Category: screeds

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Get Off My Lawn!

A Yellow-breasted Chat shows up in my local patch, one of the few birders who occasionally comes through the area, maybe to follow up on some Pintails I reported, posts the sighting to the regional birding listserv, and now people are coming out of the woodwork to see it. What was once a quiet backwater is, well, mostly still a quiet backwater, but there are strange visitors with big telephoto lenses and expensive bins and hybrid vehicles here now. A few of them look like they are going to tip over testing the near focus of those lopsided cameras on a patch of brambles just feet away.

It’s not serious–this is not a Painted Bunting, Black Hawk, or some flavor of western flycatcher, and I have to tell myself to take a deep breath. Most of these people will soon leave, having bumped the number of hotspot contributors a bit, but not ruining anything by their transient presence. On the contrary, it is good for birders (or bird-watchers, some of these people are definitely bird-watchers) to visit “my” hotspot, in so far as it justifies keeping it on the books as a (lazy backwater but still addressable) “hotspot.” Call it a “lukewarmspot.”

Still, it’s hard to share once you’ve found a little bit of refuge. Narcissistically, it’s easy to appropriate a place as one’s own, to come to think of a place as “your” place. In fact, it’s natural to do so and is ingrained in our western, or at least US, cultural norms and land use laws. I’m not just talking about western ranchers running roughshod over the national forests, refusing to pay grazing fees and occupying NWRs (although there we have a glaring example of one group “loving a resource to death” at the expense of all others, claiming special usage rights to what is seen by them as otherwise unproductive land.) One needs only look to the various state laws establishing easements and “squatter’s rights,” or adverse possession, to see the bias for “the full use of the land.” The slippery slope from “discovery” to “ownership” is front and center in our impulse to plant the flag, to colonize, to assert the superiority of our activities, ignoring the claims of others, even those who came before. As to a hammer everything is a nail, we are biased, prone to define “full use” as the way we personally, individually view the land.

So sharing is hard by nature, and sharing is a double-edged sword: public lands, even local lands like this town forest, especially local lands like this town forest, need advocates to fight for their utility as open space. Pragmatically, that means sharing: welcoming a diverse set of users such as hikers and strollers, people walking their kids and their dogs, joggers, maybe even a few birders. The back-cutting edge of the sword is the risk that “your” place will be loved to death: dogs running amok off-leash; kids leaving painted rocks everywhere, screaming as they go as if intentionally to scare away as many birds as possible; mountain bikers ripping through the woods.

There’s the rub: thanks for visiting, but get off my lawn!

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Birding with Non-birders

My eight-year-old son is the birding version of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. This morning he was enthusiastic about the prospects of a walk around the pond, grabbing “his” binoculars (actually the family feederwatching bins) and donning socks and shoes, uncharacteristically without complaint. He was in good spirits in the morning sunshine, ticking off the regular birds and finding our FOY Blue-gray Gnatcatcher.

Fifteen minutes later he had unceremoniously foisted the bins on me and charged down the trail, tossing rocks and sticks off the crown of the esker, running pell mell ahead with the aim (or so it seemed to me) of scaring off any stray Catharus thrushes whIch had ventured into the county. My son had gone from promising protobirder to chaotic antibirder in the blink of an eye.

I have to remember not everyone shares my time-stands-still patience or my willingness to do an about-face and head 20 yards back down the trail in what is usually a misguided search for the source of a poorly heard chip note. Chipmunk!

My sluggishness compounds my frustration–i am slower on the move, slower to get on a bird, shaky, which sometimes means slower on the id. Slower, slower, slower! No wonder my son ran ahead. I shouted, “watch out for coyotes!” Hoping that might make him pause. Naïveté…

Today, a week later, he was 90% Hyde but I (oddly) didn’t care. It was warm in the sun and in the other 10% he’d helpfully pointed out a pair of Catbirds carrying nesting materials. He was so excited to show me and I got to share in his genuine excitement; I even caught a glimpse of the wonder that hooked me in the first place thirty years ago.

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WARBLERS!

They are coming…well, a lot of migratory passerines are, but if you’re a birder in eastern North America you’ve been waiting for this ever since the winter became unbearably tedious. Sometime in early December, to be precise. Yes, they are coming! It’s almost religious.

I got my first spring warbler this morning while walking the dog. While I did have my bins, I did not have my monopod, but in its place, still puppylike after seven years, a semi-obedient cur pulling on my “bad” hand. I had already easily identified the little bird, since it was singing to beat the band, but I wanted to see it. So I took a deep breath to calm myself, let out the leash a little so I could bring the handle up in an ill-founded hope to provide additional steadiness, poo bag dangerously close to my face (the deep breath helping here, too), and there he was: my FOY Yellow-Rumped Warbler.

Setophaga coronata. That’s right, I was excited about what some would call the closest thing to a “trash bird” in the warbler family: YRWA, Myrtle, Butter-butt, Rump, Lousy-not-something-else Warbler, Another One. “How could you possibly get excited by that?” some of you will say. “Wait,” others of you will say, “those are half-hardy and aren’t necessarily even migrants.” To both of which I reply, “F*$# off! it’s a wood-warbler, and you’re probably among those jerks who lumped Myrtles with Audubon’s in the first place. And decimated Dendroica, and made me learn a whole new set of latin names. Bastards.” But I digress.

If you stop to look at them, like you only can do when you have fresh eyes (and a relaxed neck ) at the beginning of migration, Yellow-rumps are really quite handsome. More than that, to me this tiny suburban bird, common though it may be, is a true herald of spring, kindling my optimism: spring is truly here, the birds are returning, we haven’t completely screwed up everything! With the help of this little warbler I revel in that bit of self-delusion and bask in the anticipation that I might see as many as two dozen species of these colorful little travelers in the next month, most just briefly pausing on their way to breeding grounds further north.

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The Inner Desperation of the Checklist Streak

It finally happened—I’ve taken up streaking.  No, no, not the kind that would get my wrinkled old 50+ body thrown in jail, but checklist streaking: recording at least one bird checklist every day. Which means, among other things, birding each day. It’s an obsession, albeit a mostly benign and low-impact one, that started accidentally around Thanksgiving.  Maybe it was the tryptophan, maybe the general stress of the holidays, or maybe just how the shortening of the daylight hours subliminally foretold the waning of my years. Regardless of how it started, it’s taken on a life of its own now, this streaking.  Luckily it seems benign, even potentially beneficial.  Because I am streaking:

  • I am forced outside daily to breathe fresh air;
  • I carve out at least fifteen minutes birding every day, and among other things that pause helps reset my attitude when needed;
  • I have to actively plan to go birding, which leads to planning other goals and activities as well;
  • I feel more disciplined (it’s unclear if this is a reflection or a reinforcement of the discipline I have been forced into by PD–pill regimens, biking, boxing, etc.);
  • I can escape if I want—while I am birding I don’t have to talk, I don’t have to be self-conscious about tremoring or shuffling, I don’t have to interact with others at all if I like; and
  • I often must survey suboptimal habitat, and as a result I appreciate even the very common bird species.

Of course, as with any borderline obsessive behavior, there are some stresses associated with it: When will I have time to bird today? Did I remember my binoculars? Will my coworkers (weekdays) / family (weekends) think I am nuts? Will I get enough species so I don’t have to explain a low count to eBird? Will this rain ever stop?

How long will I be able to keep the streak going?

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GBBC 2020

I am literally drooling my way through another Great Backyard Bird Count and am actually counting the birds in my backyard, unlike the myriad birders I imagine have trekked to their favorite bird-saturated daybreak spots  to secure more birds in five minutes of dawn chorus than I’ll see all day. Oh, and they’ve staked out two or three owl species calling to round out their eBird GBBC submission. You can’t make this up (or can you?): the first bird seen in the count was a New Zealand owl called a “Morepork,” and you know someone went looking for that bird. Either that or it’s fake news.

Your humble Birder with Parkinson’s gets no parade of passerines, no nighttime strigidean ululations–you’d think the minor peripheral hallucinations of my dopamine agonist ought to be twisted enough to at least conjure up a random semiconscious “Who cooks for you?” Barred Owl call when I get up to urinate at four-thirty a.m. …I’m still waiting for that, though (the owl, not the pee). I have to make do with what familiar little fluffpops I can bribe with black oil to the feeders, or the random silhouettes that I accidentally (incidentally) see while very stiffly walking the dog. In either case that’s not a high number, I assure you. For birders with PD, “crippling fallouts” have upsetting alternate connotations. Looking up into the treetops is hard, too– my back is killing me with spasms that my movement disorder specialist insists are non-Parkinsonian, even though she admits forcing binoculars into my “T. rex” posture probably hasn’t helped them. I think: “If it is already this bad, how will I ever get in shape for spring migration?” 

But I digress. The GBBC is a great reason (hey, it even has “Great” in its name!) to enlist others in birding, like my seven year old who atavistically id’s sparrows faster and more accurately than you or I can (but still hasn’t conjured a Fox Sparrow this year to my Helianthus-husked suburboscape.) It’s a collective birding experience that doesn’t require a trip to Cape May or to High Island; instead, you’re downright encouraged to stay home and look out your windows, or at most to hobble over to your local park for fifteen minutes or so; crucially, you need not interact with anyone at all if you don’t feel like it.

And the GBBC is not actually spiked with intrigue: there are in reality no stakeouts; no complex strategies; no guarded itineraries; the hardcore birders don’t give a rat’s ass about this eBird/Audubon marketing stunt. But that doesn’t mean it’s not meaningful, especially if you decide to convert this from an annual one-off event into something more regular, more varied and engaging–to form it into a habit, not just an annual occurrence. The GBBC is a gateway to caring, and sustaining that care, making a plan to go birding, and following through. And possibly sharing the fun with others close to you.

Especially enthusiastic part-feral seven-year-olds.