Lifer! Western Grebe

With its sinister red eyes, horn-like protrusions on either side of its head, emotionless expression, and razor sharp bill, the Western Grebe is the devil incarnate; an evil creation dredged up from the fiery wastelands of Hell, spreading its malice eastward out of its natural western North American range.

For three years, this malevolent foe has managed to avoid my many searches, each more desperate than the last. Three times in one year I took the hour-long commute to Ash Bridges Bay and the Leslie Street Spit to locate my nemesis, and each time I came back more miserable. Then this year, another bird showed up at Saddington Park, a stone's throw outside of the GTA, too far for transit, too expensive to travel the distance by cab. Every birdwatcher in Toronto had seen this species a billion times by now so asking for a ride was useless. "Immaterial!" they scoffed, "I've seen that species 473 times this year. No better than a Starling. I couldn't stand to look at it again."

My desire to see the Western Grebe sent me into a spiral of demented decision-making. Every Ontbirds post reported that the bird was impossible to see without a scope. So what did I do? I went to every location without a scope, once in a heavy downpour to Ash Bridges Bay for what felt like the 26th time. As I stood in the pounding deluge, tears streaming down my pathetic facade, I could sense the bird-demon's presence, sneering at me from the exact distance I couldn't identify it, bobbing behind the waves, its head thrown back in a wild cackle, knowingly driving me to the edge of reason.

I contemplated a solemn walk into the crashing waves, never to be seen again but a single thought kept me going that day. I dreamed a glorious dream of smashing my binoculars into the grebe's head, hearing its skull crush on the pavement, white fragments of chipped bone flying, the blunt object splattering its brains open on the rough ground, the rest of its body writhing and twitching in agony, its lobate-webbed feet scrabbling across the stones as I pick it up and sink my teeth into its flesh, steaming hot blood spurting wildly from my mouth, down my chin, and across my tongue, reveling in the coppery taste as I rip out its feathers and throw them over my head, a grisly confetti falling down on my nihilistic celebration.

Well, I have likely lost a few readers at this point. For those who were brave enough to continue on, I will simply end anti-climatically. I saw my first Western Grebe today at 1p.m. at Colonel Samuel Smith Park, ending a three year battle. I truly believe it was the same bird every time, tormenting my every waking hour.

And as much as I'd like to leave this post with a sappy ending describing the excited drive with Mark across the city after seeing the posting on Ontbirds, a description of how beautiful the bird was, and how it was only 50 metres away and actively feeding amongst Red-necked Grebes, and that the sun beamed down and birds sang and dropped rose petals in front of our steps as we left the park, I just don't have the energy. All that matters is that it's over. Three years of agonizing pain I put up with searching for my nemesis. Now I can put a tick next to this awful bird in my field guide and move on.

I won. End of story. Who's next?