When I end up at a particularly beautiful spot, or see a particularly wonderful creature in the woods, I often think back on the series of choices that landed me there at that perfect moment. I had to head out at such a time. I had to turn left, not right. Sometimes it seems so random—how does one get to see that eagle or fox?—and always I feel lucky that I was there to see.

Last Saturday, what first felt so lucky was the black bear. Peter and I were walking a wide path in the woods of Partridge Run Game Management Area near Rensselaerville, New York. The trees are thin but dense, so we were in a cool shade, at a higher altitude; the sun sprinkled through the summer-green leaves. In the shape-shifting light, a galumpfing creature took shape to my left. I first imagined dog, then realized it was too big, and dark. “Peter,” I whispered, as he was just ahead of me. I scanned for the mother. “No mother,” Peter explained. “This is a first year bear.” That is, this was the first year that the bear was on its own. It didn’t seem to notice us, 150 feet away. He wandered into the woods, then turned, showing us its long muzzle framed with brown fur. Its dark eyes. It looked at us, then swung around and on its way.

We saw a few birds including several  more northern species, like the junco and white-throated sparrow, at this higher altitude. But the woods were quiet. Though a birder likes for things to be well, birdy, in some ways, I enjoyed the quiet. When we heard a song it stood out. I could be sure I knew what I was hearing: yellow-bellied sapsucker, rose-breasted grosbeak,  blackburnian warbler, chestnut-sided warbler (photo of chestnut-sided at left).

As hunger took over we packed up and continued our drive north. This was the second time this summer that we were taking mini-vacations, that is trips two hours or less from home. We would explore, find a place to stay but not go that far. Peter wanted to see the Upland Sandpiper that had been reported in a horse field near Ames. We drove north, spying many kestrels on the phone lines. I haven’t seen many kestrels this year so to see several of these beautiful, little falcons cheered me.

On west Ames road we scanned the fields as we drove slowly, the windows down, listening for birds. This area of New York is a gorgeous series of rolling fields,  some freshly mowed, but also lots of open fields filled with wildflowers, the wild parsnip that looks so like a yellow-green version of Queen Anne’s Lace. At thirty to forty miles an hour Peter can pick up sounds that erupt from the wide fields.  Bobolink. Savannah Sparrow. Meadowlark. “Stop,” Peter directed. He’s heard the Upland Sandpiper—really a sound worth listening to--working a field on the north side of the road. We get out and see the long legged bird—a bird I would expect to see trotting the sand of high tide line (though on this I am utterly mistaken, it is a “shorebird of grasslands”)—working through the tall grass, nicely camouflaged with its speckled breast and long straight bill. It seemed to be a mother and two young, though it was hard to tell as they kept well away from the road. It was wonderful to see these birds. Still, seeing them was not one of those moments of random encounter, because someone else had found them and reported them on the New York State bird list. We knew where to find them.

We folded back into the car, and decided to start looking for a place to stay. But a narrow country road that flowed uphill drew me in. “Mind if I just see what’s up here?” I asked as I turned south. These are the sorts of roads that would be paradise for a cyclist. Quiet, with endless skies and long views. Earlier we’d seen Amish buggies moving along such roads. The day was perfect, cool enough under a high sun. And here’s where the series of choices comes in. At the top of Mac Phail Road, at a level crest of the hill Peter asked me to stop. We didn’t even get out of the car, but just sat and listened. And then Peter’s face lit up. “My god, Henslow’s!” he said, throwing open the car door. There was no mistaking what Peter describes as the “wonderful-pitiful” song of the Henslow’s (a song I could easily have missed). Peter grabbed his camera and we scanned the field until the bold little bird perched up on the parsnip, singing away.

The Henslow’s Sparrow doesn’t belong in this part of New York State. It’s range ends west of us, and even there it is, according to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, “uncommon and famously inconspicuous.” If I’m honest, it’s not a particularly interesting bird to look at, with its light brown breast and streaked upper parts. What was most distinctive was the big bill on such a small bird. But what was completely intoxicating was Peter’s thrill at finding this bird.

Sun-cooked, elated and exhausted we were on a bird-high. When you find one special bird, you want a flock of special birds. It’s an odd greed, but it seized us both. We drove toward Root, hoping to see the Mississippi Kite that had been reported earlier in the spring. Was it still around? But our greed was not fulfilled.

We now had to find a place to stay for the night. We wanted a pool to cool off in. And we wanted something a lot less ragged looking than the motel off of route 90, which blasts across the northern part of the State. After an hour of calls, and hesitation we had the good luck of landing at the B&B A White Rose in Fort Plain. The owner Melissa was welcoming but not over-bearing. The rooms reflected her: comfortable but not overdone.  

On our return the next day, we stopped at the Mine Kill Falls. A young man was peering into the trees, but without binoculars. I wandered over to ask what he was doing. Listening and looking for the Canadian Cicada. Okanagana Canadensis, he told us. He had driven up from New York City to find out how far south the Canadian Cicada travels. He was thrilled to have found them. We listened with him. Peter and I both immediately recognized the sound, one we had heard many times before.

We were an odd bunch, standing looking into the trees. And a lucky bunch. I thought about the choices this young man had made to land here in this park to find his Cicada. And the choices we had made to see a black bear, or to find a special but ordinary-looking bird—up MacPhail Road, and a stop by that wide, green field, just when the bird wanted to sing.

(There really is a bear in this final photo! Photo of the chestnut-sided warbler and the Henslow's Sparrow are by Peter. This photo and finding this bird generated a lot of interest in the birding world--people drove from Manhattan the next day--four hours--to see it.)