A New Way to Waste Your Time

Sanderlings don't sweat.

But humans do. Especially when they run.

Bored? Venture into this new land of abnormality.

The Sweaty Sanderlings

Duck Duck Goose

"RRRRAAAAAAAAAWWWR!" roared the tottering boy, waving his arms and rushing at the grazing herd of geese.

The geese hastily waddled away, easily outstripping the chubby child, and plopped into the safety of the scummy pond. There, they splashed and yanked among themselves.

Stupid kid, I thought to myself, but I was smiling. I would have acted the same at his age; in fact, I still would, if only they weren't White-fronts. The geese, apparently accumstomed to such molestation, patiently paddled just outside of strike range. They accurately gauged my maturity and restraint; I could have easily given them a bombardment worth remembering, though they were safe from stones flung by their assailant.

The kid turned his attention to some ragged Ring-billed Gulls loafing at the pond's edge. Shrieks and squeals sounded from both the boy and the gulls as the birds fluttered off and settled in the center of the pond.

He was learning an fundamental aspect of bird biology: birds have wings, and they use them to escape potential predators.

I smirked, and squatted down to shoot some photos of the White-fronts. The rippling water lent the sterile, sludgy pond a false beauty. I was so engrossed that I didn't even notice his approach.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his words barely recognizeable through the distortion of a lingering baby drawl. His grinning mouth was framed by mountainous dimples, and his eyes, about level with mine as I crouched, shone with excitement and expectation. He clutched two slices of bread in his little hands; perhaps he had intended to feed them to the geese.

"Taking pictures of the duckies," I answered with a big smile, feeling only the slightest stab of guilt at referring to a creature as elegant as Anser albifrons as a "ducky."

"Why?" asked the boy, a frown spreading across his face, trying to comprehend.

"Because, uh, it's fun?" I stammered, my answer more of a question than a statement. I don't even understand myself. How could I possibly explain to a simple mind the joys, the frustrations, the thrills of birding?

Fortunately, the kid's mother came to the rescue. "Don't talk to strangers!" she scolded him, dragging him away by the hand. I sighed a breath of relief.

Later, I spied him on the other side of the pond, scampering after wigeons and Mallards while screaming, "Duckies! Duckies! Duckies!"

Maybe he'll be a birder someday.

Eye on the Tiger

What does it take to distract an obsessed birder from birds?

Barring the predicted possibilities such as food, girlfriend, or studying, sometimes all it takes is a really good mammal.

Don't get me wrong. Not all mammals are equal. Lesser mammals, such as Fox Squirrels and Eastern Chipmunks, exist primarily to serve as targets for projectiles during bouts of acute boredom. Others, like Bobcats, demand complete attention.

It happened sort of like this. I was at Irvine Regional Park, blissfully enjoying a Red-breasted Sapsucker...



...when, WHAM! I glanced aside and found myself under the cool, calculating gaze of a Bobcat bedded down in the grass. At first, I thought it might be sick--it sat, its eyes sagging shut, apparently uninterested in my presence. However, as I approached, the beast arose and sauntered away, throwing me a condescending glance over its shoulder.

I followed.

The cat didn't care. It swaggered along the edge a thicket, occasionally stopping with its ears pricked, listening for prey. Then, without warning, it pounced, coming up with a juicy vole. It immediately devoured the unfortunate rodent. When I inspected the premises after the Bobcat had left, I found a slimy pile of Bobcat excrement as well as a stain of vole blood.



I should probably stop there.

Under the Weather

The answer to the question "Where are you from?" has become increasingly difficult for me to answer. At school, I pass myself off as a Californian; here in California, I claim to hail from Grand Rapids. Either way, my interrogator usually remarks on the climate of either location.

After a couple months of living in a more or less constant state of hypothermia, I was ready for a trip to sunny, balmy Orange County.

I curled my upper lip into a sneer and glared at the blurry sheets of water migrating down the fogged windshield. Lively rivulets of water flitted down the side window, and regiments of raindrops marched against the roof. With a weary hand I rubbed my eyes and rested my forehead against the wheel. Despair. Christmas Bird Counts are a classic tradition among birders, taking place regardless of weather conditions. But, I felt very little desire to wander in the rain all day without seeing any birds.

Come on, man up. If I stay out for an hour, I can eat half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I didn't matter that it was only seven in the morning.

I sighed, zipped up my rain jacket, and stepped into the rain, muttering choice homemade curses as the first droplets knifed down my neck. Trudging toward a bland-looking clump of brush, I pulled my hood up and huddled in its dry depths.

Staring into the tasteless bushes, I released a few half-hearted pish sequences through dripping lips. Nothing. I pished a bit more vigorously. A Spotted Towhee peeked out from its leafy lair and then dove back into cover.

Small potatoes. I extracted my notebook from my pocket and scrawled "SPTO I" in black ink across one of its soggy sheets. The ink sprouted veins and became illegible. The notebook returned to its snug home in my pocket, the zipper firmly yanked behind it. "May you be devoured by Turkey Vultures," I politely intoned as I turned to continue up the road.

Ahhh, Christmas Bird Counts. Romanticized during the rest of the year, many are, in reality, terrible ordeals. But this one was the worst I'd ever done. Rain relentlessly splattered every unprotected surface--face, binocular lenses, hands. A stiff breeze buffeted my body, finding every chink and crack in my protective layers. The rain and wind virtually eliminated bird activity. Even the normally ubiquitous Audubon's Warblers were difficult to turn up.

Fifteen minutes of singularly unpleasant birding brought me to the end of the road. I had little to show for it. I bowed my head. A stream of water coursed off my head and fell directly into one of the eye cups of my binoculars. That was the last straw.

Except it wasn't. I had to stay out; it was the Christmas Bird Count. And I wanted that sandwich. Just then I noticed a high-pitched squeak, the sort of squeak that Pacific-slope Flycatchers make. Scanning the dripping bushes, I spotted the culprit, matted and bedraggled, bouncing around the wet branches. It looked almost as pathetic as I felt. But, a good count bird.

Fifty minutes. Fifty-five. I had finally put in an hour. I stomped back to the car, soaked and disgruntled. I retreated to its relatively dry interior and tore in my sandwich. I even delved into my cache of grapes.

The rest of the day, as you can imagine, was toilsome.

Deprivation

Stop breathing.

No, I don’t mean it in a malicious way. Hold your breath for as long as you can.

How do you feel now, thirty seconds, a minute later? Unless you’ve passed out, which I find highly unlikely (in fact, I doubt you held your breath at all, loser), you’re gasping for breath. When deprived of oxygen, you consume it at larger quantities when finally reunited with it.

Repression of birding brings similar results. All semester, my birding time was severely limited. During the closing weeks of the semester, however, it grew worse. Finals, papers, and presentations dominated my life. Oh, and the scarcity of birds and the sub-freezing temperatures did nothing to add to my motivation.

But that’s over. I’m back at home, free. Let the raw, primitive, unbridled birding begin!

Thrush Porn

With nearly frigid temperatures, incessant winds, and equally incessant papers, presentations, and exams upon me, I've had very little time for birding in the last couple weeks. However, these extenuating circumstances (or even my temporary, unintentional stint of not owning binoculars) could prevent me from hitting the woods on Tuesday morning. Chickadee. Nuthatch. Junco. Regular winter fare, save for this wretched-looking Hermit Thrush I came across. He gave me quite a show.

Here's a more orthodox photo for your enjoyment.

Spruces and Pines

It's been too long.

Too long since I've breathed the sweet boreal air, too long since I've had my face frozen off by a stiff Whitefish breeze, and too long since I've gazed upon the intricately mottled flanks of a Spruce Grouse.

Prior to this weekend, I'd actually never seen a Spruce Grouse. Way too long.

I consider Da Yoop (err...Upper Peninsula, but who calls it that?) one of the greatest places on earth. My friends Alison Világ and Harold Eyster agree, which is why we went there last weekend. Good birds, good friends, good food, and good games of midnight euchre in the parking lot at Whitefish Point...doesn't get any better than that.

The only slight challenge of the weekend was staying warm. Temperatures were entirely reasonable most of the time (lows were around thirty), but as a wimpy California, I've lost my perspective. My feet rebelled the first night; by morning, I was sure there was a slice of permafrost jammed in the foot of my sleeping bag. Oh yeah, that's right...we were camping.

Spruce Grouse has always been a painful component missing from my life; the entire drive up, my companions alternated between scoffing at my misfortune and marveling at my how I've survived for so long without Spruce satisfaction. Happily, after a couple misguided skirmishes, we stumbled upon a gorgeous male waddling along the edge of Farm Truck Road.



After this initial victory, these allegedly elusive birds began popping up everywhere; before the weekend was over, we had seen thirteen. Perhaps it was our diligent surveillance of the roadsides that lent us such great success, but I suspect it was actually our discovery of the grouses' greatest weakness: deathly fear of falling trees. Every time I knocked over a leaning tree in a bog, it flushed a Spruce Grouse. Sure, it only happened twice, but hey--that's still one hundred percent effectiveness!

Another virtue of Da Yoop is its winter finches, from the tiny, tidy redpolls to the big, blundering grosbeaks. Though most of the winter finches were less numerous than Spruce Grouse on this trip, we still found a pleasant diversity. The very best was a lone male Pine Grosbeak that waylaid us on our way out to the Tip at Whitefish. Originally, we had planned to scoot out to the Tip first thing Sunday morning without delaying at the feeders, but who can resist a fluffy ball of pink perfection? I certainly can't. We admired it from illegally short distances as it sloppily munched on sunflower seeds (finally, a worse eater than me...wait, I forgot about the risotto. Nevermind.)



The actual rarities we saw were mere footnotes to the Spruces and Pines. The Anna's Hummingbird was a first state record, which meant we were obligated to make the drive over to Grand Marais to see it, and the Spotted Towhee just happened to be visiting the feeders at Whitefish.



Ah, I'm such a filthy twitcher.



I last saw a Spruce Grouse a little over seventy-two hours ago. It's already been too long.