First Bird of the Year

On December 31, as we go to bed an hour before midnight, Peter tells me that the next morning I need to pay attention to the first bird of the year. We all have our January 1 rituals. I always write, as if that will set the tone for the year. I always go outside to hike, or cross country ski if I am lucky enough to have snow. Since I am new to birding, I think of this as a fresh ritual, marking a new year of seeing, admiring, even loving the birds. For I do love the birds, for themselves—the way this one is a vibrant blue that melts into an orange chest, or the way that one flies in slow loping wing beats, how another makes its living hammering its head against a tree. And in particular I like the ones that secret themselves away during the day only to swoop out at night. But I also love the birds for what they do for me: make me focus in the outdoors.  Looking at birds, I shift my gaze from the inside worries or small concerns to pay attention to a wing bar or the shape of a beak. I like the way that my mind settles when I look through my binoculars.

So on this first year of a New Year ritual, I want my first bird to be a good bird. I try and be democratic in my birding, to admire the chickadee as much as the harrier scanning low over the field, but it’s just not possible. The harrier, because seen only once in a while, is a treat, while the chickadee is my daily bread. I need them both. But I do not want the chickadee to be my first bird of 2011.

I have just lived through one of the richest, most fulfilling years of my life, and I am staring into 2011 with a bit of trepidation. Deep in my soul I believe in the balance of things. A good year, a bad year. Looking at birds, I should know that balance is not natural, excess is. Exuberance. Still, I’m a bit superstitious and I know I cannot match my trips (Tasmania, Maine, Wyoming, Paris), my book contract, my falling in love of 2010. Here is where the birds might save me. In 2011, I know I will see more as well as more glorious birds than in 2010. And yet just two days ago I saw a bird that I may never see again in my life. It is not that it is a rare bird, one of those wanderers from Siberia or South America (though I did see one of those—a fork-tailed flycatcher—in 2010). Though it is endangered in some states, and of concern in others, it is a widely distributed bird in the United States. But it is so secretive it is rarely seen.

The chance of hearing an owl in a lifetime is pretty good. Many can imitate the “who cooks for you” of the barred owl, or the hoot of the great horned owl. But to see an owl is more difficult. Last March, at dusk I saw short-eared owls soaring across a wide field that was once a landing strip, and I have seen a barred owl perched in a tree. But to go out into the woods and to look up inside of trees to find an owl—that is like looking, as we say, for a needle in a haystack. But it can be done. I have decided it will take patience, time, and thinking like an owl.

Of all of the owls, one of the hardest to find is the long eared owl. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology site (my Bible for online birding) writes: “Though widespread and relatively common in its range, it is rarely seen.” Peter tells me he has seen a long-eared owl but only when he was pointed to the bird. He even paid five dollars once to look at a long eared owl in California. It is hard to see because it roosts in dense evergreen forests, and it rarely vocalizes.

Despite the odds, Peter tells me we are going to look for a long-eared owl. We are walking on the beautiful, open land of the Pennypack Land Preserve adjacent to his childhood hometown, Bryn Athyn, Pennsylvania. It is mid-morning. It is two days before New Year’s, two days before Peter’s niece is to be married. We are in Pennsylvania for the wedding, not to go owling. But we have walked on snowy trails around a wide field planted beautifully with native grasses, now golden in the winter. A harrier glided by early in our walk. At the edge of the field is a stand of stout, dense spruce trees. Perfect habitat.

Peter focuses his birding on habitat—you can’t just go out and look, you have to look in the right place. That means understanding the birds, what they need to eat, how they live their lives. There is not much we know about these long-eared owls. But we do know they need shelter in the day, and a wide field at night.

We walk into the trees, the early morning light barely filtering through. Steam rises from my breath. As I begin to peer up the trees, through the branches that poke me in the face, the arms, that snap off as I wedge my way in deeper, I meditate on how many hours I have spent doing this. Through the fall I have craned my neck, and wrestled through dense pine branches looking in particular for saw-whet owls.  Despite these hours I have never stumbled upon an owl. Yet I still go out, hope overcoming facts.

I wonder if I am wasting this middle-aged life of mine, wandering through trees in the cold. Perhaps. What I do know is that if I don’t go look, I definitely won’t see an owl. And I do want to see an owl, an desire that has no beginning and no end.

As I focus my eyes, shifting field of vision, I worry that if an owl were right there I would not see it. I puzzle whether I am looking for shape or color. Peter tells me about his wonderful trip to Amherst Island in Canada, where there were owls, saw-whets in particular, in the trees. “Just a blob sitting there,” he tells me.

We wander through the trees for a short half hour. Peter is back in the open, soaking in the warmth of the sun. I am not willing to give up on the owls yet. I stop, noticing a patch in the snow, which turns out not to be a pellet. But it is enough to make me look up. And there, staring down at me, are two yellow eyes. The bird takes shape, its slender body and those long, almost goofy looking ears. It is a moment I have been anticipating for so long it feels normal, and also completely unexpected. I look more closely to be sure I have not hallucinated the yellow eyes.

I keep my voice low and steady. “Peter, I have a new year’s gift for you.”

He doesn’t come right away.

“I’m serious, I found you a present.”

He walks toward me. “What is it?” he asks and I do not answer. He has to see for himself. “This better be worth it,” he says, mock grumbling.

I am focused on the bird, not wanting to turn my gaze away. It is as still as can be, hoping I will leave.

“Oh my, Sus,” Peter says, standing at my side in the cold, looking up at what is looking down at us.

The bird has that marvelous facial disc of all owls, but its face looks elongated, egg-shaped, not round. A rich burnt orange frames its face, and the hooked beak is almost completely covered in feathers. White stripes run down the center of its face. Its body is mottled, blending in with the branches that frame it. But what stands out are the ears, as if a child had drawn an owl and mistakenly given it bunny ears. It did not waver, looking down at us from its perch about fifteen feet up, its eyes piercing, challenging us to move on. It held us in its gaze, never blinking, as we spoke the silence of owls.

There is only so long you can look at an owl. They always win at a staring contest.  So we returned home to coffee and warmth, and to tell anyone who would listen about our bird. An hour later we headed back out so that Peter could photograph the bird. And

That bird is added to the list of treasures of 2010. And I never expect to be so lucky again, to look up and see yellow eyes staring down at me.

I woke at 6 on January 1, 2011. Peter was still breathing the regular, even beats of sleep. I lay still in the cold room. I could hear his brother snoring from down the hall. The heat turned on, a whoosh of heat rising into the air. And over all of this I heard it, in the distance. Who-who-who-who. I sat up, pulling the blankets off of Peter.

“Did you hear that?” I whisper, waiting to hear it again.

Peter, who hears through his sleep, says, “yes,” then pauses, waiting for the hoot again. “But the rhythm isn’t quite right.”

Is it a dog I am mistaking for an owl? We wait. And then there it is, close enough that it is distinct through the noises of the house. The great horned owl: my first bird of 2011.

I am looking into the New Year with hope. And maybe there will be other owls, snowy or barred, boreal or great grey in the New Year. Maybe.

All photos taken by Peter Schoenberger