Christmas Bird Count

Christmas Bird Count

When Peter Schoenberger asks me to join him on his Christmas Bird Count I get that this is a special invitation, perhaps the closest I’ll come to a marriage proposal in this lifetime. I need to be willing to live through the good and bad, the sickness and health of a long day, be up at 3:30 and ready to go at 4:30. When I climb into the car at 4:32, I am aware I am late. But that does not stem my excitement. I am experiencing the thrill of Christmas day when I was a child and woke full of hope. I remind myself that that hope was often deflated late in the morning, as the gifts I wanted were not unwrapped. But, without ruining this narrative I can say that my hopes only soared after unwrapping our first gift of birds.

We arrive at our sector “H” within the Mohonk-Ashokan circle at 5 am. The CBC is conducted by marking off circles fifteen miles in diameter. These circles are then randomly divided into sectors, some larger than others, some more choice than others. Within our circle are the wonderful Mohonk Preserve, and a beautiful section of the Rondout Creek. Peter’s long narrow sector H on the western edge of the circle is one he has covered since 2005 and holds nothing of wonder, in fact was unwanted and uncounted for years. He’s affectionate about the spot because it is his and has been for these five years but otherwise he has no allegiance to this area out route 209 past Stone Ridge in Ulster county, New York. It includes winding, narrow roads that move through farms and at a higher elevation pass through forests of both hardwood and pine trees. Stone houses punctuate the landscape, as well as a few trailers. Most of the houses look shuttered in, dark, and plumes of smoke rise from chimneys. In other words, it is much like many areas of Ulster County. There is nothing special about it, and yet every year, Peter tells me, he finds special birds.

When I first heard about Christmas Bird Count, now its 111th year, I didn’t quite understand what it was all about. Counting birds—how was that possible? And why would you want to count birds in the dead of winter, a time where seeing just a few sparrows, a junco or a cardinal is all you get. Birding is fun in the spring, when the warblers move through the Hudson Valley. But if over 60,000 people in more than 2,000 circles nation-wide devote a day—and have devoted a day since the first CBC in 1900—to counting birds, then there must be something to it. Audubon, who sponsors this event, compiles all of the data, and though in some ways it may seem like rough data, it is still possible to get a good sense of what is happening with bird populations. When I look at the early data from our circle—an area that has been counted for 61 years--I note that they do not have an entry for the bald eagle, a bird that is seen now every year. In the 50s, everyone saw a ruffed grouse, a bird no one sees now. This rise and fall tells us about the health of a specific bird species but also about other environmental issues we should be paying attention to (Audubon has a bibliography of scientific articles that make use of CBC data).  

It is dark out as we stand on Kripplebush road at 5 in the morning. It’s 23 degrees. The stars are magnificent, clear and bright. We both spy a fleeting falling star, and I don’t doubt that we wish for the same thing (if Peter is sentimental enough to wish for anything on a star): to hear a screech owl. Peter calls the bird through his iPod on the car stereo. The sharp, crazy sound of the screech owl emerges from the inside of his warm car. We stand and wait, listening into the quiet. I hear a rooster in the distance and we laugh together when I admit that for a moment I thought it was a special bird. One car passes us in the dark without stopping, and then the next car on that lonely headlight lit road does stop. “We’re looking for birds,” Peter says, and without hesitation the driver moves on. Perhaps it is ordinary to run into birders at five in the morning but being that birder I know that it is a special moment. It’s not just the cold air snapping me awake it’s the sense of a mission, of a collective hunt.  We have a task and we want to do it well. That is, we want to count accurately but also account for as many species as might be making this patch of land their home.

And then there it is, that funny, whinny sound that the screech owl makes coming from one side of the road, then from the other. We both light up, delighted by hearing this voice from the dark. We do not linger to savor the sound of the screech owl, but rather scoot up the hill to a spot Peter imagines would be good for Saw-whet owls. He hasn’t heard or seen any there, but it’s an area dense in hemlocks, near a swamp. The chances of finding this marvelous boreal winter visitor feel slim.  But Peter has developed a new faith in the Saw-whet. “People don’t see Saw-whets, because they don’t look for them,” he explains. “You have to believe in them,” he says, as if he is asking me to believe in God.

Two weeks earlier, we had gathered with a half dozen other bird enthusiasts to watch researcher Glenn Proudfoot band Saw-whet owls on the Mohonk Preserve. The night we were there, a dozen owls flew into the mist nets, strung between the bushy pine trees. They tangled in the nets as they flew toward the loud call of a Saw-whet blaring into the night air from speakers. They are curious birds, wondering who this enormous cousin might be. The birds, once extracted from the tangle, were stuffed into empty tomato paste cans, their little feet sticking out the bottom. The birds were tagged, weighed, and measured. All the while, I admired the stocky little bird and relished its tenacity as it clicked its bills in protest over being fondled, prodded, flipped upside down. Saw-whets have enormous eyes, and in the light of the warm cabin, the black irises were large circles rimmed by a vibrant yellow. I stood outside in the cold and watched as they flew free, and I wished them a silent good flight. Because I had seen a dozen that night, had touched those so soft owl feathers, I was ready to believe in the Saw-whet, but I didn’t believe it was possible to drive out on a dark road and find one.

When we get out of the car we realize that the iPod has frozen, not to return all day. So, improbably, Peter begins to whistle, the hoot-hoot-hoot that rises through the scale. We stand, inhaling the frozen air (now 15 degrees) and looking up at the stars. There we see the longest shooting star either of us has ever seen. It makes a complete arc of the sky, and keeps going, as if plummeting into the trees. Not three minutes later we hear the funny little click that a Saw-whet makes. We both jump with excitement, and then the owl begins to hoot back to us. And another joins us from the other side of the swamp. We have a Saw-whet orchestra going and we laugh with glee. I figure if we only see juncos and Canada geese the rest of the day I will still be satisfied.

Our daylight hours begin back in farmland. In the grey light of dawn we hear overhead chatter. We look up at what looks like snowflakes. Snow buntings. We walk the edge of the field where they fly and contemplate walking onto the field. “That is exactly what they ask you not to do,” Peter explains. But it is tempting. We take a few steps down a long, dirt driveway and as if we’d pushed a button, a car drives toward us. I flag the car. “Do you mind if we walk down your driveway?” I ask. “Sure, I’m a birder too,” the man says and drives off.

We spend some time with the buntings, then move on, driving the roads as they curve and weave. We pick up the expected species, and are unable to count the number of pigeons winging in and out of a large red barn, or the number of Canada geese tromping through a wide field. We stop on route 209, and scan a wide field. In the far distance, I point out a white dot. We pull out the scope. Peter curses. “It’s a good bird and I can’t tell what it is.” He marches off across the field, camera in hand. Twenty minutes later he is back with a report, and a smile: Cooper’s hawk.

We drive out narrow roads that dead end in secret wooded openings. We pass farmhouses surrounded by pastures with cows, or at one farm, alpacas. A wagon wheel decorates one lawn. As we pass isolated, warm homes, I wonder as I so often do what people do with their lives here in the woods. Do they work in Kingston, a half hour drive away? Or have they figured out a country life, growing their vegetables and storing potatoes to make it through the winter? We search for bird feeders, and count the expected juncos, house sparrows, titmouse, and somehow all day manage not to see a house finch. Despite our movement, and that the temperature is now into the 20s, I’m cold. I’m wearing four layers of pants, and the same on top. I’ve got heavy, white bunny boots on my feet (an early Christmas gift from Peter). These are the same sorts of boots I was issued by the National Science Foundation and wore in Antarctica. There, I stood around for five hours one day counting Adelie penguins and never felt a twinge of cold. Is it possible the cold of Ulster County is greater than that on Ross Island? I slip hand warmers into my gloves and into my boots.

Near nine in the morning we stop at a convenience store. I’ve brought two-day’s worth of food: turkey soup (perhaps that is why we did not see a single turkey all day!), ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and vegetables to munch on, cookies, and a thermos of tea. But we need some chocolate to get us through the morning. The stop is a good one. Perched in a tree near the eastern end of the lot is a Merlin. Peter takes photographs of the upright, elegant bird, its mottled chest, long tail, and piercing eyes.

Mid-day Peter says, “We need a red-breasted nuthatch.” I am holding the list in my hand; Peter is holding the list in his head. He turns the car and drives out to deep woods, a stand of pine trees where he knows a red-breasted nuthatch should be. We find it. It is so precise, so easy that in that moment I realize that most of the birds we have seen have not been found by luck or by accident (except, perhaps, that Merlin). Peter knows where certain species live in this sector because he is familiar with it, and he knows what lives here in winter. But more than that, he thinks about each bird, what sort of habitat it needs, what time of day it moves to get its food. So often when we are birding he will comment, “We really should be seeing X,” and then, as if he has conjured the bird, X appears. And so in the crooks and bushes, the trees and fields of this patch of Ulster County he is attune to where the birds will be looking for a berry or a mouse and at what time of day they might be busy doing so. And all day, we have been there to see, to count, to admire, to accept yet another gift.

In the mornings while I am reading the New York Times and drinking my coffee, Peter is drinking tea and pondering bird information: lists, books, images. Often I wonder what he is doing, what he sees as he compares notes from one year to the next, as he scans lists. Now I understand that he has been working for weeks, perhaps months, to make this day seamless, to find the species we should find (plus some), to be at the right place at the right time of day. I don’t say anything, of course, but silently I am grateful, and also impressed that we found that red-breasted nuthatch.

The rest of the day unfolds in a daze of counting, walking, stopping, driving. By 4 in the afternoon we have driven 66.2 miles, and walked a few as well. We are exhausted. We plunk down in a field, snacks at hand, scope at the ready, and wait to see horned lark. “The larks will come,” he says in his best French accent. Every year, Peter has seen horned larks at this spot at dusk.

The sun cascades to the west, a gorgeous sunset, oranges in a sharp blue sky, and we wait. Then we worry we will be late for the after-count dinner, an incredible spread created by Mark DeDea and Kyla Haber. We pack up, happy with the 42 species of bird that we saw, and the 1,480 individuals that we counted.

Back in Kingston, the circle unites to offer up numbers and species. Everyone is tired but a bit high from the day, the long hours, the focus. The dark room where we gather is festive, plates set, and the smell of good food permeating the air. Everyone is pleased with his or her sightings, eager to share. We gather at the long table, one big family of birders. I feel like we should say a prayer of thanks to the birds, but instead we eat. Then comes the list.

Leading us is Steve Chorvas, who is not just a birder, but an all-around remarkable naturalist. He’s serious and thorough as he goes through each species. I wait as he calls out Saw-whet. Each sector calls out none. “A pair,” Peter says as calmly as he can, as if this might be normal. I am ready to tell the story of Peter whistling into the dark, but I keep it until later. “That might be considered a rarity,” Steve says, and continues with the list. There are a few other rarities reported for this region: a killdeer, a broad-wing hawk, a ruby-crowned kinglet, wood ducks, and ring-necked ducks. As Steve goes through the list, we learn from our count that Carolina wren populations are up and robin populations are low. Canada geese are doing just fine, but no one saw a pipit.

Steve calls out bird after bird. When Peter reports no great horned owls he turns. “How come you didn’t find any great horned?” he asks.

Peter shrugs, “I guess I’m not very good at this.”

Steve hesitates for a moment. He turns back to his computer screen, ready to move on, but a smile appears and then, still focused on the screen, the smile spreads, his face lights up, and he starts to laugh. Soon, we are all laughing, from the wonderful absurdity of Peter’s comment, from the pleasure of birding all day, of finding a Saw-whet and not finding a great horned, of sharing this deep, odd love of birds.

CBC NYML: 30 people in 10 field parties saw 11,840 individuals of 72 species.

All photos, except the Saw-whet owl, taken on CBC day December 18, 2010 by Peter Scoenberger.

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

Twitching

We all have our firsts that we record and hold close to our hearts: the first time I rode a bike, the first book I fell in love with, the first rock climb. Love is usually involved in these firsts, whether they involve kisses or not. But it appears to me that birders care more than others about firsts. The first time Peter sees a bird, he remembers that, makes note, place and date. Peter can’t remember all sorts of things, like what he did for Christmas last year, or what he ate for dinner the day before. But as we walk East Kingston he tells me, “this is where I got my life snow bunting.” Or at Croton Point is where he saw his first long eared owl, American coot, and rough legged hawk. I too have started to keep these firsts as part of my life story, remembering my first plummeting gannet, shown to me by a friend on Cape Cod. Or the vermilion flycatcher, seen on my first ever bird walk in the desert southwest. Or the greater sage grouse that walked out of the grasses in Wyoming and then soon enough disappeared into those grasses.

There is something special about being shown a new bird, as if Peter is offering me a gift: here, a Goldeneye. Here, a bufflehead. “There, a fox sparrow. It’s a pretty bird.” In their own way, they are all pretty birds, even the most common of them.

This, though, is the story of a different sort of birding first: the first time I have taken a trip just to see a bird. Not several birds, but one bird, a rare bird. The British call this twitching. Peter and I went twitching for a fork-tailed flycatcher.

The fork-tailed flycatcher is a bird that belongs in Central or South America and for some reason turned north instead of south in its journeys. He—or rather she--is mistaking our fall for spring. It’s a common bird in its own territory, but here in the northern United States has been seen about one hundred times. This bird was reported on Wednesday, spotted by a woman on her morning walk, at a nature preserve near Stamford, CT. For several days, Peter reports that the bird is still there. He reads the email lists that keep birders informed about what is happening out there. “Why don’t we go?” I ask. I am not one to chase birds—there are enough birds out the front door to keep me both happy and busy and even, in the coming years when the excitement over a tree sparrow vanishes, I can’t imagine I will be one to journey for rarities. There are so many birds—common birds—I have not seen that twitching is ridiculous. Figuring out that I am looking at a purple finch still pleases me enormously. But there is something about the odd, small culture of birding I find fascinating. I’ve read a few books about big years, and know that central to these lists are the rarities, which real birders will spend thousands in air or helicopter fare to see. This trip won’t cost us much at all—gas down to Connecticut and back.

Traveling to see the flycatcher seemed like the sort of adventure that would appeal to Peter. Peter has been birding for six years and in that time has gathered an enormous amount of information on birds, and has travelled enthusiastically to create an impressive life list. And, he’s taken astonishing photographs along the way. So new birds for him are few and far between. Seeing a new bird is fun.

Peter, however, is noncommittal about chasing the flycatcher, perhaps because his dedication to local birds is so intense he would rather bird near home, to keep the pulse of what is happening here rather than chase a rarity. He likes to note the first tree sparrow of the fall or the last gasp of warblers. So we spend a morning with the local John Burroughs Nature Society (we are both trustees) at Kingston Point where it is windy and cold and no self respecting bird would be out. But soon the sun wins out over the clouds and warmth comes to us. We drive River road in the town of Esopus and get a long-distance view of a red-breasted merganser. And a canvasback, a new bird for me. These are dots on a wide, turbulent river, made clear by looking through the scope. Without trip leader Mark DeDea and Peter to guide me I would never figure out what I was looking at. Mark pulls out his worn guidebook. “Look at the difference in the forehead of this bird,” he explains. To him, the difference is painfully obvious. Yes, the red-breasted merg does have a steep forehead, so different from the lower forehead of the common merg. Of course! But really, from our distance I am impressed he can tell it is a merganser. “I’ve done this for twenty five years,” Mark explains. I am filled with envy.

After our morning birding, the day spreads before us. We eat breakfast, then get in the car, knowing that we won’t be in CT until 3:30, as the sun is going down. It won’t be good for pictures. But it seems the thing to do, an adventure of sorts. But, in fact, though there is the feel of adventure, there is no adventure whatsoever in finding this bird.

The crowded roads through southern New York and into CT gets us to the Cove Island Wildlife Sanctuary (website under construction), a few dozen acres of former landfill situated at the southern end of a vast parking lot (Peter, who lives near and daily birds the former Woodstock dump, thinks of this trip as “from one dump to another dump.”). A groomed park in the distance encourages dog walkers and joggers. An ice rink flanks the western end of the lot. A bunch of cars with birding stickers and people with bins and scopes leads us to the right spot. We walk quickly toward the trailhead, all excitement, only to be told to calm down, the bird is there, on the other end of a dirt path, though parts of the path are cordoned off. We loop around on the flat, wide trail and join a group of people who are standing with scopes looking into the bushes. And there the bird is—pretty simple to see. No chasing, no walking through the woods. We just got out of the car and that it is. Easy twitching.

I put my bins to my eyes and take a long look. I can see the bird’s white, compact body, its long dark tail. It’s an unmistakable bird with that long tail. If you cut off its tail the bird would look remarkably like an Eastern Kingbird, a bird that exists in the same Tyrannus genus as the flycatcher.

To get a clear look, I peer through the scope of a woman named Gayle who works for the girl scouts and has been there, witness to the bird for three days. She stands next to her husband Tom, “one of the best birders in New York,” Peter whispers to me. She is tanned, with a disheveled, warm smile. He is clean cut, serious about his birds but there’s a faint smile of pleasure as he looks at the bird and talks with us. I like them, the way I like people who are good at what they do and know it.

Late in the day the crowd is casual, having fun, chatting. I ask aloud to everyone and no one: what is going to happen to this bird? It seems oblivious, both to all of us admirers and to the fact it is in the wrong place. It is busy living its bird life, eating, pooping, perching. But soon enough there won’t be any flies for it to catch. I am worried about this bird. Tom shrugs, “It doesn’t look good.” It doesn’t. “But I hope it sticks around for a few weeks. This is my Christmas Bird Count sector,” Tom says with a grin. “That would be a good bird for a Christmas Bird Count,” I agree.

Gayle is generous with her scope, letting me look as Peter and I left ours in the car. There are perhaps twenty of us there on the flat, dirt path rimmed by a range of browned fall shrubs and grasses, all native plantings on this covered landfill.  A cooper’s hawk wings through, drawing our attention away from the princess that is the flycatcher.

The little group of volunteers who have made this park hand out flyers, and try to keep the crowds controlled (over one hundred people were there at once the previous day) by roping off certain parts of the trail. They have made it so that the bird can fly from the southern end of their park—all trees—to the northern end, passing a set of feeders where finches, chickadees and other birds come and go, oblivious of their resident celebrity. The bird stays perched in a barren tree and from time to time drops to snag a bug—this mid-air bug snatching is called hawking or sallying. It has a broad beak, made to be able to snatch bugs mid-air. And then, in a loop, the bird returns to its perch where it chucks up the tough bits—the carapace--opening its beak wide. It has dark eyes set in a dark head so it’s hard to see its eye. The bird this evening sticks to the southern end, out of reach of good photos and in bad light. Peter takes some photos nonetheless, but they won’t turn out well—even I can see that. So we decide to stick around and photograph and look in the morning. As we leave the man in charge—a very friendly landscaper who has selected all of the native plants in this nature preserve—tells us that people have come from Las Vegas to see this bird. Must be someone on a big year. Many are from NYC, lots from CT, of course. Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire. People are willing to spend a lot—both in time and money—to see this bird.

We check into a hotel, making this bird cost more than just the gas of our drive down.

The next morning the bird is still there, waiting in the tree. In fact, the exact spot where we left him the night before. A group has already gathered, including a large woman in a huge parka who has flown in from somewhere. “I’ve got to stop the listing,” she announces to everyone. She has 660 birds on her list (though I’m not paying much attention so that number could be off). That the listing is taking away from the fun of birding. Indeed. I step away from her to watch the bird, warming in the early sun, the white of its chest brilliant. The bird preens, nonchalant, the dives for a bug.

There is a lot of lens power along the path, and Peter lets one woman look through his bins so she can see what she is missing. (If he were a Zeiss rep he’d be making some money; I bought my bins after looking through his.) At the end of the path is a fortress of tall photographers with their tripods spread wide. They all have cameras like Peter’s with 500 mm lenses. I say, “You guys are taking up some real estate here,” and not one of them laughs or says anything to me. They are very involved in themselves and their cameras. I am glad that Peter is roving on the edges of this group, flexible without a tripod, getting around and down to get some good shots. But the atmosphere this morning is different from the evening before. It’s tense, a bit competitive in an odd way—what exactly might we be competing for? It’s all about the bird, and less about anything else—the area, the plants, which are getting trampled. One of the volunteers, a sincere middle-aged woman, asks people to stay on the paths. For a while everyone listens and then some photographer just can’t help himself—he wanders out, tromping through the grasses.

After a while of watching, of hoping the bird will come near—it does, briefly and the snap of camera lenses resembles the click and whir of a quiet machine gun—Peter and I decide to explore what might be floating on the water.  As we walk out we hear a cackling overhead and see a flash of green-yellow. Monk parakeets. Another new bird for Peter and for me.

“Let’s see if we can’t get to the northern side of this park,” Peter suggests, and we stumble onto an empty nature trail that leads into the park. And thirty feet in front of us in a tree is the bird. We stop in our tracks, aware we are onto something special. We don’t want to bother the bird, who is going about its morning feeding. So Peter steps to the side, near a tree, and starts to take photos as the bird lights up into the air, plummets down then, as if creating a full acrobatic circle, returns to its perch. It’s magical to watch, the flurry of such long tail feathers, the arc of the long wings, then the return to a pint sized bird on a tree, almost dazzled by herself.

I keep thinking how thrilling it would be to be the one who discovered this lost or wandering bird from South America. During this moment of crowd-quiet I have a sense of what that person might have felt. In our secluded spot there are no jokes, no swapping information about bins, or life lists. We are there alone with the bird for some time—perhaps 25 minutes, and I capture the feeling of discovery, of adventure.

For me, one of the great pleasures of birding is thinking of the miracle of seeing any bird. I have to be out in the world. The bird has to be nearby. Our paths must cross. It seems improbable, each bird a gift. And in that improbable moment I often think: I might be the only person who has ever seen this bird, who will ever admire its wings or beak, its boldness or cunning. In this case, with the flycatcher, I was so far from that special feeling. But in that quiet place, for a few minutes, I feel like we are alone with the bird. It is our bird.

Soon enough an older woman wanders down the trail and sees us. She too is delighted by this secret look but needs her husband to share it with her. We anticipate there will be a rush into our secret spot and in fact Peter’s arm is tired from hoisting the over ten pound camera to his eye, focusing and shooting. So we head out before others arrive, delighted by our time in the quiet, away from the mob.

We walk out toward Long Island Sound. The sun glints off the water, though in the distance we can see four tall cooling towers on the far side, on Long Island. Out on the water we see a range of gulls and some ducks as well--bufflehead and the long-tailed duck, which indeed does have a long-tail, and a marvelous white neck. A new bird for me. Three new birds in one trip. If I amortized the trip, it would come out to about 70-80 dollars per bird. Is it possible to calculate the cost of seeing a bird? I doubt it. Because I know that years down the road I’ll remember not just the first—probably only—fork-tailed flycatcher of this short, sweet life. I’ll remember this as the first time I chased a rare bird, the first time I twitched. But above all, that moment, the private viewing when Peter and I stood quiet on the grassy path and for a while had the bird to ourselves. What does the ad say? Priceless.

 All photos by Peter Schoenberger

Boat School

At noon on the second day of boat school, I folded up the

lines of plywood I had stitched together with copper wire. Before me rested

over seventeen feet of something that had the shape of a boat. It would sink, but

it had the feel of water about it. I was not particularly proud of my

accomplishment. All I had done was follow the careful but relaxed directions of

the teacher, a master boat builder named Geoff Kerr. What I had done to arrive

at my boat-like creation was all pretty basic. Drilled a few holes, cut copper

wire, slipped the wire through the holes and twisted them tight. My thumbs were

sore, my back a bit achy from standing and bending over for so many hours; I

had not done anything technically difficult. No wood to cut. No precision to

anything I had done. “Six inches between holes?” I had asked. “About, just eye

ball it.” Whatever might go wrong could be fixed. Nothing that sanding, epoxy

and paint could not fix.

On the first night at the Wooden Boat School, Rich, the generous

and welcoming director, asked everyone to introduce themselves. One man ran a

boat yard down the way and wanted to learn bronze casting; another owned four

boats and needed to know more about diesel engines. A few from the coast guard

were there to learn how to inspect wooden boats. Many people were repeat

students. What was I doing there? All I knew was that I wanted to be a student

for a while, to learn something new that had nothing to do with books or words.

My class was to build an Annapolis

Wherry, a boat I had never seen or rowed but for some reason fell in love with

the sleek lines when I saw an image on the internet. In other words, this was a

version of internet dating, impulsive and perhaps all wrong.“Do you row?” people asked, trying to

understand why I was building this boat, which is 34 inches wide, and rows like

a crew boat, with a sliding seat. Nope. “Is this a stitch and glue boat?” I had

no idea. “Is it made of plywood.”

Probably. (One week later I could say yes, and yes to these last

questions).

I have not built many things in my life. In grade school I

bought balsa wood airplane models and under the guidance of Woogie Ham (not an

invented name; the boy was teased) did a lousy job of gluing them together. I

did not have the patience for the meticulous work of airplane building. Since

then I had acquired a few tools, though I used my drill mostly to hang pictures

on the wall or curtains in the bedroom. But I do have faith that with the right

instruction I can do anything, and that anything can be taught. I wanted to

learn, to be the student, not the teacher.

I am a teacher. I teach creative writing, the personal essay

and nature writing at Bard College. As my students struggle to get their

experiences into beautiful prose, I too also often say, “it will be ok, a

little sandpaper, a little paint, and we can figure this out. Just keep going.”

Determination, going into the writing every day, twisting those bits of copper wires

even if the act of twisting is not inspired, is as essential as the great idea.

Building is building, whether a sentence or a boat.

I was building my boat in the home town and final resting

place of one of the great writers and teachers of writing, E.B. White. For a

clean sentence he can’t be beat. His Elements of Style so often guides me: write

with nouns and verbs. Use the active voice. Don’t place words in the negative

if you can write it in the positive. In tribute to White, I have named my boat

Radiant.

To build something beautiful, truly radiant, I am sure that

it takes more than following the steps. Still, rules are helpful. Stir the

epoxy well. Try not to leave globs, but if you do you can sand them off later.

Try not to use adverbs, but if you do, edit them out later. And it helps to

have a teacher confident enough in his craft to let you make mistakes and still

believe it will all work out.

And lo, at the end of the week, I had a boat. Still not

something that would float—all those holes I drilled now needed to be filled

in--but I was getting closer. It gleamed in the light as I loaded it onto the

roof of my car. I have a few weeks of work left to do—filling and sanding,

daily work that with patience will add up to something called boat.

At the same time, with Elements of Style at my side, I will

be editing my manuscript about kayaking the Hudson River. Daily work that with

patience will add up to something called book.

.