM/f4FP7Gf12HwUyXI5TZVmZFnNL5JUj_JBgCLcB/s640/09COMMA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have succumbed to what Scott
Weidensaul calls "fat man biology" in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Living on the Wind</i>. Yes, I
study birds, but I do so from a dumpy office tucked along the sterile hallway
of a science building. Yes, I study birds, but stationed in front of screens
and textbooks, wrestling with concepts of Bayesian inference and Googling the
abundant error messages I encounter with my neophytic coding abilities. Yes, I
study birds, but I never<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>see<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>birds--I rely on preexisting
databases and the </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">information available from satellite imagery.</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It has been a
challenging summer, full of headaches induced by excessive screen time and
bewildering Greek notation that I haven't encountered since Calculus class
years ago. I've learned a lot. But that comes at the expense of what Mycroft
Holmes calls<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>legwork</i>,
which I adore. I miss walking, pack embracing my hips, binoculars in hand, the
sweat, the mosquitoes...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Finally I could take
it no more and took Saturday to reconnoiter sites for my field season next
year. I arose at 3:30, weary from spotty sleep (few things excite me such that
they impair my sleep, but a day afield is one of them), brewed some coffee, and
saddled up my lab's field truck. My mission: to find spots with grassland
birds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I initially targeted
some relic prairie fragments in the environs of Livingston in extreme western
Alabama. But the fragments were just that: fragments, too small and too choked
by invading cedars to host proper grassland birds. I kept myself occupied with
Mississippi Kites, a common species that nevertheless always tickles my Yankee
bird background. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UvA2q1PCQ-I/V5lvUw9zZCI/AAAAAAAABZ4/Zizj82pSgskmkaD7d7M5gNNjxZlPDfCggCLcB/s1600/01MIKI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="387" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UvA2q1PCQ-I/V5lvUw9zZCI/AAAAAAAABZ4/Zizj82pSgskmkaD7d7M5gNNjxZlPDfCggCLcB/s640/01MIKI.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Another species I
seldom saw growing up was Summer Tanager. They are verminous in Dixie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LIPWw6bmtcM/V5lvU7qTdFI/AAAAAAAABZw/mJtzCE7rMK0aGdYOxUz8LXL61DSgvirJgCLcB/s1600/03SUTA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="406" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LIPWw6bmtcM/V5lvU7qTdFI/AAAAAAAABZw/mJtzCE7rMK0aGdYOxUz8LXL61DSgvirJgCLcB/s640/03SUTA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The major drama of
the morning occurred when I encountered a bird that I<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>almost</i> couldn't identify.
I'd like to be modest, but...that seldom happens. After a double take, I
realized that this was a hatch-year White-eyed Vireo, just dissimilar enough
from its parents to prove confusing with its dark iris and muted plumage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLTX8SVORSw/V5lvU_frROI/AAAAAAAABZ0/eo-c5D_U8x4-R3bnUP1ePhfsBrv2jKPhwCLcB/s1600/02WEVI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HLTX8SVORSw/V5lvU_frROI/AAAAAAAABZ0/eo-c5D_U8x4-R3bnUP1ePhfsBrv2jKPhwCLcB/s640/02WEVI.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have the
inexplicable obsession of photographing birds in flight. This is a Common
Grackle--there were lots of them flying around in packs, a sure sign of late
summer. It is engaging in some primary molt--and his tail is looking ratty as
well.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9xoEngP7CbQ/V5lvVC8QMuI/AAAAAAAABZ8/mllGbuGKCYYmV6Fwy0D59CnO7Pzn2Y7dwCLcB/s1600/04COGR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9xoEngP7CbQ/V5lvVC8QMuI/AAAAAAAABZ8/mllGbuGKCYYmV6Fwy0D59CnO7Pzn2Y7dwCLcB/s640/04COGR.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As the classic
Alabama Swelter reached unbearable levels in the late morning, I jettisoned my
mission and repaired to some shaded areas along the Tombigbee River. There I
found lots of birds, including this Prothonotary Warbler, one of a group of
four cavorting along the riverbank.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BwMq_1pjGHA/V5lvVMWhMuI/AAAAAAAABaE/4nDRXxIWIZEd5LiKyYyvpBX1ZxeieDsjACLcB/s1600/06PROW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="414" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BwMq_1pjGHA/V5lvVMWhMuI/AAAAAAAABaE/4nDRXxIWIZEd5LiKyYyvpBX1ZxeieDsjACLcB/s640/06PROW.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If I had to choose
between seeing a cool bird or seeing a cool amphibian, I think I might choose
the frog. I've seen so many birds in my life. I know less about frogs; they
seem more mysterious; they are also fun to catch.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKXbhfP1r0U/V5lvVAUMx3I/AAAAAAAABaA/AFzE5t7c3KU-PZMpqQ1NBvRFRWY4ja46QCLcB/s1600/05FROG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FKXbhfP1r0U/V5lvVAUMx3I/AAAAAAAABaA/AFzE5t7c3KU-PZMpqQ1NBvRFRWY4ja46QCLcB/s640/05FROG.jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Insects also beguile
me. Every time I'm afield, I notice insects, and every time, I'm awestruck by
just how little I know about them. Butterflies are the easy ones, the cardinals
and robins of Class Insecta. This one is an Eastern Comma, lapping up residue
from a deer skull leftover from past hunting season.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dEOxer0oGeI/V5lvVe6RInI/AAAAAAAABaI/HjMmQBKxW8EtTUkO6ZeVwO6V5wwvTZ7TgCLcB/s1600/08COMMA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dEOxer0oGeI/V5lvVe6RInI/AAAAAAAABaI/HjMmQBKxW8EtTUkO6ZeVwO6V5wwvTZ7TgCLcB/s640/08COMMA.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was hot, so I
stopped in the mom-n-pop grocery at a backwoods crossroads. Attempting to blend
in as an Alabamian, I asked the proprietor, "Y'all have sweet tea?"
He was not fooled, immediately drawling, "Where ya from?" in
response. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n7DQastIW7k/V5lvVb5Ly0I/AAAAAAAABaQ/ITr2KqQSaHQlhRXwqUhgO-DL0HbtaGPGgCLcB/s1600/10WOST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="386" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n7DQastIW7k/V5lvVb5Ly0I/AAAAAAAABaQ/ITr2KqQSaHQlhRXwqUhgO-DL0HbtaGPGgCLcB/s640/10WOST.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Wood Stork</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I finally found my grassland
birds by accident at the end of the day. I stopped to gape at the swirls of
vultures, herons, and Wood Storks around the sprawling catfish farms on the
road back to Tuscaloosa, and there, in the old pastures and hayfields, I saw
meadowlarks, Dickcissels, and Loggerhead Shrikes. A fallow field sandwiched between catfish ponds may not be as sexy as a restored nugget of prairie that enjoys prescribed burns every year, but if that's where the birds are, that's where I'll be. </span></div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T3O3Pa7xLI8/V5lvVjqepPI/AAAAAAAABaU/URv-L_78PcUoKPrmeXGjQgRL3kBkf1mLwCLcB/s1600/11SATELLITE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T3O3Pa7xLI8/V5lvVjqepPI/AAAAAAAABaU/URv-L_78PcUoKPrmeXGjQgRL3kBkf1mLwCLcB/s640/11SATELLITE.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Catfish farms, the economic backbone of the Black Belt of Alabama</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-46946233065941563482016-06-05T14:02:00.001-04:002016-06-05T14:03:52.845-04:00Apartment 27<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bm9SElukgjk/V1RpB-prWpI/AAAAAAAABYw/5_wc2lOe9jU2OlnJ63EuSqn4t9dLFn8qACLcB/s1600/20160604_182721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bm9SElukgjk/V1RpB-prWpI/AAAAAAAABYw/5_wc2lOe9jU2OlnJ63EuSqn4t9dLFn8qACLcB/s640/20160604_182721.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Descending the stair I saw people in a knot</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Who are they, and what are they doing? </i>I thought.<span id="goog_1630474675"></span><span id="goog_1630474676"></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b> Gathered round a turtle</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b> The scene I deemed fertile</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>For making friends by asking about the reptile they'd caught.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-88681967689456774782016-05-29T15:54:00.000-04:002016-05-29T16:05:09.702-04:00Birding Shorts: Very Old Friends (Colorado Edition)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FzK0nnm_Ie4/V0tCDQGrsyI/AAAAAAAABX4/BQkmUWIvHlIcpzd65n-xoSGk6_RpKKDsgCLcB/s1600/fotrobservation23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.12px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="380" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FzK0nnm_Ie4/V0tCDQGrsyI/AAAAAAAABX4/BQkmUWIvHlIcpzd65n-xoSGk6_RpKKDsgCLcB/s400/fotrobservation23.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gandalf seeks his old comrade Bilbo for a birding adventure</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I knew I had found him, pulling up next to the
battered Subaru. There was no mistaking the “Do You eBird?” and “Sea Level is
for Sissies” bumper stickers. The lad himself appeared a moment later. Marcel
and I were both cute and nerdy high schoolers when our paths first crossed. I
hadn’t seen him </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">in years.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l_j6q8I5qR8/V0tCD0-TV-I/AAAAAAAABYA/O44l0f7N37Q4CVC1TpnJA-9RBHe3QI09ACLcB/s400/ouzelfalls%2B6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Right to left: Marcel Such, Joel Such, me. June 2010</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Some things never change. He still saunters. Anything
mildly funny still shatters his smirk into a goofy grin. But other things
change. Now he’s a longboarding hipster dirtbag who uses lingo such as “dank”
and “straight G.” I suppose I could be
described in a similar fashion, just with a less edgy parlance and no
longboard.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Arguably homeless between leases, Marcel explained
that we would head to BLM land in the hills for the night. That was fine by me.
I love camping. And! These hills seethe with Gunnison Sage-Grouse, only
described as a species within our short lifetimes, rare enough to make the
palms perspire. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We jolted along dirt tracks, hoping for a road grouse.
Then we switched our strategy and walked into the sagebrush, dust underfoot,
desiccated branches clawing our calves. I eyed the buxom Leicas riding Marcel’s
hip.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Sexy bins,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Thanks—it’s Travis.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It took a moment to register. Then I realized that
Marcel was brandishing a celebrity binocular, <a href="http://travelingtrinovid.com/birds-wildlife/retiring-travis/#.V0tEfPkrLIU" target="_blank">Travis the Traveling Trinovid!</a> I
was star-struck. My own tattered Trins fawned in the presence of greatness.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hVTp0I7EWm0/V0tCab8TcwI/AAAAAAAABYM/INO2mi42R2opCbF2oiNN8xTPHzIPywBAACLcB/s400/20160517_184342.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="225" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can't refuse a photo op with celebrity optics</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Light receding, we returned to the car for further
cruising. Up a hill, down a two-track. Darkness fell. Meadowlarks warbled in
the gloaming. I noticed a smudge in the two-track ahead of us—a bush? No—an
ambulatory smudge! The grouse scurried into the brush, then flushed as the car
approached. It was the first Gunnison Sage-Grouse I’d ever seen. Marcel punched
me in celebration.</span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SQqtVMV4cSM/V0tCacwsTEI/AAAAAAAABYI/aHsXU7qkKP4LYxAtbafnz7pbf9jqkEuqgCLcB/s400/20160517_190235.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The desolate haunts of the Gunnison Sage-Grouse</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We repaired to our bivouac, a site we shared with
Marcel’s friend Cam. Around the fire, Cam recounted Marcel’s stint as a
mercenary in the World Series of Birding. A Wall Street sugar daddy flew him to
New Jersey at the last possible moment to join his team. From Cam’s
perspective, he was losing Marcel forever. Young Marcel, foolish Marcel,
boarding a plane, beguiled by the promise of making a few bucks, only to be
dismembered in a dark saltmarsh, losing his vital organs to the black market.
At least in his last moments he would hear Black Rails…</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgjYqfwOqfU/V0tCarOAjEI/AAAAAAAABYQ/Zg-s9n50GL0HZpYr1Q9WbAFcgZdETQ2EgCLcB/s1600/20160518_192916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgjYqfwOqfU/V0tCarOAjEI/AAAAAAAABYQ/Zg-s9n50GL0HZpYr1Q9WbAFcgZdETQ2EgCLcB/s400/20160518_192916.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We swapped stories late into the night. Then we peed
on the coals and the three of us retired to Cam’s two-man tent for the night.
Road wearied, I slid into a gradual sleep. Breeze battered the fly. As my
neurons punched the clock, I questioned the real purpose of the rain fly—to
repel droplets or amplify night sounds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Marcel and I awoke when the strengthening sun raised
the tent’s temperature to a swelter. Cam had left hours earlier for an epic
bike ride. We spent the day the way you might expect from hipster dirtbag
birders—nursing coffee at the café from which Marcel lusts employment, eating
poptarts garnished with peanut butter, bumming around the university, and, of
course, looking for birds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">After another night of three-man spooning under the
Sound Amplifier, Marcel and I absconded well before dawn for grouse espionage.
Cam did not come. He cited exhaustion from his bike ride, but Marcel and I both
well understood that he would not allow himself to be seen birding. In the end,
it’s a good thing he didn’t come—we didn’t see any grouse. I dropped Marcel off
at his fantasy coffee shop and headed east. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wondered when I’ll see him next. Whether it will be
three years again. How we will change in that time. Where our paths will cross,
and what birds we will see. Only time will tell.</span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xheqWn8Ck4c/V0tCa1EePsI/AAAAAAAABYU/c2WwkmU1QGkuQiB2FAyXuZJmPlXwCrHOQCLcB/s1600/20160518_195050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xheqWn8Ck4c/V0tCa1EePsI/AAAAAAAABYU/c2WwkmU1QGkuQiB2FAyXuZJmPlXwCrHOQCLcB/s400/20160518_195050.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Marcel, me. May 2016</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-13278728478249102162016-05-26T22:19:00.000-04:002016-05-26T22:29:48.007-04:00Numerical and pictorial highlights of a cross-continental meander<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TnP5ZQMkLs/V0erbU6oHkI/AAAAAAAABW8/7CktbeYcb_kTYtlPsmsIltQKDn5Woyt0wCLcB/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TnP5ZQMkLs/V0erbU6oHkI/AAAAAAAABW8/7CktbeYcb_kTYtlPsmsIltQKDn5Woyt0wCLcB/s640/4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PREMISE</b></div>
<br />
My original summer plan was to travel to backcountry Alaska to work as a research assistant with Kittlitz's Murrelets. However, a stubborn lower back injury rendered me unfit for service, so I opted to head to Alabama early to commence my graduate research. I decided to take the long way.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>THE NUMBERS</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>20</b> - days on the road<br />
<b>4298.2</b> - miles traveled<br />
<b>9</b> - peanut butter burritos consumed<br />
<b>261 </b> - species of birds<br />
<b>14</b> - states<br />
<b>5 </b> - life birds<br />
<b>7 </b>- cans of iced tea imbibed (Georgia Peach Peace Tea being the favorite)<br />
<b>1</b> - night of sleep in a Walmart parking lot<br />
<b>6 </b> - life states (Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Arkansas Mississippi, Alabama)<br />
<b>2</b> - factories toured (Noosa Yogurt and New Belgium Brewing)<br />
<b>27</b> - episodes of The Memory Palace podcast enjoyed<br />
<b>1</b> - bird-car collision (I think it was a Barn Swallow)<br />
<b>16</b> - plays of the Songs for Traveling CD<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VFxU5di4ajI/V0ew2TFXxBI/AAAAAAAABXk/P9FFXATrVgI4LXuWjukvGD1JiyeMK6yVwCLcB/s1600/route.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VFxU5di4ajI/V0ew2TFXxBI/AAAAAAAABXk/P9FFXATrVgI4LXuWjukvGD1JiyeMK6yVwCLcB/s640/route.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three weeks behind the wheel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PxySiUbvMUQ/V0eraeJRvII/AAAAAAAABWk/Y6ttv8HPz-wUsTaRq375baW3xs8y58f4ACLcB/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="423" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PxySiUbvMUQ/V0eraeJRvII/AAAAAAAABWk/Y6ttv8HPz-wUsTaRq375baW3xs8y58f4ACLcB/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Svelte Stilt Sandpipers slice the sky. Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge, Oklahoma.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iyV0HnwlX2g/V0erauj06cI/AAAAAAAABWw/w85nOYvQoBM2YPKpX5QL4Pob64jazBVJACLcB/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iyV0HnwlX2g/V0erauj06cI/AAAAAAAABWw/w85nOYvQoBM2YPKpX5QL4Pob64jazBVJACLcB/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge, Oklahoma</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lUaTZLyMVqQ/V0era9ajnQI/AAAAAAAABW0/k9blkT5WqD0UIw81o81NjGkkl95pucqFwCLcB/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="414" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lUaTZLyMVqQ/V0era9ajnQI/AAAAAAAABW0/k9blkT5WqD0UIw81o81NjGkkl95pucqFwCLcB/s640/3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Field Sparrow bouncing acoustic balls. Tallgrass Prairie Preserve, Oklahoma.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nM8XvhUIvzo/V0erbs9E8WI/AAAAAAAABXI/_ICA4FFufgoeRL2YMFDFXGVmtCKtnj4QACLcB/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nM8XvhUIvzo/V0erbs9E8WI/AAAAAAAABXI/_ICA4FFufgoeRL2YMFDFXGVmtCKtnj4QACLcB/s640/5.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Western angles, nostalgia. Tulsa, Oklahoma</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOop9viaNXE/V0erbhdo5-I/AAAAAAAABXE/uon5zn1f_9cENFuCT1bPG_Lw57Mi89o3ACLcB/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOop9viaNXE/V0erbhdo5-I/AAAAAAAABXE/uon5zn1f_9cENFuCT1bPG_Lw57Mi89o3ACLcB/s640/6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellow-headed Blackbird staking his claim somewhere on the divide between the Rockies and the Great Basin</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4WI2F2zUXE/V0erbmSG4OI/AAAAAAAABXM/d_N7dZsEpMM5eXnR6618k4s7i-vQnlihQCLcB/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4WI2F2zUXE/V0erbmSG4OI/AAAAAAAABXM/d_N7dZsEpMM5eXnR6618k4s7i-vQnlihQCLcB/s640/7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Give us this day the tenacity of weasels. Great Salt Lake, Utah.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--owkgd2uCxA/V0erboz3uEI/AAAAAAAABXQ/yIOLlJ0vQv0e1BccmyBzt8lR-P5sG8ItgCLcB/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--owkgd2uCxA/V0erboz3uEI/AAAAAAAABXQ/yIOLlJ0vQv0e1BccmyBzt8lR-P5sG8ItgCLcB/s640/8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brutal phalarope fly-by. Great Salt Lake, Utah.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fBJEqIIhLY/V0erbxemfnI/AAAAAAAABXU/V4pY-2XjWjQZf8KG-EP0b3dJDd3JqZluQCLcB/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fBJEqIIhLY/V0erbxemfnI/AAAAAAAABXU/V4pY-2XjWjQZf8KG-EP0b3dJDd3JqZluQCLcB/s640/9.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Possibly one of the least appreciated birds in North America, the peerless Downy Woodpecker. Boulder County, CO</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-23eRzUUV5vQ/V0eraQDIJuI/AAAAAAAABWs/4r2Gj_oLPC0GvRvU41YacZ3-hvA0BK9sACLcB/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="402" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-23eRzUUV5vQ/V0eraQDIJuI/AAAAAAAABWs/4r2Gj_oLPC0GvRvU41YacZ3-hvA0BK9sACLcB/s640/10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bound for the taiga, a Blackpoll, a rare-ish bird in the shadow of the Rockies. Boulder County, Colorado.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W6IJImUSO2k/V0eraZ4pKAI/AAAAAAAABWo/Cnd4TjLNb60zAG5I4Yq45LHxkFstypFJACLcB/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W6IJImUSO2k/V0eraZ4pKAI/AAAAAAAABWo/Cnd4TjLNb60zAG5I4Yq45LHxkFstypFJACLcB/s640/11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bighorn Sheep. Gunnison, Colorado</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vRd4Gajo9_U/V0erbc2CXGI/AAAAAAAABW4/QvDxIpG3VrQUzVFyLjAjb2rfGtyxzp5XACLcB/s1600/20160506_094430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vRd4Gajo9_U/V0erbc2CXGI/AAAAAAAABW4/QvDxIpG3VrQUzVFyLjAjb2rfGtyxzp5XACLcB/s640/20160506_094430.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creative scoping solutions for windy days</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4IbyMX17qg/V0erbYus6kI/AAAAAAAABXA/tjmHQCmuqcM63MgXpMh1Jj4V-hq1ZbshgCLcB/s1600/20160506_103453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4IbyMX17qg/V0erbYus6kI/AAAAAAAABXA/tjmHQCmuqcM63MgXpMh1Jj4V-hq1ZbshgCLcB/s640/20160506_103453.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antelope Island Causeway near Salt Lake City, Utah</td></tr>
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Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-28366721178153169832016-05-10T17:58:00.000-04:002016-05-10T18:22:34.578-04:00Vignettes: Chasing the Wind (Montana edition)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwQyYe2QHMM/VzJfGoifOnI/AAAAAAAABVc/gC-NLB1tONsrtjMV6b6zOIwmdmGwFSMDgCLcB/s1600/20160507_154046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwQyYe2QHMM/VzJfGoifOnI/AAAAAAAABVc/gC-NLB1tONsrtjMV6b6zOIwmdmGwFSMDgCLcB/s640/20160507_154046.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I rolled to a stop outside the collegy-looking house and walked into a graduation party. "Is this where a certain Andrew Guttenberg lives?" I asked the guy who opened the door. "Gutes!" the dude yelled over his shoulder, "Someone is here for you!" And there he was, the legend himself. The man who will surely illustrate many field guides in his time. Don't believe me? <a href="https://www.facebook.com/guttenbergart/" target="_blank">You should.</a><br />
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Rather than launch immediately into birding escapades, we demonstrated our ostensible maturity by joining a rousing football match with the Bros. We saved birding for the following day. And that day can only be described as a Big Day--albeit a relaxed one. "Our birding today was like firing a shotgun...our pellets scattered wide but all managed to hit targets," Andrew said* at the end of the day.<br />
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A male Calliope Hummingbird was on the bush precisely where Andrew said it would be. Only my second one. Ever.<br />
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A Ruffed Grouse drummed in the undergrowth. A ventriloquist, the grouse always seemed right beside us. Then it was there. We saw it at the same time. Neither of us had ever watched one drum, an act I found strangely intimate.<br />
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Cottonwood Reservoir, an oasis for ducks and shorebirds in the sage desert. "I wish it were a bit more windy so my knuckles would dry out faster," complained Andrew. We took turns scoping--the gale rendered our eyes springs.<br />
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Gray Partridges fled the roadside, hoping to evade addition to my North American list. They could not.<br />
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Howling winds in the foothills of the Bridger Mountains prevented us from hearing much, which should have crippled our birding efforts. But then Andrew spotted two Northern Goshawks wheeling overhead. As we admired them, a male Williamson's Sapsucker flitted over our shoulders.<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I4VNtQGjAxU/VzJYpN8CSeI/AAAAAAAABU0/kgL0xaCQAPA89-BI_xrDz8G_y5hgG7yTwCLcB/s1600/wisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I4VNtQGjAxU/VzJYpN8CSeI/AAAAAAAABU0/kgL0xaCQAPA89-BI_xrDz8G_y5hgG7yTwCLcB/s640/wisa.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
We could not resist stopping to admire an abandoned leather couch along a mountain road. Neither could we resist posing for photos with it.<br />
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Vociferous drunks at the Boreal Owl campground dismayed us. Surely no owl would tolerate such ruckus. We walked around--legs stiff from football--as the sun set. A female Dusky Grouse tried to camouflage herself in the gravel but could not. After a half-hearted search for owls in the gloaming, excessive bodily fatigue and shrieking wind forced us to capitulate.<br />
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I bade Andrew farewell and drove east, hoping to find two small brown birds of the prairie that I had never seen before. One of them I found: a Sprague's Pipit, aloft on quivering wings, circling, fighting the breeze, spilling forth an amorous cascade to the prairie below.<br />
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<i>* This quotation may or may not be entirely accurate. When Andrew uttered this (or similar) proverb, it was late and my only focus was not falling asleep at the wheel.</i>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-28800515076003860402016-04-26T00:39:00.002-04:002016-04-26T00:50:20.759-04:00On the proliferation of Eurasian Collared-Doves in Orange County<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A Eurasian Collared-Dove in Anaheim on Sunday</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Orange County is different every time I visit. New housing developments encroach ever deeper into the hills. Trees are "trimmed" (read: mutilated) further and further into oblivion. And there are always more Eurasian Collared-Doves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is going to make me sound old, but here goes. I remember when things were different. There was a time when Eurasian Collared-Doves were not common in Orange County. When I moved here in 2007, they were downright difficult to find. Over the last few years, they've become commonplace. In fact, I saw one the other day a mere mile from my house. I predict that I will soon add this species to my almost legendary Hood List. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This expansion is hardly surprising, given hemispheric trends for this species. Want a good laugh? Check out the dove's map in the original Sibley. It is rapidly expanding west, east, north, south. "Collared-Dove," I told Joel as we crossed the Michigan-Indiana state line in early January, "Will probably be the first new species we see." Sure enough, dozens greeted us at a rest stop in central Illinois. Their coos serenaded us at every piss stop across the country--Missouri, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, California. Then we flew to Mexico--and there, too, the streets echoed with their calls. And they were verminous in the Dominican Republic. I just can't get away from them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let us consider their conquest of Orange County. First, courtesy of eBird, here is an overview of their North American range.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqw5KUTa3Fw/Vx7wKcNBT1I/AAAAAAAABUM/vxx0DqdwpBkBBqt2IyE5UzJXWJayOjWswCLcB/s1600/overview.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqw5KUTa3Fw/Vx7wKcNBT1I/AAAAAAAABUM/vxx0DqdwpBkBBqt2IyE5UzJXWJayOjWswCLcB/s640/overview.png" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This next map shows Eurasian Collared-Dove records in southern California up to the year 2005.Very sparse in Orange County, with greater numbers up north towards Los Angeles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_H9IIS4YWJg/Vx7wIDiL1MI/AAAAAAAABUE/VmrCc77IpaER9nFVQQlTZfZWratPgq32ACLcB/s1600/2005.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_H9IIS4YWJg/Vx7wIDiL1MI/AAAAAAAABUE/VmrCc77IpaER9nFVQQlTZfZWratPgq32ACLcB/s640/2005.png" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fast forward to 2011. Things are filling in slowly in Orange County, though the species seems to be increasing rapidly up north in Los Angeles County and in western Riverside County.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-snnf1P_shrw/Vx7wIMYfTXI/AAAAAAAABT4/zSVQ7eix_10SxzKVToNpafFltNz0gTZHgCLcB/s1600/2011.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-snnf1P_shrw/Vx7wIMYfTXI/AAAAAAAABT4/zSVQ7eix_10SxzKVToNpafFltNz0gTZHgCLcB/s640/2011.png" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And finally, all records up to the present (red pins indicate records from the past month.) Explosion. Blietzkrieg. The Collared-Dove has conquered Orange County. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Using eBird to track the expansion of this species may be deceptive, since the dove's invasion of Orange County coincided (or slightly preceded) the widespread adoption of eBird by birders. Fortunately, Christmas Bird Count data for Orange County is readily available online (thanks, Sea and Sage Audubon). The data support my general impressions that (1) Eurasian Collared-Doves first began appearing in Orange County in roughly 2005, and (2) that the population has rapidly increased since then--particularly since about 2010.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FRfmA0JS39k/Vx7wIqYkLdI/AAAAAAAABT8/K96cNvt1xx8ELJ2LixVX_TOMwDsw4RlkQCLcB/s1600/EUCD_CBC.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FRfmA0JS39k/Vx7wIqYkLdI/AAAAAAAABT8/K96cNvt1xx8ELJ2LixVX_TOMwDsw4RlkQCLcB/s640/EUCD_CBC.png" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In past decades, a different dove reigned in Orange County--the Spotted Dove. They were abundant through the 90's (the 1990 Coastal CBC recorded upwards of 250), but their population crashed. The last surviving Spotted Doves overlapped with the pioneering Collared-Doves in the early 2000's. It is fun to speculate about the rise and fall of two nonnative doves in Orange County--did the Collars drive out the Spots? At least in the context of Orange County, I find this hard to believe--by the time the Collared-Doves showed up, the Spotted Doves had already been gone for years. But, who knows? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And will the Eurasian Collared-Dove share the Spotted Dove's fate in Orange County? I doubt it--I foresee the dove expanding further, saturating the county--nay, the country-- interminably.</span>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-7935356660645411672016-04-20T22:09:00.000-04:002016-04-20T22:25:21.406-04:00La brigada de los carpinteros: reflection on a sojourn in the Dominican Republic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CYxSL7_QU1s/VxgWEZmTThI/AAAAAAAABTM/CRQekPRLMAMecmP0qxpY8Dsn2HN5ujHHwCLcB/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CYxSL7_QU1s/VxgWEZmTThI/AAAAAAAABTM/CRQekPRLMAMecmP0qxpY8Dsn2HN5ujHHwCLcB/s640/3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An unhappy Hispaniolan Woodpecker</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In January I migrated to the Dominican Republic to
serve as a research assistant for Josh LaPergola, a doctoral candidate from
Cornell University. Josh is researching the behavioral ecology of the
Hispaniolan Woodpecker, a charismatic species that nests colonially in palm
trees. Unfortunately, the field season came to early end when Josh had a
serious climbing accident. He ultimately required medical evacuation to the United
States. (He is recovering well.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Unexpectedly home, I’ve spent a lot of time puttering
around the house, processing and reflecting upon my experience in the Dominican
Republic. I’d like to share some of my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>WHAT I LEARNED</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Graduate research can be open-ended</b>. I had the idea that
a graduate project attempts to answer questions drafted at the project’s
conception. Well—that is sometimes the case, but many other projects constantly
evolve. The more time spent studying a system, the more questions that arise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>How to bleed a bird</b>! Next time you find a
bird in your hand, part the feathers on the underside of the wing. There’s a
pipe there—great for stabbing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>A woodpecker chick at two weeks, ready to surrender a drop of blood for the sake of science.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Dominican Spanish is…different</b>. Pronunciation is
relaxed—the letter <i>s</i> in particular is
often dropped. The convergent pronunciation of <i>estás </i>and <i>está </i>frequently
bewildered me, but the locals don’t seem to notice the ambiguity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>If a Dominican kid shows up at your door and
brags that he owns a bazooka, he is not lying.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzbvqjTyQuT70H0h6X6hgG-WB65apoP_0kFaOc_Ah8y3DWygnNUdeBiXF1xothsEB4WUF74QoHsQfNCROEJwQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Palms form a unique community</b>. Their lichen-plastered
trunks are patrolled by lichen-mimicking mantids. Palmchats obsessively
construct massive stick nests, which in turn house myriad other animals from
Greater Antillean Grackles to fungi. And Hispaniolan Woodpeckers provide
apartments for many other species. Bats often commandeer the old cavities. If the chambers flood, tree frogs and mosquitoes capitalize on the arboreal pools.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Palmchats--monkeys of the bird world</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>See it?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Knots</b>! In order to climb the palms, we had to learn
many aspects of technical tree climbing, including lots of knots. Give me a
strand of cord, and I can tie you a Klemheist, a bowline, a clove hitch, a half
hitch, a fisherman’s knot…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>I am very privileged</b>. Many of the country folk were
incredulous that we made a living studying birds. “I wish I could do your
work,” Ricardo the foreman said one day as we passed him saddling his mule for the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>WHAT I WILL MISS<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Unparalleled camaraderie</b>. Foremost I will miss my
coworkers Amy, Josh, Kiera, and Shelly. Field jobs such as this forge
deep friendships—we live together, work together, and depend on each other,
becoming a family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><i>Josh, Shelly, Kiera,and Amy demonstrate the rigors of biological research</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Avocados</b>. I’m from California and thought I was an
avocado snob. But these Dominican avocados rocked my world. We bought them
fifteen at a time. They are huge; they are creamy. Guacamole was a staple in
our house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Tostones (fried plantains) with fresh guacamole</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Luis, our trusty and congenial taxi driver.</b> Whenever
we needed groceries, we would summon him for a ride down to Jarabacoa. As we
lounged in the truck bed, the breeze whistled—as did scores of young men as we
passed. Although their amorous displays were directed at my female coworkers, I
retaliated by blowing many a kiss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>If you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Jarabacoa and need some wheels, here's the number to call</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The neighborhood kids.</b> Whenever they were bored (which
was often), the troupe of neighborhood children would appear at the back door.
Two year-old Reuben was content to roll giggling on the floor. Ten year-old
Evenson found every excuse to visit and try to woo Amy, with whom he was
hopelessly in love. Thirteen year-old Cris wandered over to boss Evenson and to
make half-hearted attempts to learn English. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The birds</b>. It was great to live with new birds for
several months! The boisterous Gray Kingbird, the quizzical Smooth-billed Ani,
the psychedelic Broad-billed Tody, the minute Vervain Hummingbird…these were
all new species for me, and they quickly became familiar neighbors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><i>Black-faced Grassquit</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>WHAT I WILL NOT MISS<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Cold showers</b>. Our water was piped up from the river
and it was <i>frigid</i>. Despite our sweat
and grime we dreaded the shower, delaying bathing for as many days as we could
stand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Laundry</b>. We used a bucket and a plunger. It never
quite got the stink out of my clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The moldy house</b>. It was humid. Mold thrived on the
walls and ceiling. We waged war, but our bleach and sponges and half-assed
attitudes toward hygiene could not overthrow the inevitable onward march of
mildew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Amy prepares for a valiant but vain war against the Kingdom of Fungi</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Unsafe tap water.</b> Here at home, I press a button on my
fridge and cold, delicious water spews forth. In the Dominican Republic, we had
to walk up to the neighborhood <i>colmado </i>once
a day and shell out forty-five pesos (roughly a dollar) for a five-gallon jug
of purified water. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-29395322855433564612016-04-15T22:16:00.001-04:002016-04-15T22:16:48.874-04:00The death of a raccoon, and the part I played<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SsetF9V-3ts/VxGfrqeeUrI/AAAAAAAAAzI/oj3iEJt1lakAfFwwN7EdL-KfDHnc22hHQCLcB/s1600/racoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SsetF9V-3ts/VxGfrqeeUrI/AAAAAAAAAzI/oj3iEJt1lakAfFwwN7EdL-KfDHnc22hHQCLcB/s640/racoon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Cruelty is Nature’s
foremost virtue. We often see the signs of her brutality—scattered bloody
feathers, a skull shining from the leaf litter, or a pillaged nest dangling
from a crotch. But rarely do we partake in the cruelty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was a muggy June
morning, the bugs merciless, the birds listless, the heat already relentless by
nine. As I traversed the swamp’s margin, a pathetic whimpering interrupted my
botanical scrutiny of the forest floor. It was unlike any bird I could think
of, so, interest piqued, I followed the sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Soon the sound was
at my feet. I stopped, looked down, and found a simpering heap of fur huddled beside
a downed branch. Gray, black—a raccoon, and a small one, only a baby. Something
was wrong. I parted the foliage only to be assaulted by a storm of flies, those
repulsive green ones that patronize roadkill. Yet this raccoon breathed—its
body heaved, and it murmured, perhaps calling for help or perhaps attempting to
assuage its own fear. The aroma of putrid flesh wafted in the wake of the
flies. To my horror I realized that the coon’s back was matted with blood. The
flies returned to feast upon the festering flesh. I attempted to fan the flies
away, but such a superficial act could do nothing to lessen the animal’s
misery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I knew I had to
kill it. The coon would otherwise suffer for hours, perhaps days, as maggots
ate it alive. In its last moments it would feel worms gnaw its muscle fibers
and be helpless to the slow, wriggling death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">How? Blunt trauma
to the head I deemed the most practical option, and since the animal was curled
up in a narrow spot, a downward thrust—a stab—was the only way. Regrettably, my
only weapon was a kitchen spoon used for exhuming root systems. I needed a
better tool of execution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fortuitously, the
raccoon lay near a junk heap of the bygone farming era. I sought my weapon
among a previous generation’s refuse. After rejecting several pieces of scrap
metal, I found my quarry: a two-foot section of rusty lead pipe packed with
earth. Hefting it in my hand, I was delighted to find it heavy—five or six
pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Each step to the
raccoon’s final resting place increased my dread. It seemed unjust for such a
young creature to experience such pain, greater anguish than I will probably
ever experience in my life thanks to the miracle of modern pills and surgeries.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Slowly, carefully,
I snapped away the vegetation that veiled the prostate coon. I needed a clear
shot. “Sorry, buddy,” I breathed as I positioned myself. I braced one foot on
the log, lifted the pipe, aimed, and—WHAM! Drove the pipe with all the force I
could muster into the unfortunate animal’s head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">To my surprise and
horror, the skull withstood the blow, and the coon writhed and screamed. Again
I lifted the pipe and struck with even greater force, throwing my whole body
into the blow. This time I had the satisfaction of feeling the skull collapse
with an audible <i>crunch</i>. Still the raccoon twitched and moaned. Driven
mad by its pernicious grasp at life, I rained blow after blow on its head until
the twitching ceased.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The raccoon was
dead; its head was flattened and mashed into the soil. I stared at what my
hands had done and realized that Death itself lay before me. Inspecting my
weapon, I found that the lower third was plastered with gore. I cast it away in
disgust. Wiping my hands, I backed away, legs and arms shaking uncontrollably.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The raccoon was no
longer a raccoon. It was just fur, bone, and some proteins. Life had departed.
Never again would the nostrils sniff, the leg flex, the tail caress some
massive oak limb. Everything that composed the animal was still there, but <i>it </i>was gone—and where had it gone?
Nature had struck it down, but now she would gather the corpse to her bosom and
nourish thousands of others with its particles; in a way, the raccoon would
live in the bodies of thousands of others. But the spirit cannot follow atoms,
and that spirit was gone.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-51623058789355554252016-03-23T21:28:00.001-04:002016-03-23T21:31:07.022-04:00Poem from the Field III<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cDrzYv2USxQ/VvNAy9BDDDI/AAAAAAAAArQ/QulII37ThP4eFA6yYevlixzeuvQwAt_kg/s1600/blind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="443" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cDrzYv2USxQ/VvNAy9BDDDI/AAAAAAAAArQ/QulII37ThP4eFA6yYevlixzeuvQwAt_kg/s640/blind.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>"The Blind"</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ensconced in a burlap fortress<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Invisible, to some degree,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">to life around me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I struggle to sit still<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">on the shoulder of a 45° hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Though mosquitoes mob my face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I must stay in his place<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">til this watch is...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">done.</span></div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-32833422519945570662016-03-09T20:18:00.000-05:002016-03-09T20:18:27.680-05:00Poem* from the Field II<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TGvlxwom0/VuDHuGzW8nI/AAAAAAAAAq0/VgvenzOMqDM/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TGvlxwom0/VuDHuGzW8nI/AAAAAAAAAq0/VgvenzOMqDM/s400/3.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hispaniolan Woodpeckers (<i>Melanerpes striatus</i>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This itinerant life</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">guided by two things:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One, my whim.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Two, the Texas A&M Wildlife Job Board.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Society cannot comprehend,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">calling me directionless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Maybe a failure, behind my back)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Working jobs for no money.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm here, outside</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hauling a pack, watching birds, climbing trees</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Living with former strangers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Now dear friends)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eating good food,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">laughing in the sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's a good life,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">this itinerant one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* A literary critic informed me that a limerick is a poem with a specific structure and not, as I had thought, a term for a amateurish diddy. (Thanks, Mom.) So, this series gets a new title... </span></i>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-996428054494112372016-03-05T13:52:00.000-05:002016-03-05T13:58:55.254-05:00Bump on a log?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RlHnepR0qy8/Vtso4nd7Z3I/AAAAAAAAAqY/Sm-nmeremWg/s1600/13600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RlHnepR0qy8/Vtso4nd7Z3I/AAAAAAAAAqY/Sm-nmeremWg/s320/13600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Head and the Heart has some great advice for the birder-naturalist</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I like to
sit in the woods (I have heard it called stumping, a term I adore). </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Considering
that you are reading this blog, you probably enjoy the occasional woods-sojourn
yourself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday
I spent the last hours of daylight sitting cross-legged in pine needles. The
woods were quiet after a hot afternoon. Listless Hispaniolan Woodpeckers chirred.
Breeze-harvested pine cones ricocheted through the understory and came to rest
on the ground. Something rustled to my right; I shifted my eyes, keeping my
body motionless. There, ten feet away, sat a Broad-billed Tody. It flycatched
its way through the brush, coming ever closer. I sat frozen, willing away the
pain of two mosquitoes on my brow. The bird—lime green and pink, like the
absurd progeny of a kingfisher and a hummingbird—stared at me for a few
moments, then flitted, snapped a fly, and disappeared into the brush. I
released my breath and swatted the engorged mosquitos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rwahqaVPDno/Vtso4SSqipI/AAAAAAAAAqU/aTu_mgjkzpY/s1600/todus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rwahqaVPDno/Vtso4SSqipI/AAAAAAAAAqU/aTu_mgjkzpY/s400/todus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Broad-billed Tody, aka Fat-faced Highlighter-Jacamar </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is
magic to sitting in nature. I pondered my tody encounter and drafted three
reasons why I go to the woods to sit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">1. Sitting and watching is
a great way to learn more about an ecosystem and its function</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. Want to learn more
about beech-maple forest? Sure, you can read books, peruse websites, and
consult experts, but there is no replacement for sitting on a stump. Go and
sit! Sit in the morning, in the winter, at night, in the rain. Bring a notebook
and record what you see. If you are artistically averse, fear not—you don’t
need to write nature poetry or paint watercolors. Write simple observations and
questions: “Just saw a squirrel with a mouthful of leaves climbing up to a
drey” or “I see a skinny tree with lacy yellow flowers…what is it?”</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nDPOeDCoExI/Vtso2cFB2tI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/t6vGgfoCULo/s1600/epi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nDPOeDCoExI/Vtso2cFB2tI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/t6vGgfoCULo/s400/epi.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Budget quality time with epiphytes!</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2. You see wildlife.</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> I believe the
sedentary naturalist sees more than the mobile one. We are clumsy. Branches
snap, Gortex swishes. Wildlife flees or freezes, never to be seen. Sitting
heightens the senses and diminishes the human presence. Invest thirty minutes,
an hour, two hours of sitting, and some animal will approach within a
heart-stopping distance. In these moments I wish to be Radagast the Brown, camouflaged
with lichen-encrusted cheeks, so still that I am habitat, birds nesting in my
hair.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">3. It keeps you sane</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. Nature is
therapeutic—that is unquestionable. I always love going to the woods, but I am
especially drawn there when plagued with negative emotions. Anxiety, depression,
frustration—all of these feelings dissipate, lysed by the forest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But,
despite these wonderful reasons for stumping, I seldom do it. Why? Again, three
reasons (excuses?) spring to mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>1. I do not always live in
spots conducive to wood-sitting</b></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>.</b> Last fall, I resided on bustling Wealthy
Street in Grand Rapids. The roof was a great spot to observe drunk hipsters
passing by, but the only birds I ever saw there were House Sparrows and
Starlings. It took significant effort to get to a natural area, and
consequently I seldom did.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>2. I don’t have time! </b></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">As much as I love
sitting on logs, it does not always seem like the most constructive use of
time. The reward is intangible. Stumping appears synonymous with idling when
other activities vie for my time. Work, sleep, friends, family, this blog—all
these things are important and do not always leave time for a sit in the woods.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8XkmFS3kJ4k/Vtso1241VyI/AAAAAAAAAqM/Ds0JX2hGoUY/s1600/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8XkmFS3kJ4k/Vtso1241VyI/AAAAAAAAAqM/Ds0JX2hGoUY/s400/cat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>You will see more caterpillars in nature than in your living room</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>3. We admire the intrepid</b></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><b>. </b>This is reflected in
the immense popularity of adventure birding blogs, like </span></span><a href="https://www.audubon.org/features/birding-without-borders" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Noah Stryker's quest</a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">. Were
I to sit on the same log every day and write of my observations, would I
attract as wide of a readership as Stryker? Doubtful—but that doesn’t stop me
from wanting to try (I can already see it: </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
Stump Year: An Effort to See as Few Species as Possible</i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">.) The point is, if
I have a morning free, I prefer to undertake some exploit that will net epic
birds and perhaps create some brag material for the blog.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">I have more to learn from the woods than I think, I think. The question is: will I make time for the stump? And the patience to linger? The observance to notice? And will you?</span></div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-43722293064761640462016-02-20T13:54:00.001-05:002016-02-20T13:57:36.206-05:00Limerick from the Field I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U5Sh5a_P2Fc/Vsi19hKQMtI/AAAAAAAAAnU/afCyYSuYrj4/s1600/gilbert_neil_papilio_demoleus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U5Sh5a_P2Fc/Vsi19hKQMtI/AAAAAAAAAnU/afCyYSuYrj4/s400/gilbert_neil_papilio_demoleus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Papilio demoleus</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Learning</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Losing money<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Making friends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Speaking a new language.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-31867390947369228862016-02-18T12:59:00.000-05:002016-02-18T13:00:03.622-05:00Familiar in the Foreign<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1U8LhWG6yYQ/VsX9PtKEn6I/AAAAAAAAAmk/9l0XQJf8RJo/s1600/amre3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1U8LhWG6yYQ/VsX9PtKEn6I/AAAAAAAAAmk/9l0XQJf8RJo/s400/amre3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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American Redstart (<i>Setophaga ruticilla</i>)</div>
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I have been in the Dominican Republic for a month and will be here for at least two more. It has been fantastic to live and work in a foreign country. I've learned a lot--about tropical ecology, the history of Hispaniola, and the Spanish language. And the birds! I could tell you all about the exotic lifers, like this Palmchat (a monotypic family!):</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qIDysEeq-h8/VsX96SuTE7I/AAAAAAAAAm4/uGCWcYqLk4Q/s1600/palm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qIDysEeq-h8/VsX96SuTE7I/AAAAAAAAAm4/uGCWcYqLk4Q/s400/palm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Palmchat (<i>Dulus dominicus</i>)</div>
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But instead, I'll bore you with photos of a common Neotropical migrant. Redstarts are ubiquitous through much of eastern North America. I've seen thousands. But, I've never seen a redstart in February (unless you want to count a handful of wayward California winterers). </div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sna5ndulAac/VsX9Oo0Ca_I/AAAAAAAAAmg/pNk1iveRTEk/s1600/amre1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sna5ndulAac/VsX9Oo0Ca_I/AAAAAAAAAmg/pNk1iveRTEk/s400/amre1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Redstarts are hyper</i></div>
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Redstarts, like many other insectivorous species from the North Woods, retire to Central America, the Caribbean, and northern South America for the cold months. Different species have different distributions; the Black-throated Green Warbler, for example, is abundant in Mexico and northern Central America but much less common in the Antilles. Redstarts are abundant in Central America (I saw lots in the Yucatan), but here in the Caribbean they seem to be even more numerous.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jk3TqInO7x8/VsX9PgAuPTI/AAAAAAAAAmo/07XNAneEe2E/s1600/amre2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jk3TqInO7x8/VsX9PgAuPTI/AAAAAAAAAmo/07XNAneEe2E/s400/amre2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This particular individual (which I dubbed Chewy for the redstart's sweet <i>chew</i> call note) defends a wintering territory that includes the backyard of our field house. It appears around 3PM every afternoon to forage in the brush pile at the base of our satellite dish.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0YxLX8gKBeI/VsX9QRxyxNI/AAAAAAAAAms/tMfbQyVp2io/s1600/amre4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0YxLX8gKBeI/VsX9QRxyxNI/AAAAAAAAAms/tMfbQyVp2io/s400/amre4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I must admit that it is strange to feel more enamored with redstart than with the endemics (Narrow-billed Tody! Hispaniolan Oriole!) Perhaps it is because these warblers undertake epic journeys of thousands of miles to winter here, while the Palmchats just sit on top of palm spikes their entire lives.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEdRtKF18Qw/VsX9RoFt0cI/AAAAAAAAAmw/-dWrjHt1kPI/s1600/amre5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEdRtKF18Qw/VsX9RoFt0cI/AAAAAAAAAmw/-dWrjHt1kPI/s400/amre5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Or maybe it reflects my background, bias, and sentiments as a temperate birder. I have lots of memories with redstarts. It's almost as if Chewy were my childhood friend--as if a bit of fluff could be a friend.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gMsALLMPJZs/VsX9SAcVqWI/AAAAAAAAAm0/WDuW1r9tKTM/s1600/amre6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gMsALLMPJZs/VsX9SAcVqWI/AAAAAAAAAm0/WDuW1r9tKTM/s400/amre6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Whatever the reason, I've enjoyed seeing Chewy and other familiar warblers on their wintering grounds. They have traded spruce for cecropia, snow for sunshine. As have I.</div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-72686263006200729272016-02-14T13:49:00.000-05:002016-02-14T13:52:12.264-05:00Field Biologist at Cow Urine Creek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5TKGHo6BqlI/VsDH-3H_llI/AAAAAAAAAmI/zetJWdoyDhQ/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18.6667px; line-height: 19.9733px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5TKGHo6BqlI/VsDH-3H_llI/AAAAAAAAAmI/zetJWdoyDhQ/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Somewhere, down in that valley, Cow Urine Creek joins Rio Yaque del Norte</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If
I squint with my ears, I can hear Cow Urine Creek whispering downhill. It is a
small creek, a foot or two across, inches deep. I don’t know its actual name—or
if it even has a name. Probably not. I have dubbed it Cow Urine Creek for the
local prevalence of cattle, which likely adulterates the stream’s purity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s
my spot, this tree I’m sitting in. A bulge in the horizontal trunk forms the
ideal seat, and a brawny vertical limb is a convenient back rest. I felt a
strong sense of fittingness when I reclined here for the first time. <i>This is </i>my<i> spot</i>, I thought. And I reached for my knife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This
is not something I normally do. Carving in bark is frowned upon for people who
claim to be environmentally literate. Global environmental crises such as
climate change and extinction are overwhelming and make me feel powerless; I
could, however, refrain from the simple act of mutilating a tree. Nevertheless,
I carved NAG 2016 in the trunk. Marking my spot. I felt no guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then,
as I was repositioning myself, my knife fell from my pocket. I heard it bounce
in the leaf litter. I cursed softly, then reached for my journal—but my pen
also fell. There was nothing to do but to descend from my eyrie and search. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
pen I found within a moment. The knife was another story. My anxiety mounted as
one minute stretched to five to ten. The vegetation was thick. And it was a
nice knife. The guilt brewed. Sweaty and bur-stuck and ant-stung, I realized
that this was perhaps my just deserve; carve the tree, sin against it, and lose
your blade privilege. But it was a nice knife. I did not want to lose it. So, I
returned to my house to fetch a machete to shave the concealing thatch of grass
and vine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yViC77wFeLg/VsDH-WNJ1nI/AAAAAAAAAmE/oX7jfHqLcsM/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yViC77wFeLg/VsDH-WNJ1nI/AAAAAAAAAmE/oX7jfHqLcsM/s400/2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Island birds are notoriously sensitive to human modifications. Some of Hispaniola's endemics have declined precipitously and are now extremely rare; others, like this Hispaniolan Pewee, remain common (and this one is even using a man-made perch!)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
hacked and swore and sweated. Expanding my radius of destruction, I mercilessly
cut any petiole or liana that could harbor my lost knife. As the machete sang,
I acknowledged the irony of feeling guilt over carving one tree and then
mindlessly decapitating hundreds of plants to find the murder weapon. A second
guilt-wave rolled in, and I began to regret my actions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">An
hour later I found it half-submerged in the lower tier of litter. My
destructive radius had inflated to ten feet; my handiwork rivaled the
capability of a John Deere riding mower. I regarded the withered leaves and
severed stems and shrugged. Then I stuck the machete in my belt and scrambled
up to my lofty office. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
gazed at my blocky, weeping initials and contemplated environmental
degradation. This microcosm of clear-cutting rewound the successional clock a
few years for a bite-size chunk of riparian forest. My small action operates
within the context of this hillside, this valley, the entirety of Hispaniola.
All of these scales have undergone significant human modification. It is far
from a pristine ecosystem—but let’s be honest: do pristine ecosystems exist?
(I’m skeptical.) But, despite man’s heavy influence here, this hillside <i>is</i> an ecosystem. Asthmatic Bananaquits
cavort amidst an impressive assemblage of epiphytic orchids and bromeliads,
crabs lurk in the riffles of Cow Urine Creek despite the dubious water quality,
and Zebra Longwings flutter in and out of the dappled shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--9DHevCcNJA/VsDH-Q1gyLI/AAAAAAAAAmA/AeQLeqDNtO0/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--9DHevCcNJA/VsDH-Q1gyLI/AAAAAAAAAmA/AeQLeqDNtO0/s400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; line-height: 107%;"> Bananaquits, common in the presence of humans. Its Spanish name is </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Ciguita
Común<i>, which means "Common Little Bird."</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
pondered my guilt. Why did I balk at cutting a vine but board the plane to
arrive here without a second thought? The withered vine is more personal and
tangible than the emissions I contributed to with my travels. More
confrontational, even—“<i>You</i> cut this.
It is <i>dead</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We
must learn to face our modifications to the natural world, both the tangible
and nebulous. And it is important to take this responsibility with hope; the
depressing and damning messages that are all too common spawn unproductive
guilt. Indeed, my supervisor at the Cincinnati Nature Center advised against
discussing invasive species, fearing that it would discourage our guests from
further engagement with nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YQrLQbHV7RI/VsDIBti7lDI/AAAAAAAAAmM/Dfng_AfBqs4/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YQrLQbHV7RI/VsDIBti7lDI/AAAAAAAAAmM/Dfng_AfBqs4/s400/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Pale Cracker, an eccentric butterfly with a great name. They are common at Cow Urine Creek. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If
you had not already deduced from my story, I’m struggling to define my place
and responsibility in this human-changed world. I love nature and lament
extinction, habitat loss, and people’s disconnection from their surrounding
ecosystems. I would like to make conservation a priority in my life—and
conservation fundamentally requires educating and inspiring others. But I fear
being branded a hypocrite for driving a car, eating industrial corn, and cutting
my initials into tree bark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
would like to learn better ways to live sustainably and promote positive
education about human impacts on Earth. Let me know if you have any ideas. You
can find me in the tree by Cow Urine Creek.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-29031295866635663572016-02-02T11:18:00.000-05:002016-02-02T11:32:21.886-05:0010 Lessons from Mexico<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mr5C39dKGQ/VrDSgA7QVHI/AAAAAAAAAj0/mAqtyFlunYo/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mr5C39dKGQ/VrDSgA7QVHI/AAAAAAAAAj0/mAqtyFlunYo/s320/4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Yucatan Jays, Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>“…cutting
across my consciousness came the raucous cries of parakeets in the trees along
the river. It was precisely at that moment that I fully realized for the first
time that we were really in Mexico.” </i>Wild
America<i> Chapter 18, “South of the Border”</i></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Birders
are obsessed with the tropics. Dazzling tanagers, bizarre antbirds, and a
confusing array of olive/yellow flycatchers inspire the mind of the birder who
has exhausted their supply of new North American birds. Peruse the archives of
any serious birdblog, and you’ll eventually hit a multi-post, breathless, and
generally uninteresting-except-for-the-photos account of a trip to Somewhere
South. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wtc4R_KSD9o/VrDSU5p5JHI/AAAAAAAAAik/bGw7TYURMvE/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wtc4R_KSD9o/VrDSU5p5JHI/AAAAAAAAAik/bGw7TYURMvE/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Tawny-winged Woodcreeper, Felipe Carillo Puerto</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
wanted to bird south of the border for as long as I can remember; this dream’s
conception I know not. Perhaps it was my young exposure to <i>The Life of Birds</i>, narrated by the ever-classy David Attenborough.
Later, when I was perhaps twelve, I swooned over the Mexico chapter of <i>Wild America</i>. Fisher and Peterson, those
two great gentlemen naturalists, wrote of guzzling Coca-Cola while chasing
tropical butterflies and marveling over dozens of new bird species.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
could do nothing but wait. My family was not the type to take ziplining
vacations in Costa Rica. In high school, I switched to Spanish from German for the
express purpose of traveling Latin America. Via blogs and Facebook I watched my
peers venture to the tropics for the first time and felt no small amount of
jealousy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bo1j74Ymtu4/VrDShzdeXXI/AAAAAAAAAkE/OKIiXU2RfZY/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bo1j74Ymtu4/VrDShzdeXXI/AAAAAAAAAkE/OKIiXU2RfZY/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i> Spider Monkey, Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
finally made my first trip. For the past couple years, my friend Joel Betts and
I have periodically dreamed about traveling together to Latin America. Joel
wouldn’t really describe himself as a birder, but he’s a biologist with strong
interests in tropical ecosystems. I gave him my battered Sibley guide a couple
years ago, and he recently acquired his own binoculars, so I would say that he
is well along the way to becoming an avian addict.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Rather
than bore you with a day-by-day account listing each bird we found at each
antswarm, I’ll share ten lessons I learned from my first expedition to the
tropics. And photos, of course, since that’s probably all you will look at
anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-facqcEHzz20/VrDSgd9j4mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/s3qLdoAiQ2Q/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="230" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-facqcEHzz20/VrDSgd9j4mI/AAAAAAAAAj4/s3qLdoAiQ2Q/s320/5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i> Pale-billed Woodpecker, Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>1. Learn
the calls.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Birds
are hard to see. Now, imagine that you are standing on a dirt road through a
tropical forest, peering into an impenetrable wall of vines, trying to spot that
<i>something</i> rustling in the shadows. Now—imagine
that this unseen bird sings—a beautiful cascading whistle, a song that is <i>surely</i> diagnostic…but, you don’t know
vocalizations, so you’ll never know what it is. Bummer dude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That
was me in Mexico. I knew it was important to study up on vocalizations before
the trip. And I did—a little. But it would be well worth spending hours on
Xeno-Canto ahead of time. That way, you can say, “Hey! That was a Stub-tailed
Spadebill! Let’s find it!” instead of “Hmm, don’t know that one either…it
sounds interesting though…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K_Dbfz_sa54/VrDSn3MllTI/AAAAAAAAAkY/bZo9zdn2duc/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K_Dbfz_sa54/VrDSn3MllTI/AAAAAAAAAkY/bZo9zdn2duc/s320/9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i> Mottled Owls, Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>2. Bring
your scope.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
scope and tripod, wonderful innovations. Scopes mock distance and dismiss
doubt—and, perhaps best of all, transform mediocre views into great ones.
Foolishly I left my scope standing lonely in my bedroom in an effort to lighten
my pack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
regretted it. Several taxonomic groups—pigeons and parrots, especially—killed
us. Accoutered only with binoculars, it’s hard to identify a Scaly Pigeon when
it’s sitting on a snag a quarter-mile away. And, heck—a Keel-billed Toucan is unmistakable,
but imagine a view of one at 45x at 200 feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6h3XPfHN8Cw/VrDSnnhL9bI/AAAAAAAAAkU/Y0Rjf-ufP64/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6h3XPfHN8Cw/VrDSnnhL9bI/AAAAAAAAAkU/Y0Rjf-ufP64/s320/8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>View from Estructura II, Calakmul</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>3. You
don’t have to spend lots of money!</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Travel
is a luxury and costs money—and quite a bit of it! But, fortunately, travel is
cheaper if one foregoes the dine-on-the-beach resorts. Indeed, food and accommodation
is much cheaper in Mexico than in the States. Joel and I partook of few
luxuries and spent less than $900 on the trip (including airfare). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uv7EP2ITUFU/VrDSbTmoZ8I/AAAAAAAAAjc/vrtazMAg_b4/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uv7EP2ITUFU/VrDSbTmoZ8I/AAAAAAAAAjc/vrtazMAg_b4/s320/16.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Summer Tanager, Isla Cozumel</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>4. If
you wear glasses, get Lasik.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
humid and rainy. Those flycatchers of varying shades of olive and yellow will
coalesce even more as your glasses smudge. Camping doesn’t help, either…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YLbE28bOF1Y/VrDSc_zBVlI/AAAAAAAAAjk/_RBOmwSDwpA/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YLbE28bOF1Y/VrDSc_zBVlI/AAAAAAAAAjk/_RBOmwSDwpA/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Eye-ringed Flatbill, Felipe Carillo Puerto </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>5. Learn
more Spanish.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
started taking Spanish in high school. In college, I studied in Spain and even
freakin’ graduated with a B.A. in Spanish. I still felt lost a lot of the time.
The more Spanish you know, the better. It will help you decipher road signs,
ask locals about birding locations, and help you understand why those policemen
with automatic rifles are rifling through your trunk…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VHRSzW6jqdM/VrDSddeUDwI/AAAAAAAAAjo/Q4sDih4Ankg/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="231" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VHRSzW6jqdM/VrDSddeUDwI/AAAAAAAAAjo/Q4sDih4Ankg/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<i>Black-headed Trogon, Felipe Carillo Puerto</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>6. Keep
a journal.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes,
take pictures and enter eBird lists. But keep a journal, too. Write down the
ridiculous things your travel buddy says. You’ll thank yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cMHZUkkwY2U/VrDSmWTa5YI/AAAAAAAAAkM/kYQ8-Bm7jAc/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cMHZUkkwY2U/VrDSmWTa5YI/AAAAAAAAAkM/kYQ8-Bm7jAc/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>7. Be
careful what you eat and drink…but not too careful!</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Joel
and I are both strong-stomached, so we dined in a more cavalier fashion than is
perhaps advisable. But don’t be afraid patronize hole-in-the-wall restaurants
or street vendors, as long as everything looks fresh! Our only dietary
indiscretion occurred when we ate some long-expired canned vegetables from a sleepy
corner store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rQ5DEPceIlk/VrDSU1A0eiI/AAAAAAAAAis/z50zGgwpg44/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rQ5DEPceIlk/VrDSU1A0eiI/AAAAAAAAAis/z50zGgwpg44/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Barred Forest-Falcon, Calakmul</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Tap
water is not safe. Drink bottled water or bottled drinks. (Following in the footsteps
of Peterson and Fisher, we enjoyed many a Coca-Cola). For water, we eventually
secured a 5-gallon <i>garrafon</i>, which,
once empty, can be exchanged for a full at any convenience store for a couple
bucks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Lesser Roadrunner, Rio Lagartos </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>8. Prepare
to barter.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Here
in America, I am accustomed to paying a set price for goods or services. Want a
latte? $3.99, no questions asked. But, in Mexico, the guy selling avocados on
the side of the road wants to maximize his profits, so he’ll tell some gringos
that three avocados cost 50 pesos when they could be bought for half the price
elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ivm_gIXCMu0/VrDSVm1hvGI/AAAAAAAAAi0/ZbD6sxkamRA/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ivm_gIXCMu0/VrDSVm1hvGI/AAAAAAAAAi0/ZbD6sxkamRA/s320/12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Royal Tern, Rio Lagartos </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>9. Don’t
forget about Neotropical migrants.</u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">If I
got a dollar for every Magnolia Warbler I saw in Mexico, I would have been able
to fully fund the trip without dipping into my savings. At times, it felt like
we were birding back in Michigan: “Joel! There’s a Northern Parula! Next to the
Black-throated Green—whoops, it dropped down near the redstart—oh! Just heard a
Great Crested Flycatcher!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Common Black-Hawk, Rio Lagartos </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was super cool to see these old friends on their winter haunts—and fun to
wonder if some of those warblers were the same individuals that we’d seen in
migration or on their breeding grounds up North. If you’re feeling a bit rusty
on your warblers, be sure to study!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Lesser Yellow-headed Vulture (and sea turtle), Las Colorados</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>10. Have
a good attitude. </u><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Deep
in the jungle, a van, and gathered around it, a gaggle of white people! “Must
be birders…tour group I bet,” I said. Joel, blissfully unaware of the dark side
of birding culture, eagerly pulled off to the side of the road so we could
engage them in conversation. I winced, knowing that the exchange would be awkward
at best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hi,
anything good?” I hailed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
chorus of unenthusiastic hellos. “Well, ah, it’s been really slow, actually,”
said the leader. “A Rose-throated Tanager down the road. Couple Yucatan
Flycatchers. But slow.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ah,
bummer,” I responded. “We’ve pretty much just had the usuals, too.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
waited alongside them for a few awkward minutes while they tried to call in a
Green-backed Sparrow. Then they left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wow,
they were grumpy!” Joel said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah,
man, gotta keep up that cool birder façade,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“The
usuals?!” he exclaimed. “We’ve seen dozens of new birds today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
play the game too...but yeah, you’re right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">On
any birding trip, but especially your first foray to the tropics, enjoy the
birds you see! Don’t fret over the Violaceous Trogon that you missed. You’ll
never see every single species in a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i> American Flamingos, Rio Lagartos</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-65849293917794253262015-05-10T21:01:00.004-04:002015-05-10T21:01:49.138-04:00Seeking Limnothlypis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aNfI7hGALn0/VU__ELA9T3I/AAAAAAAAAbU/XC5e0v6FBRo/s1600/swwa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aNfI7hGALn0/VU__ELA9T3I/AAAAAAAAAbU/XC5e0v6FBRo/s320/swwa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Two hours southeast of Cincinnati is Red River Gorge, and
there, as many birders know, lurks the enigmatic Swainson’s Warbler. The bird
isn’t handsome—in fact, I’ve seen more attractive scat—but it is rare, so
birders covet this denizen of rhododendron. Having never seen one, I found
myself aflame with list lust and executed a decidedly harebrained quest to find
them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked all day Saturday, preventing me from doing much
birding before dark. The road leading to my intended bivouac had eroded away
(come on, forest service, update your webpage!), so I drifted back to a Walmart
for the night. The ensuing fitful night of sleep cramped in my trunk added to
the substantial body of evidence that it is impossible to sleep comfortably in
a Ford Taurus. (Before I complain further, allow me to say that my
sleeplessness <i>did</i> net me two Common Nighthawks and a mockingbird. Worth
it all.) </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early the next morning, after all-too-close encounters with
McDonald’s (I know, I know. But, I needed to pee, and do you know how great
coffee sounds after “sleeping” in your trunk all night?), a rabbit (it died),
and oncoming traffic (all parties survived), I was stumbling down the Rock
Bridge Trail, lured on by the distant whistles of a Swainson’s Warbler. I hiked
into the ravine, realizing that the rhododendron canopy created an opaque
blanket that would fully cloak small brown birds like Swainson’s Warblers. To
top it off, the bird stopped singing. I paused to pity myself, rubbing my tired
eyes. Some rustling leaves interrupted my thoughts. Glancing over, I
immediately spotted the Swainson’s digging around in the leaf litter fifteen
feet away. <i>No way, that easy?</i> I thought to myself. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bird stayed in view for about ten seconds, flying just
in time for the birder couple from Washington to miss it. I felt bad—it was, as
the woman said, their last North American warbler that they “needed.” For ten
minutes I did all I could to help them—which, to be honest, amounted to
standing there, occasionally saying, “Ah, I hear it up the ridge.” Eventually I
bid them good luck and continued hiking.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ended up seeing two more Swainson’s, as well as piles of
Hooded and Worm-eating Warblers. Add that to the giant millipedes, pink lady’s
slippers, and beautiful scenery, and it was well worth the drive and the
tortuous night. A few hours later, when I again bumped into the Washington
couple, I was happy to discover that they eventually had good views of the
bird. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mhr1IAJx_wY/VU__EMtwZKI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/nEIqd4ORU2Y/s1600/pink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mhr1IAJx_wY/VU__EMtwZKI/AAAAAAAAAbQ/nEIqd4ORU2Y/s320/pink.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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Get to the gorge. My only advice is to camp properly and eat
something other than peanut butter for four meals straight.</div>
Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-14586310672372020822015-04-09T21:27:00.001-04:002015-04-09T21:28:37.430-04:00Birding by Impression I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0vZBMccvHMI/VSckfIZ0WYI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/YpodJx9wS7s/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0vZBMccvHMI/VSckfIZ0WYI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/YpodJx9wS7s/s1600/2.jpg" height="223" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Newer birders tend to focus on details. They squint to ascertain the hue of shorebird legs and doggedly attempt to sort out sparrows based on breast pattern. Following the field marks is the classic route to improve one's birding prowess. But, in many cases, those details are superfluous.<br />
<br />
Let me set the stage. You are walking through a beech-maple forest on a balmy April afternoon. A medium-sized bird--looks woodpeckerish--flushes from a nearby tree and lands several trees back. You try to manuever to get a clear view, but the bird keeps ducking behind the trunk, staying out of sight.<br />
<br />
It was a sapsucker. They're sneaky. Their coyness is unparalleled in the woodpecker clan. Don't bother looking for white wing stripe or the red throat patch.Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-81972280416502267122015-04-08T21:45:00.002-04:002015-04-08T21:48:05.561-04:00A rocking chair, an amphibian, and some people who like nature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nDMhew_UAdw/VSXZGv2KcwI/AAAAAAAAAZA/1W3ZMZUrfCE/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nDMhew_UAdw/VSXZGv2KcwI/AAAAAAAAAZA/1W3ZMZUrfCE/s1600/1.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uxl3wk8sP4c/VSXZG2ToWRI/AAAAAAAAAZE/vQ9Uo06pgb4/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uxl3wk8sP4c/VSXZG2ToWRI/AAAAAAAAAZE/vQ9Uo06pgb4/s1600/4.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcAp9fFSebg/VSXZHfTDcUI/AAAAAAAAAZM/zIII-FNkZg0/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcAp9fFSebg/VSXZHfTDcUI/AAAAAAAAAZM/zIII-FNkZg0/s1600/6.jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXFI-Ljs_yI/VSXZHfWiXKI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/yuG9noMIXKo/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXFI-Ljs_yI/VSXZHfWiXKI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/yuG9noMIXKo/s1600/7.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
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<br />Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-32503813801524959562015-03-27T23:13:00.000-04:002015-03-27T23:16:38.679-04:00A day without a camera: the journal<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i>11:48</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">An error message flashes.
No memory card! And so my camera is debilitated by the absence of a plastic
square weighing a gram. Instantly I mourn. Today will go unrecorded, be
forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But no! I will photograph
with ink instead of JPEG. I must see through my cornea instead of my camera. It
is harder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>12:15<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I follow the throaty din
of chorus frogs, expecting to find a secluded vernal pool. Instead I stumble
across a roadside ditch containing one bathtub’s worth of water. The surface is
iridescent with oil. But the frogs are here, dozens. I squat. They stop. I gaze
at their projecting snouts, at their smallness. At their disregard for the oily
water. Then I rise, and the frogs splash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>1:15<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sit reading in a forest
of trees younger than my parents. Nothing stirs in the midday sun except a
Hairy Woodpecker dissecting an ash. I stare at the page. Paper. Wood. Trees.
These trees around me would have been saplings when my parents were students at
Wooster. Woodcock habitat. This copse was woodcock habitat half a century ago.
They would have twittered and tumbled overhead at dusk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some of these trees are
my age. Neither a sapling nor a tree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A Lapland Longspur
rattles over. Ten minutes later, a pipit. It pays to sit outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>2:00 <o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>If you are concerned
about the proliferation of trash, then by all means start an organization in
your community to do something about it. But before—and while—you organize,
pick up some cans and bottles yourself.</i> Wendell Berry, “Think Little”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My
campaign of the day is to improve earth by picking up bottles. With fresh eyes
I find them everywhere—Budweisers emerging from the leaf litter, a massive
whisky bottle jammed in a low crotch. My latest addition is a Gatorade
bottle—Glacier Cherry—cast away beside the trail, a testament to some hiker’s
clumsiness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>2:30<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A
woodpecker that could be a flag alights on a nearby snag. It is, I realize, the
most beautiful thing I have seen. It is perpetually wounded, chronically
bleeding crimson from the head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>2:40<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ice
shatters. Startled, I prematurely abort my woodpecker musings and seek the
cause. Nothing. I gaze at the reservoir. Then, a partially submerged
tree—younger than me—shudders. Ice snaps from its lower branches. It is not the
breeze. I watch, but all falls still. A beaver? An angry catfish the size of a
beaver? I do not know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>2:52<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A
young man rushes by on a yellow mountain bike, his calves mud-splattered. He is
younger than me, and that says a lot; I am young. I wonder why he is here. Is
he lonely, wishing that a buddy or lady friend could accompany him? Or is he
reveling in the solitude, escaping the chaos of high school (college?) And, as
I follow his tire tread in the dirt, I wonder if he is wondering about me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>3:11<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
walk briskly, trying to maintain a healthy distance from Backpack Man, a hiker
behind me on the trail. I have nothing against him; I simply want to be alone.
He appears to be roughly my parents’ age. He hauls a massive tan backpack,
military looking. I wonder what it contains. Camping equipment? Camera gear? I
try not to step on the bike tracks left in the clay-colored mud by the young
man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fast
footfalls approach. I look up to see a trail runner, older than me, but not by
much. His short career has already been successful (engineer?) I decide that he
has a serious girlfriend—but, she’s out of town (visiting her parents?)
Otherwise, she would be here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This
forest, this trail—empty, a stage for solitude, but full, full of people and
their stories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>3:21<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
reach the road. A large coffee cup—McCafe, 24 ounces—lies flattened beside the
pavement. I stoop to collect it (even though it isn’t a bottle). Another runner
passes me. I feel guilty but immediately scold myself—come now, you don’t need to run every day. And anyway, I’m walking.
Miles. But, sluggish miles punctuated by frequent writing stops—my pulse
probably has not exceeded one hundred beats per minute. In the ditch I spot a
sodden car mat advertising <i>BEECHMONT
FORD</i>. It also is
not a bottle, but I pick it up anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>3:35<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My
car is intact. The only other soul in the lot is a man (slightly younger than
my parents, I judge) and his bedraggled dog that is at least part border
collie. The man has had a hard life. I force myself to scope the lake, thinking
that the heat distortion will have abated. It is worse; the ducks are just as
unidentifiable as before. A large truck—an aggressive, growling truck—pulls up
behind me. A voice speaks, surely addressing me, as I am the only proximate
person. I turn and see two rangers. I cannot hear over the engine. I walk to
the window. The younger ranger—the one in the passenger seat, asks, “That guy
have his pants down earlier?” I swear those are his exact words. I hesitate;
the passenger ranger laughs, realizing the absurdity of his question. The
driver says nothing, shows nothing. I say what I know, which is nothing, and
they thank me and leave. The man and the dog leave shortly thereafter. I notice
he drives a purple Ford pickup. Perhaps the mat that is now in my trunk was
once his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>3:51<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sit
on the cool concrete in the shadow of my car, writing about the rangers and the
man with his pants possibly down. A Ford Focus pulls up next to me, driven by a
young woman in a baseball cap and aviators. Not looking up, I hear her exit the
car and walk away. Perhaps the mat that is now in my trunk was once hers. I
imagine running up to her with the mat and asking, “Excuse me, did you lose
this?” I imagine becoming her friend and falling in love. I see hikes in the
woods, long coffee dates on rainy days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:04<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People
drive slowly, windows down, listening to frogs. At least I hope so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:07<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Vultures
and crows overhead <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">both
black birds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">but
neither blackbirds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:15<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am
on a new trail, the Cedar Pond trail, and I have reached what is presumably
Cedar Pond, a small, murky pond without frogs. The trail is neglected,
overgrown. I sit in the damp leaves and admire the stunted canopy of Lycopodium. Without thinking, I begin pishing and am surprised to
realize that it is the first pishing incident of the day. Two
chickadees—seeking real estate, I speculate—wander over, scold half-heartedly,
and then resume their house hunt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:20<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A
butterfly erupts from the trail. I see a flash of orange. An anglewing! It
alights on a wizened stump, and, as it fans its wings, I glimpse the silver
crescent on its underwing. Not a Question Mark. But there are multiple commas.
I wished for my camera. I wished I could memorize the markings and sketch them
like a laser printer. I knew I could not, so instead I admired the terra cotta
wings splotched with molasses. I tried to accept not learning its first name. Comma sp. it remains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:40<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sit
in my car, contemplating my next move, staring out at the young forest, maple
dominated. Probably Reds, judging by the low ground. I try to imagine my
parents as trees. And how trees would be as parents. If John and Carol Gilbert
were trees, I suppose I would be as well. What sort of tree would I like to be?
Perhaps a sycamore—a slim, stately sycamore guarding the lip of a ravine, roots
penetrating ancient shale. Yellow-throated Warblers will sing from my crown. As
I age and hollow out, raccoons and Barred Owls will make their homes in my
heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>5:12<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sit in the forest
long enough, quietly enough, and you will hear the leaf litter breathe. I am
not joking. That carpet of decomposition is alive. Fallen leaves rustle without
the lightest breeze. Wolf spiders dashing after prey, perhaps. Or salamanders
or sowbugs or Wood Frogs shifting in their hiding spots. Or—perhaps it is the
sound of plants growing, of shoots pushing through last year’s death. Or maybe
it is causeless…</span>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-48208718884700450262015-03-20T22:13:00.000-04:002015-03-20T22:14:10.527-04:00Parting Shots at Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IBLXR3VOOTo/VQzR2RBPy-I/AAAAAAAAAXA/I2VBwzF2hOI/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IBLXR3VOOTo/VQzR2RBPy-I/AAAAAAAAAXA/I2VBwzF2hOI/s1600/1.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Spring is official. It has been unofficially arriving over the last few weeks--and, arguably, the last few months. The Northern Rough-winged Swallows I saw in California in late December were likely northbound migrants. And here in Cincinnati, the maple sap has been running since the middle of January. But, now that spring is undeniably here with peenting woodcocks, blooming wildflowers, and nesting woodpeckers, it is a good time to reflect on winter. I will do so with photos.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BKSxaNrsNP0/VQzR2wy1H6I/AAAAAAAAAXM/x9_fY9li3TQ/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BKSxaNrsNP0/VQzR2wy1H6I/AAAAAAAAAXM/x9_fY9li3TQ/s1600/3.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The toadtree (aka, Hackberry)</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zc7grAp7-RU/VQzR3GumEiI/AAAAAAAAAXU/ruOiBG-D_mE/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zc7grAp7-RU/VQzR3GumEiI/AAAAAAAAAXU/ruOiBG-D_mE/s1600/4.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dvPGYszoipw/VQzR3NZrx3I/AAAAAAAAAXQ/3kWsU5qMYTA/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dvPGYszoipw/VQzR3NZrx3I/AAAAAAAAAXQ/3kWsU5qMYTA/s1600/5.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zdEK_kfORsk/VQzR3YbhucI/AAAAAAAAAXY/RiT0C2aWlAI/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zdEK_kfORsk/VQzR3YbhucI/AAAAAAAAAXY/RiT0C2aWlAI/s1600/6.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lk25IsegL-c/VQzR3krug_I/AAAAAAAAAX0/XJqUwGTe6KI/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lk25IsegL-c/VQzR3krug_I/AAAAAAAAAX0/XJqUwGTe6KI/s1600/7.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAbr2JcMpoU/VQzR3gPFaaI/AAAAAAAAAXs/p-t8h69bgr4/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAbr2JcMpoU/VQzR3gPFaaI/AAAAAAAAAXs/p-t8h69bgr4/s1600/8.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The White Tree of Gondor</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eVFQHwHOUsU/VQzR37fCYnI/AAAAAAAAAXk/vbJxr8750II/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eVFQHwHOUsU/VQzR37fCYnI/AAAAAAAAAXk/vbJxr8750II/s1600/9.jpg" height="205" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This is what I look like when I wake up in the morning.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-52032752199817352392015-03-14T22:50:00.000-04:002015-03-14T22:56:05.741-04:00The amphibian exodus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0tuinMFGugE/VQTxuGfmwPI/AAAAAAAAAWc/xkQCoHeO1Eo/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0tuinMFGugE/VQTxuGfmwPI/AAAAAAAAAWc/xkQCoHeO1Eo/s1600/7.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wood Frog (<i>Lithobates sylvaticus</i>)</div>
<br />
Late last night, returning from a jam session with my friend Alex, I saw frogs like popcorn on the rainy roads. I even saw (and narrowly avoided squishing) a salamander army-crawling across the nature center driveway. And so I decided to go for a midnight amphibian hunt even though I craved sleep.<br />
<br />
Such nights are ideal for finding frogs and salamanders. Amphibian movements are dictated by rain--their skin must remain moist, and some individuals traverse hundreds of meters of high ground to reach their breeding pools. Moving at night presumably ameliorates desiccation and lends security from predators.<br />
<br />
They covet vernal pools, those ephemeral puddles that will dry by July. These temporary ponds cannot house fish and other aquatic predators, creating a safe nursery for amphibians. But, the amphibians can't waste their time--the pools will dry, and if the larvae cannot mature, they perish. Starting in late February and early March, the salamanders stage a sluggish exodus from their subterranean hovels to their ice-rimmed breeding pools.<br />
<br />
As I hiked through the persistent rain, I imagined seething masses of salamanders and cautiously planted each step to avoid pancaking any migrating amphibians. The scene at the first pool I visited was much less exciting than I had imagined--a few chilled Wood Frogs floated around, but nothing else. I had to search for ten minutes until I found my first Jefferson Salamander.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kFrRK5vYO_Q/VQTxFbyFerI/AAAAAAAAAVs/6AYMoKV85L0/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kFrRK5vYO_Q/VQTxFbyFerI/AAAAAAAAAVs/6AYMoKV85L0/s1600/1.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Jefferson Salamander (<i>Ambystoma jeffersonianum</i>)</div>
<br />
I moved on to a second pool. This one throbbed with frog activity. I could hear the Spring Peepers from a quarter-mile away, and as I drew close, I could Wood Frogs gurgling the base line to the frog cacophony. The frogs, chilled and hormone-charged, were easy to catch.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_7VYqKSikaE/VQTxFYACuhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/VdiIii-BLWQ/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_7VYqKSikaE/VQTxFYACuhI/AAAAAAAAAVw/VdiIii-BLWQ/s1600/2.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Spring Peeper (<i>Pseudacris crucifer</i>)</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qnhkCgGCRBw/VQTxFn7tYNI/AAAAAAAAAWM/oGMtT19H6hw/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qnhkCgGCRBw/VQTxFn7tYNI/AAAAAAAAAWM/oGMtT19H6hw/s1600/4.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wood Frog (<i>Lithobates sylvaticus</i>). Crawling onto a sheet of ice isn't such a great decision when you are a poikilotherm!</div>
<br />
No salamanders. I probed the shallow water with the beam of my headlamp, but the hunt was fruitless. Finally, out of desperation, I cast my net into the pool and dredged a three-foot section of the pool's bottom. To my astonishment, the net came up with a Spotted Salamander! I couldn't duplicate this feat despite casting the net a dozen more times.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D4_p0QQBA2E/VQTxFS7TGzI/AAAAAAAAAV0/37eztj7zd-A/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D4_p0QQBA2E/VQTxFS7TGzI/AAAAAAAAAV0/37eztj7zd-A/s1600/3.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Spotted Salamander (<i>Ambystoma maculatum</i>)</div>
<br />
And finally, this evening, while seeking woodcocks at Shor Park, I came across this fearsome salamander that I cannot identify<br />
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Just kidding--it's a crayfish, of course. I decided to overcome my deep-seated fear of crustaceans and picked it up. I didn't even get pinched! I can highly recommend the experience. Don't be afraid. <br />
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Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-28658038554804907602015-02-27T21:20:00.002-05:002015-02-27T21:24:40.410-05:00Open water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Open water is a critical ingredient in winter birding; without it, your birding repertoire will be limited to a few dozen passerines. The recent deep freeze has concentrated waterfowl in the ice-jammed Ohio River. I took a cruise along the river this afternoon and found decent numbers of ducks (a flock of over a hundred Canvasbacks was a clear highlight) to reward my numbed toes.<br />
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The only birds close enough to photograph was a small pod of scaup near downtown Cincinnati. Greater Scaup were more numerous today, but I did see two Lessers. One of them is in the photo below. Can you find it?<br />
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The two scaups are so similar that I'm sure many novice birders have smashed their binoculars in frustration. At close range, the fine differences are easier to notice. In the top photo, the Lesser is leading the pack; below, it is the topmost bird.<br />
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I became curious about scaup distribution--thank goodness for eBird! As I drove along, all I could remember was that Greater Scaup occurs in both the Nearctic and the Palearctic, while the Lesser lives only in North America. These maps are for winter (December through February).</div>
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Greater Scaup range--generally, it seems to stick a bit further north and seems more strongly associated with coasts.</div>
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And the Lesser Scaup. It ranges farther south and is spread more evenly across the continent.<br />
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After completing my river circuit, I made a detour on the way home to check the lake at East Fork State Park. This is a massive lake; I had a hunch there might be some open water. There was--just one small patch that was peppered with Mallards, mergansers (all three species), and goldeneye. They appeared unnerved by the pair of Bald Eagles standing vigil nearby.</div>
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Bald Eagles are certainly majestic, but after hearing several dozen breathless accounts from nonbirders about <i>that time back in '87 when we saw an EAGLE at the cabin, </i>they can become annoying. I'm sure these eagles are enjoying the deep freeze as much as I am--it makes hunting duck easier, a welcomed supplement to a diet of roadkill and dead fish. With temperatures predicted to rise next week, the eagles will have to go back to their carrion and I to my chickadees and White-throated Sparrows.Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6001713406913103302.post-6226540849369634832015-02-23T20:55:00.003-05:002015-02-23T20:57:21.591-05:00The Name Conundrum<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Allow me to give you a brief history of this podium for
avian bombast.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 2007, a nerdy fourteen year-old young birder created this
site and began to write earnest chronicles of his local birding adventures. He
named it “OCBirding,” short for “Orange County Birding.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By 2009-2010, the blog had garnered something of a following
and displayed increasing levels of grandiloquence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 2010, the author moved out of Orange County, rendering
the title obsolescent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It wasn’t until about 2012ish that the author finally
realized that “OCBirding” was no longer an appropriate title. The lackadaisical
author slapped the new name, “Not just birds,” onto the blog with barely five
minute’s thought and returned to homework.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, in 2015, emancipation from school allows me ample time
to fret over my blog. The insipid title offends me. So, after a <i>full day’s
contemplation</i>, I hereby rechristen this blog “Obsessive-Compulsive
Birding.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are lots of potential names out there. <i>The Avian
Confessions of an Ex-Nerd. Birding in Lotsa Places. Ornithological Warfare.
Eat, Pray, Bird. </i>You get the idea. I chose thus because:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. Back in the OCBirding days, people jokingly joked that
the “OC” stood for “Obsessive-Compulsive.” Take that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. The web address of this blog is ocbirding.blogspot.com,
and I’ll be damned if there isn’t a better OC title than
“Obsessive-Compulsive.” Hmm. <i>Ornithological Crap</i>? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. I’m think I renamed the blog “Obsessive-Compulsive
Birding” back in my college days. I’m just not sure. That’s why it’s not in the
history.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. Finally, my patterns of birding behavior are
arguable obsessive-compulsive. I think about birds constantly and go birding
all the time. And when I’m not birding, I’m worrying about the birds I’m not
seeing. I’m not sure why.</span>Neil Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07907439254180490876noreply@blogger.com1