Cape Ann

It's both thrilling and a bit surreal to walk outside in mid-winter in New England and feel like it's springtime.  But this winter, we've almost come to expect it up here!  I headed out early Saturday morning to meet a few friends to bird around Cape Ann, including Gloucester and Rockport, and by mid-day, it was 50 degrees.  We're definitely being spoiled...Or maybe we're just being set-up for February?

Our group of birders, led by the intrepid RC, met at the Fisherman's Monument overlooking Gloucester Harbor.  The weather was already promising, and there was almost no wind to speak of.  The sky was clear, and the light was perfect.  Whatever RC does to propitiate the weather gods before he leads his trips, he's successful every time.  Yet little did I know that our small peaceful band of birders would, within an hour, be embroiled and nearly subsumed by hordes of zealous competitors.

We first stopped off at the Jodrey Fish Pier.  The tide was low, and the inner harbor was filled with seabirds relaxing on the water, buoys, and exposed rocks.  As members of our group started to scan, RC pointed out a few birders off on the periphery of the pier by themselves...He said to me, "They must be doing the Super Bowl.  Check and see if they have any reports."

Ahhh, yes...Today was the Super Bowl!  Not the Pats vs. the Giants, but the Super Bowl of Birding!  I had forgotten until that moment.  It's a competition where teams vie to see the greatest number of species (with added points for rarity) in a 12-hour period.  The area is limited to northeastern Massachusetts and southeastern New Hampshire, so teams tend to run into each other a lot at the prime birding spots during the competition.  My friends and I were not competing, but since we would be hitting many of the hot spots ourselves, we were sure to encounter our share of competitors, too.  And these guys who were walking down the pier away from us looked serious enough to be Super Bowlers.  Perhaps they could share with us, from whom they had no reason to withhold information, any tips on exciting birds they had spotted that morning?

To those of you who aren't active birders, this is the kind of the episode that may tickle you with delight for its seeming incomprehensible perversity, or shock and appall you for its dark commentary on human competition and selfishness.  What's most surprising for non-birders is that they tend to think of "birdwatchers" as gentle, nature-loving, hippies.  And some are.  But as active birders know, birders can also be fierce, adventurous, daring, tireless, competitive, and yes, sometimes selfish, status-seeking, and even downright mean.  So although you non-birders out there may laugh with surprise and disdain when you hear this story, birders will understand completely.

So back to our story...I left my group and walked down the pier toward the group of men with binoculars and big scopes, hoping to gain some information from their morning's hunt that could lead my friends and me to some exciting new birds.  And this is how my conversation went, at 8:15 on a beautiful Saturday morning.  Birders can follow the original transcription, but for non-birders, I'll include a translation into functional human English:

"Hey, guys, you Super Bowling today?"
(Are you gentlemen trying to win a competition where you see more birds than anyone else today?)

"Yup."
(Yes, and any delay will not be tolerated.)

"Great!  How's it going so far?"
(Oh god, I can already tell you guys are jerks.  Have you seen any unusual or unexpected birds this morning?)

"Pretty good."
(Yes, we have, and we have no intention of telling you about any of them.)

"What'd you have so far?"
(What unusual birds have you seen today?)

"We're competing."
(You are the enemy.)

"Oh, my friends and I aren't doing the Super Bowl.  We're just birding together."
(We come in peace.  We are harmless.  Do not fear us.)

"But you could tell someone."
(We fear everyone.)

And that was pretty much how it ended.

Later on, I would observe that there were three distinct kinds of birders in Cape Ann that day.  Or, let's say instead, there were three distint species of birders.  What those three species were would become clear at the next stop, but for now, I returned to my group of friends and looked out at the peaceful inner harbor.

Common Eider were omnipresent, along with Common Loons, Red-breasted Mergansers, a few Razorbills, a Black Guillemot, and gulls, gulls, gulls.  We spotted an Iceland Gull in close, taking a break on a rock exposed by the low tide, serene in the morning sun:

He looked almost ready to fall asleep.  A passing female Common Eider posed no threat:

Unperturbed, the Iceland Gull stood motionless the whole time we were there.  Though he looked someone rattled by a larger Herring Gull.  Their eyes locked as the showdown began:

Cooler heads prevailed however, and any confrontation was averted.  The Iceland Gull maintained his position.

We also got good looks at a Glaucous Gull, which was a favorite of mine for many reasons.  It was too distant to get a good photo, though.  Not so with a dignified and noble group of Red-breasted Mergansers that passed close by:

Well, perhaps the hair looks more "modern" than dignified, depending on your generation.  As these three swam by, I was reminded how in good light, even familiar birds become new again.  Subtle iridescences, obscured colors, and often-overlooked details shine forth, and I always feel my heart fill up with wonder and excitement when I get to see beautiful birds of any species that closely and clearly.

Atop the Gloucester City Hall clock tower in the distance, we could see a few contrasty light and dark spots in motion...possibly the pair of Peregrine Falcons that has made the tower their home.  And sure enough, a look through the scope confirmed their presence.  An iPhone through the scope might just be enough to capture a photo...Can you see the pair on the clock tower below?

Our next stop was for an unexpected visitor.  A Spotted Towhee, primarily a bird of the western United States, had been seen in someone's yard skulking around in the brush.  We arrived in the neighborhood, and to our surprise, we were the only birders there.  We parked respectfully down the road and walked back toward the spot where the Spotted Towhee had been reported.  The owner of the house came out and welcomed us graciously.  Whenever a rare bird shows up in someone's yard, you never know whether they're going to be excited at the prospect of hundreds of eager birders descending upon their property, or repulsed by the imposition.  Luckily, this homeowner was pleased to have "won the lottery," so to speak, and allowed us to spend as much time as we liked peering into his shrubs.

We spent a while there, tiptoeing around the bushes, squinting into the shady underbrush.  After half an hour, still no other birders had arrived, but nor had the towhee.  RC is ever patient and deliberate, and he cautioned everyone to keep quiet, spread out, and persevere.  I'm always amazed to observe RC's leadership tactics in action.  He's very good at managing a group of birders.  And he's always willing to devote that extra ten minutes to the search, right at that moment when most people have lost hope and would rather bail out.  So we had a dozen or so people spread evenly along a stretch of fifty yards on either side of the road.  And after about an hour's time, one person's hand went up.  And then another.  Within a matter of seconds, the message had been spread, in complete silence, that the target bird had been spotted.

We all inched down the road toward a swingset situated in the side yard, and there behind it, as swarms of House Sparrows fed on the ground below, the Spotted Towhee perched atop a tall stem of grass for all to see.  It stayed up for about thirty seconds, and disappeared.  It returned once more to the same spot, giving everyone another chance to enjoy, and then fluttered back into the dense brush for good.

About five minutes later, as we all collected our thoughts, other birders did start appearing, also in the hopes of spotting the towhee.  We stuck around to explain where the bird had just been seen, and directed people to the exact spot, but the towhee wasn't returning.  And over the next half-hour, thirty to forty more birders arrived to catch a glimpse of the rarity.  The crowd around the side yard began to multiply, until a veritable throng of birders had enveloped this small area around the swingset.  It's definitely one of the phenomena of birdwatching, which again many birders will understand all too well, that although everyone shares an equal right to see and enjoy a bird, once that number of observers grows into a mob, it's not enjoyable for anyone...But not just because crowds are generally unpleasant.  It's also that the bird is just not as likely to appear.  Imagine you're about eight inches long, like a Spotted Towhee.  And there's a small-to-medium sized group of these large, bizarre, two-legged creatures tiptoeing around.  Maybe you're curious?  Maybe just take a little peek?  Maybe stick your head out for a second and see what's what?  Now imagine you're eight inches long, and there's a crush of forty or so two-leggers huddled together, whispering, pointing, gesticulating...You might just stay put.

So as it was, as sorry as I felt for everyone else, I was pleased that we had been able to enjoy that quieter and more intimate moment together with Mr. Towhee.  RC's determination and patience had paid off, and just in time.  As always.

We decided to walk around the neighborhood and leave the crowd of towhee-seekers to their own devices.  As we strolled down the road, I spoke with some other late-arriving birders, and discovered that most of them were Super Bowlers.  They were moving quickly and anxiously.  Yet many others I encountered there had forgone the Super Bowl, deciding to bird by themselves on this gorgeous day.  As I scanned around, I then recognized the three species of birders that were present along that gravel road.  There were the independents, those who were birding for the same pure pleasure they derive on any other beautiful birding day.  They were relaxed, affable, and eager to share.  Then there were the Super Bowlers, but of these there were two distinct types.  Some had joined the Super Bowl to add a little spice to their birding endeavors, to relish the adrenaline rush of competition, speed, and teamwork.  They were jovial, smiling and laughing with the other teams and themselves, clearly reveling in the competition, but still appreciating what the outdoors had to offer.  Then there was the third type.  Some Super Bowl teams looked dour, as if so consumed by their task that they were blind to the sea and sky.  They were serious and uncommunicative.  If they were happy, they didn't show it.  Far be it from me to suggest what species of birder is best.  Each to his own.  I love the outdoors, and I love competition, too.  I did a "big day" of birding last year with a friend, where we tried to see as many birds in one county in one day as we could, and it was probably the most fun birding day of the year.  But I never want to lose that feeling of fun and wonder.

We continued to walk around the neighborhood, away from the towhee spot, and passed by a few birders who were scoping the ocean from the road.  They were able to show us what they had found...some Ruddy Ducks, Black Guillemots, scoters, goldeneye, and a stalwart Purple Sandpiper standing firm on the wave-ravaged rocks.  The sandpiper would stand tall, then hunker down as he saw the next wave approaching, then get completely overtaken by the crashing wave.  And after the the water subsided, he would stand up straight again, completely dry, and await the next attack.  He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

A report then came to us that a Dickcissel, another uncommon bird in the northeast, had been seen early that morning at a private feeder just a few blocks away.  Many birders were returning from that location with negative reports.  The bird hadn't been seen for hours.  We marched along toward the house with the feeder, accompanied by the soothing ocean surf off to our side.  Once at our destination, within seconds the Dickcissel appeared, and with scopes set up, we all were all able to enjoy him as he fed calmly at the feeder.

For the rest of the day, we visited various spots around Cape Ann.  The weather remained warm, and so we birded until dusk.  At each spot we found more seabirds to enjoy.  Harlequin Ducks were found in large numbers:

Few birds can rival the Harlequin Ducks for their striking plumage.  Once I get them in the scope, I can never tear myself away.  In the right sunlight, you can almost see the brushstrokes someone used to paint them.  We found them at many locations:

Many of the seabirds were too distant to photograph.  These Long-tailed Ducks below were just at the limit of "iPhone-scoping" range...but close enough to identify:

Long-tailed Ducks used to be called Oldsquaw.  The term "squaw" for a young woman is considered offensive by many Native American tribes, and so the name of the bird was changed.  The birds themselves didn't notice.

We finished up back at the Jodrey fish pier.  The tide was high now, so the Iceland Gull had been compelled to leave his favorite resting rock.  We all said our good-byes and headed home.  It's hard not to enjoy such a day.  Every outing like this fills me up, and changes me for the better.  It's a power the outdoors has that you can't put into words.  But with an open heart, you feel it just the same.

Make way for coots

This is the epitome of how different people approach "nature moments" in very different ways.  And how if you stampede headlong like a pack of wild dogs toward a small group of birds 1/20th your size, the birds don't always lay down the welcome mat.

Yesterday, my mom and I decided to take a walk through the local wildlife refuge.  It was late in the afternoon, approaching sunset, and as we made our way slowly along the dike between the two fresh-water impoundments, the sky shone blue, purple, and burnt red and orange behind the clouds.  It was quiet and peaceful.  Not many birds to be heard, or any animals for that matter.  But it was busy with people.  The parking lot had been almost full, and there were many birders and photographers enjoying their last hour at the refuge.

There weren't many birds to see, either.  A few unseen Song Sparrows called surreptitiously from the brush along the dike, their quiet communications kept especially private at this late hour.  A lone pair of Mute Swans fed gracefully in the small patch of unfrozen water off to the left.  They held their heads underwater for long periods of time, only occasionally raising their arcing necks above the surface to catch a breath and survey their surroundings.  With their heads and necks submerged, only their rounded white bodies remained visible, and a young girl about four years old remarked, "Daddy, it looks like they have shells on!"

My mother and I continued, and as we approached an area along the dike where the brush gave way, so that you could walk to the water's edge on either side, an older woman stood silently, patiently staring out at the water on the west side.  A large group of people walked further ahead, but for now, where we stood, it was just this woman, my mother, and I.  Out in the water, atop the frozen surface, walked a small group of ten or so duck-sized birds.  I could tell from their silhouettes they were American Coots, and they were slowly, cautiously walking parallel to the dike, still about 50 feet away, but toward a spot directly opposite us.  And as they arrived at this spot, now directly perpendicular to where we stood on the path, they started to inch forward, closer.  The older woman leaned over and said to my mother and me, "They're going to try to cross the dike.  They do that from time to time."

She was right.  You could see in the way they looked around that the coots were approaching the dike, in the hopes of crossing where the brush had given way on both sides.  If they continued walking on their current trajectory, they would cross not 10 feet from where the three of us stood watching.

Now, American Coots are common birds around here.  Oftentimes you see them in the hundreds, especially at this refuge.  But there are two observations to be made.  One, as many birders know, when there aren't a lot of birds around to speak of, you tend to get excited about ANY bird that comes your way, even a common one.  And two, no matter how common or uncommon the bird, when something unexpectedly...candid seems about to occur, that moment is always precious.  And the anticipation of seeing this small group of timorous coots slowly muster the courage to entrust us with their passage was quietly thrilling.

At that moment, as the coots continued to make their way forward with much trepidation, a few people who were returning back down the path toward us stopped and asked us what we were looking at.  They saw the coots approaching, and stood behind us.  And seeing a small group of us beginning to congregate, more people along the path began to hurry our way, knowing that something wild had attracted our attention.  An even larger horde of people soon collected around us, until we numbered more than twenty.  As everyone shuffled their positions, murmuring to one another nervously, desperately trying to determine why they were now standing there, not wanting to miss whatever had compelled them to descend upon this particular location, a remarkable symmetry began to appear.  There atop the frozen ice, a jittery group of coots looked worriedly back and forth between their destination in the opposite impoundment and this odd group of homo sapiens which must have seemed to arise suddenly and spontaneously from the depths of the dike.  And there, too, along the gravel path stood an anxious group of human bodies all atwitter, looking back and forth between the coots and each other.  Humans and coots, their progress halted, both uneasily trying to figure out what to do in the next moment.

The coots pressed on, closer.  As they did so, haltingly, each member of the group scanned right and left, their necks constantly in motion.  Heads popped up and down, turning from side to side, as if in a cartoon.  The group would stop their progress short, hold still for fifteen seconds or so, still surveying nervously around, until one member would take one brazen step, allowing the others to shuffle forward ever so slightly.  There they would reestablish their position, look around, and determine again the magnitute of any immediate danger.  A few coots would make unconvincing attempts at taking additional steps forward, immediately retreat, and rejoin the huddle.  This would happen three or four times, until finally, one coot, but not always the same individual, would take one cavalier step forward and stay put long enough for his followers to close ranks.  We became quiet, motionless for now, most of us succumbing to that dumbfounded moment of shock and breathless disbelief that comes when something "natural" and extraordinary is about to happen right in front of you.

The coots, still walking on the ice, had now come within ten feet of the dike, about twenty feet down the path from where our front line stood.  If they continued, they would cross in clear view of everyone present, yet still at a safe distance.  I wondered if other people were considering the same question that I was:  These coots clearly had plans that involved being on the other side of that dike.  The western impoundment was good for them no longer.  They had goals, they were moving up in the world, and whatever their future held, it lay somewhere in that eastern water.  But...they're birds.  They can fly.  Why this prolonged standoff when they could just take to the air and fly disdainfully over our heads and be done with it?  If anyone had been wondering this, a clue came suddenly when one of the coots lost his resolve, turned tail, and made a break for it.  Clearly, jumping ship for some birds is not as easy at it is for others.  The escaping coot couldn't just ascend into the air like a Mallard.  He ran laboriously on long-toed feet, struggling with the effort, and only at great length and obvious exertion did he leave the ground and head back west, forgoing his original plans to the east, disappearing into the distance.

The other coots remained, steadfast.  Their toes were clearly visible now, usually hidden underwater while the coots swim on the surface.  If anyone had confused them with ducks, they could now see that the coots did not have webbed feed for paddling.  They instead showcased surprisingly long lobed toes, which would help them walk along aquatic vegetation, and in this particular case, atop thin ice.  The coots aren't ducks at all; they're more closely related to rails and cranes.  People began to ooh and ahh as they became more aware of the coots' surprisingly odd-looking toes.  A great example of how even a common bird can awe a crowd in the right moment.

Just then, as the coots made clear that yes, in fact, they were damn well going to cross that dike no matter what, and here we go, one last push, one more second and we're there, let's make a run for it, don't think about it, just run and it'll all be over soon!...But seconds before the coots actually arrived at the western edge of the dike, a rogue photographer in our midst lunged forward decisively and strode precipitously to the spot where the coots now stood frozen in momentary panic and confusion.  Click-click-click-click-click-click.  The shutter on the camera released in a continuous succession.  The coots stared, and took a first uncertain step backward.  Observing the success the first photographer was having, a few more photographers stepped forward to engage the coots, and began firing.  Our squadron was thinning, and soon a gadarene rush of photographers and onlookers alike followed in their wake and descended upon the terrified group of American Coots who, awaking from their momentary paralysis, at last turned and ran, launched into the air, and fled.

The group of people began to disburse.  Some of the photographers were satisfied with their shots.  A female photographer said to me, "They were never going to cross the dike.  The coots wouldn't do that."  Everyone walked off and continued with their afternoon.  Except the older woman who had first pointed out the coots to my mother and me still stood there, her eyes still fixed upon the spot where the coots had last stood just moments ago.  She was still standing there when my mother and I finally walked on, further down the path.

We walked to the end, where the path leads to a river, with fields and farmhouses on the opposite side.  We paused to admire the quiet scene, and then turned and began to retrace our steps, now heading back down the path to the parking lot.

When we again arrived at the spot where the dike was clear of brush on either side, about fifteen minutes had passed since the large group of people had moved on.  The older woman was still standing there, still looking out at the western water.  It was getting dark, and everyone else had headed to the exit.  Just the three of us stood there alone.  And on the frozen water on the west side, about ten feet from the dike, walked the same group of coots, inching forward.

We stood quiet and motionless, and with no one to stop them, they hesitantly stepped forward, one step at a time, until they were at the dike.  Together, they clambered up the side and reached the top surface of the path, looking all around.  They seemed unaware of us, but more likely, were acutely aware, but unthreatened.  Sensing no danger now, they began to cross the dike.  And then a curious thing happened.  Now finally within a few steps of completing their arduous task of reaching the eastern impoundment, they paused.  They paused and they looked around a bit more...and they began to strut.  Not across the dike, but along it.  They held their heads high and started to wiggle excitedly as they strutted down the path, away from us.  They seemed to be enjoying an adrenaline rush of pride and excitement, like kids having reached the top of a mountain.  They walked confidently away, seeming purposefully to prolong their time atop that dike.  And then, having savored their achievement long enough, they slipped into the brush along the eastern edge, and disappeared.

It all comes full circle

About a month ago, I heard a report of a Pink-footed Goose about an hour away from my home...a bird I had been desiring to see for a long time.  I had time before work, so I threw my scope and gear into the backseat, and I was off on the chase!

I came up empty.  I searched farm fields, parks, ponds, and reservoirs, but the Pink-footed Goose would not be found.  So, and this is the critical point here, I threw my gear back into my car, and headed off to work.

At the end of the long work day, back at home at last, I sat in my driveway for a few thoughtful moments.  I ALWAYS bring my scope and tripod back inside with me...obsessively so.  But that particular night, I was tired.  I would be getting up early the next morning to hunt for the goose again, so it made perfect sense...Why not just leave the gear in the back seat for one night?  What could happen?

The next morning, around 8 a.m., my roommate woke me up to tell me there was a police officer outside who wanted to speak with me.  I ran downstairs, out the front door, and came upon an unexpected scene.  My car windows were smashed to smithereens.  There was glass all over the ground and on the floor inside the car.  And my scope and tripod were gone.  Poof.

Wow.  What a lesson to learn.  Not only had I left my gear in my back seat, I had left my GPS in plain view on the dashboard.  That was missing, too, by the way.  And while we're on the subject, why don't we just dive right in to the greasy goodness, shall we?  The guy took my scope, my tripod, my GPS, my GPS car charger...He took my iPhone charger out of my glove compartment...He even ripped the ashtray out of the car, which had my collection of quarters inside.  Forget about the quarters, I loved that ashtray!  It was such a nice coin holder.  But my cds still lay strewn all about the car, not a one missing.  I guess I have bad taste in music.

This is a perfect example of how desperation and despondency all become part of that rich tapestry.  I spent weeks dealing with the police departement, with my insurance company, tracking down receipts and proofs of purchase...a nightmare.  But fast-forward to a few days before Christmas, and I get a call from the insurance company telling me that everything is covered...not only am I covered, but apparently I was paying some extra fee to make sure I would be covered for the full REPLACEMENT cost of my property, even if that meant I was replacing my goods with newer models.

Well that was a nice Christmas present.  It turned out that robber did me a favor.  I was able to replace my gear and actually upgrade.  All was not lost.  I reordered all my equipment, and set about to enjoying a nice holiday with family and friends.

My good friend SJ, a great birding companion and one of the best birders I know, thought it would be fun if I did a "year list" this year for the first time, beginning January 1, 2012...And what better way to begin than heading out bright and early on the morning of New Year's Day?  So I stayed with SJ for New Year's Eve, and the next morning we headed out for an awesome day of birding.  I didn't have my new equipment yet, including my scope, but together SJ and I notched 60 species.  I love the "year list" idea already.  You can follow my year's totals by clicking the year list link on the right side of the page.

So that brings us to today.  I had just received all my new gear in the mail yesterday, still tidily packaged up, when SJ called me to tell me that none other than a Pink-footed Goose was about an hour and a half away...and would we like to meet up and try for it in the morning?

The impossible irony of this was lost on me in my excitement.  I woke up this morning, unpackaged all my gear, read the manuals (yes, that's right), assembled everything, and hit the road.

After about an hour and a half of driving and a few wrong turns, less than 60 seconds from my destination, I heard the Song Sparrow singing on my phone, letting me know that SJ was calling.  I knew what he was going to say even before I picked up.  "I have the goose!"

I raced into the parking lot, spotted SJ and his mom GJ, and saw the smiles on their faces.  There was no one else around.  It was a gorgeous day, especially for January.  Blue sky, clear, brisk but not freezing.  There was a flock of hundreds of Canada Geese on the pond nearby.  I grabbed my scope, ran over and greeted my friends, and set up and started to scan.  I was too excited and impatient to find the bird on my own.  SJ got me on it, and as I took in the elusive Pink-footed Goose, SJ put it all in perspective: "Isn't it funny that the bird you went chasing the day your gear got stolen, is the first bird you see when you finally get your gear back?"

It's unbelieable really.  It's all come full circle.  What should have been a source of stress and sadness had eventually metamorphosed into an irony so exquisite, I could taste it.  But the beautiful irony soon faded into the pure pleasure of sharing a life bird with SJ and his mom.  Just awesome.

The birds eventually took off, that awe-inspiring pounding of wings against air that only a huge flock of geese can produce, and it was anyone's guess where the goose of the hour would be.  But all the geese seemed to be flying southwest, and SJ and I weren't going to let him get away that quickly!  Off we went!

After a few twists and turns down some dead end roads, SJ and I located another large flock of Canadas, this time on a farm field, that very well could have been the same group we had been observing earlier.  SJ said it looked like the entire flock was there, so let's get on them!  We drove around a bit more to determine our best vantage point.  We circled back around a few times and eventually came to a gravel driveway that would provide good views of the field and flock from a hundred yards or so away.  Without hopping over any fences, we stayed in the driveway and set up shop.  Once again, it was SJ who called it out, "I have it again!"

From that point on, we stayed and enjoyed a wonderful early afternoon with the Pink-footed Goose, surrounded by hundreds of his Canada brethren.  He moved in and out of view, back and forth, right and left, and closer and farther, but we were always able to keep him in view.  After that long with a special bird, you start to feel like you've gotten to know him.  He was so adorable, smaller and more demure than the larger, more imposing Canadas.  His size, structure, and plumage really made him stand out:

We were lucky to see those distinctive pink feet!  They were often obscured by the grass and other geese.  Other birders trickled in, spent their time with the bird, and left.  SJ, GJ, and I continued to stay and enjoy the experience.  Many of the other birders were having difficulty distinguishing the Pink-footed Goose from the Canadas.  They were vociferously, and I mean vociferously, discussing various means of separating them, proffering advice like, "Look for the bird that doesn't have as much white."  The thing is, if you actually observed quietly for a few moments, it became clear that the two species didn't look alike at all, and that distinctions would arise of their own accord.  The Pink-footed was much smaller, especially the neck and bill.  The bill itself was bright pink in the middle.  Even the color of the back feathers was a starker, lighter gray than the brown-black cast shown by the Canadas.  What I appreciated most was that as SJ, GJ, and I spent time quietly soaking in the wonder of the scene before us, we learned so much.  That quiet contemplation yields unexpected rewards.  Yet many others seemed to prattle on loudly, instead of just contentedly observing.

Eventually, everyone else had left, and only the three of us remained.  The Pink-footed Goose at that time approached us closer than it had all day.  It showed itself well, and amidst all the fun of taking photos and videos, we remembered to marvel at the serenity of the scene around us.  It was great having GJ there, too...even as it grew colder, we all enjoyed the experience.

There were some funny interactions between the Pink-footed and the Canadas I caught on my iPhone.  This Canada goose seems to be sending a message to the Pink-footed:  "Know your place, for I am lord of this field!  You will bow before me!"

But I prefer this next shot, touched up a bit for creative effect...Birds are expressive creatures, so I like to work with that expressiveness as much as possible.  The Pink-footed stands his ground and cries, "BEHOLD!  I shall stand tall and summon forth the golden rays of sun!  Look upon me, and despair!"

I was able to take a video through my iPhone, which does a pretty good job through the scope, considering our distance:

As our time at the farm field neared its end, a farmer drove up and started to approach.  I walked up and asked him if we were ok where we were, and he couldn't have been nicer.  We invited him to look through our scopes, and he was genuinely interested in the rare bird that had so many people all aflutter.  His dog, Dakota, who had been barking at us from afar, belonged to the farmer, and observing that we were in his master's confidence, approached with excitement and friendliness.  I love dogs, and Dakota was a real character!  When we all returned to our cars, Dakota scampered over and peered in my vehicle, about ready to hop in.  I think he was scanning to make sure I hadn't been robbed again...He seemed to have a sixth sense about him.  He trotted over to SJ's car and looked around, wondering if this might be his ride home.  It wasn't, but he was ok with that.  We said our good-byes, and Dakota was off.

A memorable afternoon, spent with good friends, good birds, and good doggies.

It all comes full circle.  You just never know it when the circle starts.

Allow myself to introduce...myself

I used to think that my greatest pleasure in the world was just being outside.  Immersed in nature.  As far away from civilization as possible.

That's the way most birders, naturalists, and other outdoorsy people tend to think.

But even when I'm in the field, rarely do I find myself far from "civilization."  There always seems to be an interesting cast of characters nearby.  I remember sitting in a blind in Elkhart, Kansas at 3 a.m., waiting for the Lesser Prairie-Chickens to wake up...resting peacefully in that freezing cold, cramped metal box, nothing to see or hear but silence unbroken, feeling the closeness of all those wild, precious creatures just outside, unglimpsed in the pre-dawn darkness.  Serene communion with an unseen world.  And that prolonged repose persisted...And I remember feeling such pervasive peace.  And I remember then being abruptly ripped from my trance by the thunderous, metal-rattling flatulence of the gentleman to my left.  The flimsy walls of the blind resonated with the pronouncement, and the silence was no more.

At the time, I was jaded.  I felt cheated of my solitary experience in the blind.  But I have since come to realize what color and shape all these charismatic characters and episodes add to a full life.  They become the most entertaining stories I tell my friends and family.  They become my funniest and clearest memories.  They become threads of the tapestry.

So although I still enjoy the solace I find in the field alone, I have learned to savor not only the special moments spent walking through a park with my parents, and the revelry of discovering a life bird with a good friend...but also the bizarre, wacky, often incomprehensible antics of those who would impose their ill will and interfere with all that is good.  The angry people, the complainers, the unsatifiable, those who can't open their eyes and appreciate what's in front of them...Oh, they then become the subjects of my most favorite stories!  They add that spice...what David Foster Wallace called the "greasy pleasure."  And now, when they start to make their presence known, I feel that little shiver of adrenaline...that frisson right before you crest the top of the roller coaster...I know this is going to be good...

I hope to share all the stories of my adventures, the touching and the ludicrous.  The more ludicrous, the better.  And there's no shortage of lunacy in birding.  If anything, there's a surplus.

When I was in Texas last year, I was standing behind a restroom building, peering around the corner with a few others, watching a Western Screech-Owl in a tree cavity nearby.   A woman in the group was complaining about her sandwich dripping because it had too much mayonnaise.  I kept watching the owl, and he did something that made me realize that he knew what I was thinking.  He was in on the joke.  And it always made me smile.

I hope that my stories will make you smile, too.

Ab ovo...

Ab ovo usque ad mala...And this is the egg.

I'll introduce myself a little later.  First just a quick thanks to AB for getting me started!

Let the adventures begin!