Scotland Birding Poem for the Stephen Lewis Foundation

Last year, for the Stephen Lewis Foundation's Dare to Remember Campaign, I took on the challenge of doing a poetry reading in front of the Toronto Ornithological Club to raise funds for turning the tide of AIDS in Africa. Though nerve-wracking, it was a fantastic experience. Below is my poem for my trip to Scotland that I performed.
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Thomas Cook touchdown! We reconnect w/ terra firma in Glasgow on August 20…something or other; European Herring Gull on the tarmac. Lifer 1 of a 2-week vaca, I pray to Jupiter, Saturn’s son, for sun, for 1), and 2), for safety, and of course, 3), for a ton of lifers as well, ’cause…well, I’m a birder. And every bird that I see here is new to me and it is great to be free from my now-distant domicile. Parents in tow, they know it’s important I at least see a few birds but it’s so much more than that. It’s a chance to explore, and to learn, and to do, and to see, and people to meet, and believe me, I adored the UK, a short flight away, chances are 10/10 I’ll visit again.

Adjusting to the southpaw drive, we wheeled, saucer-eyed, past immense expanse of Heaven’s hills, heather’s purple hue reflected on our Hertz® Rent-a-Car’s sides, and a vast green country dotted w/ Tide®-whitened sheep next to stone-fences in rows below the sky-blue flag flying high in bona fide Scottish pride next to quaint homes. Look up! Buzzard swiftly soaring, swallows’ beaks goring insects midair, and there(!): a Kestrel hovers, some sort of ground-prey tantalizingly calling, feathers suddenly falling but no time for stalling, which I found appalling but apparently (I’m told) a car crawling on a four-lane that’s sprawling is not exactly safe.

Eventually feeling the coastal air and arriving in Ayr, Ayshire, I escape the machine-prison; a free man now w/ a city to explore and I implore my parents to let me score some more birds. Bins in hand and a breaky of blood pudding in bowels, I’m in my element. After seeing Shag on the Firth of Clyde, I decide to glide through inland suburbia; softly applied whisper-strides through flower gardens and postcard-image yards until my eyes lay upon a T.V. antenna where perched is a prim Greenfinch: a concoction of pea-soup olive, grit-gray, and jaundiced makeup.

Despite copious, if not infinite, dire warnings against the next stage of our expedition, we mutually agreed on a lil’ road trip of 376 miles (give or take), the trip feeling more like a horizontally-shifted 8-distanced country-wide breadth, plunging us into the nation’s depths. You see, like ordering haggis, if you’re visiting the UK, U see London along the way, K?

Well, hop, skip, and a jump from Ayr to London, England, our longest tricky-traffic trip, and a trio, including yours truly, tried a sublevel track-ride trek, eventually traipsing into the sunlight-treated tramping grounds of Trafalgar Square. But so, we were like the definition of tired but sun-induced pinpoint-pupils adjusted, and an overpriced city map enticing a slice of city-life exploration, we fought the lethargy and marveled at the sights.

From the spinning Eye, a high spy in the sky, I sigh at the beautiful city that lies beneath: the bustle, Buckingham and boastful boy Big Ben, balustrades and bellcasts. Beside the ride, two gulls flies by: Lesser Black-backed and the abundant Black-headed trailing behind; no surprise, not a Bonaparte’s in sight.

Cue the Cockney! Now creamed and in a right old two and eight, we pulled up our almond rocks, tidied our barnet, fixed our dickie dirts, and passed the bird after a queue w/ a few Britney Spears @ a rub a dub dub. Goodbye, London!

We drive - now - north to Edinburgh by motorway, the central artery; highways, veins; claustrophobic streets, a network of capillaries, alive w/ traffic. Our GPS screams as, around and around like Celtic knots, roundabouts abound, but my Dad, by now, drives sound-ly, and as soon our apartment on the Royal Mile is found, we, within steps from the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, shill out the pound-priced fee and look out from the citadel’s crown onto Old and New Town. Jackdaws and Carrion Crows crow, night-quilled wraiths, phantoms, a stone-throw below.

Next: Holyrood Park, past parliament, prime parts for picking up possible passerines despite a plethora of prickly plants. Pals, pack pants, please. The passerines? Meadow Pipit, Wren, Blackcap, and Chaffinch, Whitethroat, Song Thrush, Skylark, and Dunnock…all a synch.

Dad / a fit dude / in due time / does the World Du / does us proud / does the drive-thru / to Dundee. Add Eurasian Curlew, and European Goldfinch, cherry-lipstick-faced jolly fellow, form feathered w/ a pinch of salt & pepper, chip-chirping in glory: 2+ more to the inventory.

Before 4:00, for more, we rest-stop @ a forlorn forest: get to check out Grey Wagtail, Great Spotted Woodpecker, and Goldcrest. Leave that green for Aberdeen, a.k.a. Granite City. Cloud-tears descend on stone, sinuous snake-trails of silver sparkle on Silver City’s bones. A Pied/White Wagtail alights, its chalk-whites and ash-grays mimic the city’s cold tones; Mother Nature’s impressionist art.

We depart on an overnight voyage on the North Sea. Alone from the ferry stern, I discern a subhorizon swelling sea below a black void. Our small ship amiss smashes the surf, sprays mist amidst the abyss. My mother, un-merry seasick supine sailor, yearns for turf. Swears, ‘NEVER AGAIN!’ - to Shetland.

We ante-meridiem-land in Lerwick. It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Wind. Well, whatever the weather, whether windy or wetter, we willfully work our way west (what w/ the wish of a wealth of oiseaux) to a wonderland of rocky cliffs @ Sumburgh Head, instead of giving in to Poseidon’s warning-whip. Northern Fulmars, feathered scythes, perform treacherous cliff-dives toward the icy waters, slicing through gale-force winds.

Next stop is a search of a beach and a church. Within minutes, we see Twite, Little Stint, and Lapwing: feathered jewels w/ a tint of ethereal ephemeral emerald bling bling. European Golden and Common Ringed Plovers - flying over in pairs like lovers are ancestral Rock Dovers. Oh, brother…sorry for my smidgeon of sin in the birding religion. I know, I know, the correct name is pigeon.

On the side of the road, we stop and share a stare w/ a birding pair @ a Willow Warbler and a Fieldfare. They’re Americans from New York; corporate cats, who, canceling the cruise and casino craps, chose to chase Common Cuckoo. Their countenance a clue? Sharing a quip, they coyly catch me in their ruse as there near the cruck of a construct, cool as a cucumber, squats said cuckoo. To them, I cry, ‘Cheers’!

On Spiggy’s Sandbank / is a washed up plank / And abutting that plank / is a stately Redshank / W/ fire-orange legs / a diffusely mottled flank / and hind-wings blank / this abundant shorebird / in numbers outrank / and was enough to crank / me to 43 lifers / and a full fuel tank / of energy to burn / to the opposite of dawn / where, stifling a yawn / I laid eyes upon a swan / in a semi-oval pond / a Whooper that I fawned.

The next day, our itinerary took us north, which meant 2 more boat rides. My mom, after a terrific sigh, cried, “Gravol, stat!” The pharmacist replied, “Ah, a dash of diphenhydramine and a dollop of 8-chlorotheophylline to make dimenhydrinate. Aye.”

Two ferries later, we land on the island of Unst. Past towns Belmont and Baltasound, bypassing Balliasta on the B9086, w/ Bonxies over Burrafirth, we arrive @ the remote reaches of the Northern-most braes of Scotland (where apparently the residents’ ancestors were quite fond of alliteration). Away from the main, the foreboding sky points to rain but before our descent on the longitudinal ladder, my eyes are trained upon plain Jane: my first Garden Warbler on this here island chain.

Again on boat; row, row over H2O. Near the hull: Arctic Skua and Common Gull. Reverse now from U-N-S-T to the island of Yell, a bit pell-mell on the winding roads to ferry two via the blue dotted map-line between the 2 tiny towns Ulsta and Toft. A braw day no more, soft rain turns to water-pour galore, but not before adding Rock Pipit to the score. Back to the B&B / away from the shore / wet to the core / birding quit cold turkey / too damp / no more!

Lo! Long live the Leslies! As luck would have it, in an unlikely visit to the local Historical Society, we land ourselves a long-shot at locating relatives in Exnaboe, a lovely locale lying low as Shetland geography goes. Discovery made, we meet Alice Walker (quite the talker), a fine lass w/ a scissor-sharp memory. Fascinated by our ancestral past, we pass the afternoon @ Alice’s pastoral pad. Aprés tea and cake intake, we discover a gap of only a few generations separation. Preparation of climbing the family tree and filling in the gaps, perhaps, bring us closer than we thought to this prior perfect stranger from across the pond. Dad, a newborn family history junkie, was elated w/ our new-fangled friend from the same Scottish monkey.

Gannets, Guillemots, Eiders, & Oystercatchers in droves @ the harbour, we depart from Shetland but now we be landlubbers unprepared for sea swells even greater (!) than before; my mother muttering something about The Perfect Storm. The journey equates the time it takes for a half rotation around Earth’s axis. Green-faced, Mom fell from the poop-deck and stumbled on sea-legs, shaking to the core, hair scraggly as she tore it from its roots, cursing the Atlantic and threatening the poor old chap w/ fisticuffs. Her gift to the ocean? A deluge of foodstuffs.

Driving cross country counterclockwise 133.3 ̅ km., cue the hour-hand clockwise 90˚, and we reach our next destination, Inverness.

Now, in Inverness, I confess, a mess I was. Less than distress, but that anxious feeling you get when your opponent is two moves from checkmate in chess, but…I digress. You see, the trip close to close, I was a bit morose having not got close to my goal of 75 oiseaux. My spirits rose though, provoked by my scope, pulled by fate-rope, helping eyeball a Little Egret on the Beauly Firth. Not a Great, too small a girth, and golden slippers gave birth to the ID of this bird, like me, quite far from its home turf. I guess the phrase ‘save the best for last’ is an apt way to end this section of pseudo-rap.

From Inverness and past Loch Ness, we drive, not as the Rook flies, but a circuitous wind through scenery so astonishingly grand, it makes one ponder a creator’s hand in designing such beauty in the Scottish highlands.

Thus forth, for the purpose of time, I’ll speed up this rhyme by listing leftover lifers I managed to find.

Grey Heron: mantle elephant epidermis, forehead ivory white.

Greylag Goose: well-known Canadian domestic, here an untamed wanderer; ashen leading edge the hue of a storm cloud.

Tufted Duck: chlorophyll sheen, green feathered fedora.

Wood Pigeon: 43 cm. of C4 explosives, winged machete crashing through the forest making Stock Doves look like hummingbirds.

House Martin: conspicuous enamel rump preceding a fine fork-tail, Concord grape nape and sickle-shaped wings contrasted w/ Elmer’s Glue®-white central ventral feathers proudly pushed forward on telephone tethers.

Robin: dun-backed diminutive extrovert, a wee but pugnacious poster-boy of the Old World.

Blackbird: body that of a moonless night, solar flare bill, and electric-yellow eye ring.

Magpie: AK47 assault rifle chatter, Glasgow’s gregarious gang bird.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish –
Coal Tit, Great Tit, Long-tailed Tit, Blue Tit.

Treecreeper: coffee-/cocoa-/cream-/caramel candy-coloured coniferous crawler.

Hooded Crow: the unmistakable Corvus cornix, Carrion’s close cousin; tweed-vested, black V neck-breasted.

& Bullfinch: Britain’s Pepto-Bismol®-bellied buffaloes, a bird so mindblowingly beautiful it burned my intra-skull spaghetti, melting it down to obliterated jelly-mush.

Despite all these successes / I had one epic fail / Extensive searches to no avail / The quintessential Holy Grail / I did not see a Capercaill.

Arriving in Glasgow, waiting for the plane, I (jokingly) complain that, in vain, along w/ Nessie, my aim of 75 lifers was missed. But I admit that 65 is still a fair list and the memories of the trip certainly top a twist to the wrist or a fist to a cyst. Our airship took flight and I sat there with like, an insuppressible lopsided smile. Looking over @ Daddio reading up on the Leslie clan I said, ‘I could get used to traveling’. Reading glasses removed, he replied, ‘well, haven’t you always wanted to go to Japan?’ And just like that, the sperm meets the egg in the first stages of a plan.

Arrowhead Provincial, GBBG vs. LTDU

2011 has been a year of little birding so far. One might think that unemployment would allow for days upon days of birding...but, unfortunately, when all your mind is doing is broken-record-ing on 'I need a job' skip 'I need a job' skip and so forth, there is an annoying guilty, nagging feeling when you're enjoying yourself. Maybe that's just me. Oh, but I'm employed now so I've been able to get out birding again. In fact, I wanted to get out this morning, but for any of you Toronto folks, you know we are currently under a blanket of dreariness and rain.

Anyway, there have been some highlights in my well-kept-secret birding life of late. One, which wasn't really a birding trip, but an outdoor-loving trip nonetheless, involved a group of my friends heading up to near-Huntsville, Ontario, to stay a night in a cabin and do some snowshoeing and cross-country skiing. We visited Arrowhead Provincial Park, quite a nice area from what I observed between panting for air and crashing on every hill we skied on (personally I think 'mountain' a more apt name than 'hill' but a slope one degree below a level plane could hardly be called a mountain I guess). When we first arrived, we were heading to a warming station to take a break from the walk between the car and the station (which we parked next to). As I was walking by the window of the station, from within, unknown to me, my best friend from back home-Leamington saw someone that looked familiar, cocked her head to the side and got up to investigate. Opening the door, she caused a noise that caused me to turn around and cock my head to the side. MARIANNE??!?!!?!!??!! What a great surprise. Warm hugs and frozen tears followed by boiling-over-the-pot excitement for the approaching spring migration.

Next highlight came last weekend at Humber Bay East in Toronto. Our group of birders was counting the waterfowl off the bay (Long-tailed Duck, Bufflehead, Mallard, Gadwall, American Black Duck, Ruddy Duck, Trumpeter and Mute Swans, White-winged Scoter, Common and Red-breasted Merganser, Common Goldeneye, Greater Scaup, Canvasback, and American Wigeon), when one of us spotted a Great Black-backed Gull showing some odd behaviour a ways off. The bird was skimming the surface of the water, looking down into the water when it was landed, wings raised, and bursting up into shorts bouts of flight a meter or so before landing again. Curious, we watched and waited. To our surprise, after a minute or so, a Long-tailed Duck came to the surface for air, only to be stabbed at by a massive beak before diving to the depths again for escape. We were watching a hunt. This lasted for about 20 minutes before the Long-tailed Duck dove for one last time, exhausted, and ended up on the surface, immobile. The gull, not wasting the opportunity, bent its prey's wings to bone-breaking angles, and wrenched the duck's head under the surface of the water, inducing eventual death. The Long-tailed Duck gave a few final kicks, its life-force draining, a last struggle; succumbed, accepted its fate, its last thoughts clouded by fear and pain.

Eventually, the gull broke skin with its bill, a sword-stab, and we watched as strands of red material were pulled from the belly of the duck, the gull finally able to relish the coppery taste of blood and the feast it fought hard for. A few Herring Gulls circled, perhaps thinking of stealing some of the meal but the Great Black-backed Gull came out the victor.

Alarming Trend

As many of our bird species decline from year to year, so do the number of blog posts on Cerulean Sky. In looking at the stats on how many posts I've made per year, there has been a steady decrease.

I'm sure part of the reason for this is that when you first start a blog, there is the initial excitement of making it interesting, of getting as many posts out there as possible, to try hard to promote readership. I would like to think my writing has improved over the course of Cerulean Sky but to improve one's writing, one should write more, la?

So, when I see that in 2007, I had 68 posts, then 48 in 2008, then a lowly 29 in 2009, and a measly 13 so far in 2010, I feel rotten.

And what's up with the lack of features on blogger.com anyway? I mean, it's been alright...but a friend tells me that with Wordpress you can get stats of how many people visited, what posts were most popular, what country the reader was from, etc. Man, that's enticing. Like, I know a personal blog on birding is going to have limited readership and I'm perfectly ok with that but who knows. If I scaled up a bit and put more effort into it, maybe I could make Cerulean Sky something more.

and.....well, the fire alarm in the building I'm in is going off so I guess I better sign off?!

Update

After a conversation on Twitter through direct messages with limits of 140 characters, I ended up scoring a great contract to do species at risk research at the Six Nations Community of the Grand River. It's hard to believe really as it all happened so quickly. I'm also doing reptile studies on the side through another contract with the Long Point Basin Land Trust.

Living near Turkey Point in Norfolk County and birdwatching at Six Nations has simply been a pleasure. In a short period (I started this work in June), I feel I have improved my birding skills fairly significantly, my passion is flared up more than it's been in some time, and I've seen a number of species in juvenile form that I had no previous experience with. Norfolk County is VERY different from Essex County. Whereas Essex County is farmland, farmland, farmland, Norfolk has a significant percentage of Carolinian Forest still remaining. It's amazing what a difference it makes in the bird life.

My trip to Scotland at the end of August will mark the ending to the research at Six Nations and it will be a sad farewell but what a trip to look forward to. I went ahead and bought a couple more guides to study beforehand: Pocket Guide to the Birds of Britain and North-West Europe (fairly beginner but it's great for carrying in the field) and Collins Scottish Birds, the first field guide I've found for the specific birds of Scotland.

It's been an amazing year for me when it comes to birding. From leading hikes at Pelee in the spring to doing field work for species at risk to a trip to a new country where many lifers await me, it's all been fantastic.

Pelee Days in T-minus 2 Days

This will not be a long post. This will not be a humorous post, or a well-thought out post, or even a very entertaining post. It is simply a post to say that I will be in Point Pelee National Park this Tuesday. I can't wait to see the people, the birds, to feel the energy.

Last year at this time I had hit the halfway point of my trip to Pelee. Two wonderful weeks. This year, I only get 3 days off to experience the Festival of Birds. I'll be leading my first-ever hikes for the Friends of Point Pelee, which I'm elated about. It will be a whirlwind, a brief stopover before I head back to the city. Of course, there are great places to bird here...Thommy Thompson (had a great day of birding there yesterday), High Park, Colonel Sam Smith's, Humber Bay, Thickson's Wood, Second Marsh...the list is staggering really) but none of these places will ever have the same effect on me as Pelee. My home away from home.

And of course, Happy Mother's Day.

The Bird Detective - The Inspiring Stutchbury

Just got back from Bridget Stutchbury's book launch for her second book on birds, this one titled The Bird Detective: Investigating the Secret Life of Birds. Of course, a highlight was getting my copy signed along with Silence of the Songbirds but aside from her celebrity in the birding community, Bridget is a wonderful, passionate woman who is making great contributions to the study of birds, and to bird conservation.

She has once again opened my eyes to bird-friendly coffee, which I need to start making happen in my life. I've quickly fallen into the trend of a coffee a day and I've gotta start being more aware of my choices and how they affect our North American migrants.

After watching her presentation, I hope beyond hope that she soon writes a third book on bird migration. It is unbelievably fascinating how far birds fly in such short time spans, filling the forests and skies as they travel between the north and the south. Bridget has a way of choosing a few perfect examples of how birds seem to defy what is possible for these animals to accomplish and I think it would make for a great read (after further research of course...her research in migration still seems to be in its infancy).

I highly recommend picking up a copy of her book. She's an inspiration. Really. Not only is she passionate about her work but she walks the talk. I can guarantee her ecological footprint is pint-sized. An inspiring night.

eBird - a few observations

As I increase my use of eBird, I am starting to appreciate what the site has to offer and its importance (I do think there is a bright future for this method of recording bird sightings). Of course, there's nothing like having regional coordinators and Alan Wormington of the Pelee Birding Circle and Roy Smith of the GTA are amazing at keeping records and helping with data collection. This is obviously the best way to submit sightings as it's more personal and you can get a dialogue going around your personal records, often with great feedback like whether the bird you saw was reported around the same time, whether your sighting is record early or of significant note for the number of birds you saw, etc. And, every once in a while, they'll tell you you were probably wrong. That's often a good lesson, too.

However, eBird is a great tool. It can feel pretty impersonal but at the same time, there's just so much potential when more people use the site. Instant graphs, trends, sharing your sightings with members of your group, a place to keep your lists while also contributing to a larger database, and a much faster way of getting your list saved without having to type out every species in a word document (which I've been doing for years). I feel I need to spend a bit more time really experimenting with some of the features to get a better grasp on what the site is capable of.

Another incredible benefit of eBird is that it gets you to pay more attention when you're out there. I'm a bit of a lister at heart so I love the feeling of having not only a list for the day, but a number of lists for each location you've visited in that given day. I notice that I pay more attention to every bird I see now, and make a mental note of which species I've seen where, sometimes how many. Maybe a bit obsessive but it sure keeps me more focused (and often makes me stay out longer).

Eventually, I plan to input every list I have stored away in my records. I have lists from countless trips home in the spring, trips to Florida, to the east coast, Long Point, and countless others. Lists that all exist in hard copy as ticks on a regional checklist booklet. It'll be a long undertaking but I plan to get all of my lists I've ever kept onto the site.

Unfortunately, there are many additional features I wish eBird had. However, the site likely will have them given time and donations. One such feature for example...can I see the total number of species I reported on a given day? If I can, I don't know how to do it easily.

For now, I realized you can download your lists in an excel file, easy for copying and pasting right into Cerulean Sky. Great for posting day lists.

My lists for Sunday, April 18, 2010.

Ashbridges Bay

Species Number reported

Canada Goose X
Mute Swan 4
Gadwall X
Mallard X
Ring-necked Duck 2
Lesser Scaup X
Greater/Lesser Scaup X
Long-tailed Duck X
Bufflehead X
Red-breasted Merganser 8
Double-crested CormorantX
Ring-billed Gull X
Herring Gull X
Iceland Gull 4
Common Tern X
Rock Pigeon X
Mourning Dove 1
Belted Kingfisher X
Northern Flicker (Yellow-shafted) X
Eastern Phoebe 1
American Crow 2
Tree Swallow X
Black-capped Chickadee X
Brown Creeper 3
Golden-crowned Kinglet X
Ruby-crowned Kinglet X
American Robin X
European Starling X
Chipping Sparrow 1
Field Sparrow 1
Song Sparrow X
White-crowned Sparrow 1
Dark-eyed Junco X
Northern Cardinal X
Red-winged Blackbird X
Common Grackle X
Brown-headed Cowbird X
House Finch 2
American Goldfinch X

Total: 38

Lakeshore Blvd E & Leslie Street

Red-tailed Hawk (Eastern) 1
Ring-billed Gull x
Rock Pigeon x

Leslie Street Spit (Tommy Thompson Park)

Canada Goose X
Gadwall X
Mallard X
Greater/Lesser Scaup X
Long-tailed Duck X
Bufflehead X
Red-breasted Merganser X
Double-crested CormorantX
Killdeer X
Ring-billed Gull X
Mourning Dove X
Belted Kingfisher 1
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker1
Northern Flicker (Yellow-shafted) X
American Crow X
Tree Swallow X
Black-capped Chickadee X
Ruby-crowned Kinglet X
Hermit Thrush 1
American Robin X
European Starling X
Song Sparrow X
Swamp Sparrow X
Dark-eyed Junco X
Northern Cardinal X
Red-winged Blackbird X
Common Grackle X
Brown-headed Cowbird X
House Sparrow X

Total: 28

Colonel Sam Smith Park

Mute Swan X
Gadwall X
Mallard X
Blue-winged Teal 1
Green-winged Teal (American) 1
Bufflehead X
Red-breasted Merganser X
Red-necked Grebe 9
Western Grebe 1
Double-crested CormorantX
American Kestrel 1
Killdeer X
Ring-billed Gull X
Mourning Dove X
Tree Swallow X
Northern Rough-winged Swallow X
Barn Swallow X
American Robin X
European Starling X
Red-winged Blackbird X
Common Grackle X

Total: 21

While Driving

Canada Goose X
Ring-billed Gull X
Rock Pigeon X
American Robin X
European Starling X
Common Grackle X
House Sparrow X

Total: 7

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?

When a House Finch Sings

On my walk to work, I pass a stand of large evergreens abutting an abandoned lot, a former Kodak factory my colleague tells me. The lot is surrounded by a chain-link fence wearing a barbed-wire crown, a jail of twisted metal. He says that there are poisonous chemicals in the land now that will take years to clean up properly, toxic leftovers from manufacturing film. There is little sign of any cleaning being done. Mountains of steel, cement, and rubble on brown dirt; on a rainy day, tears falling on mud. All of it a lonely wasteland, somehow beautiful, an empty lot left orphaned by the digital age.

However, inside are signs of returning life. Green grasses press through gray cement, saplings tremble skyward, shaking like a newborn lamb, a squirrel finds shelter in a broken, rusty pipe. And birds sing.

In the evergreen stand, a male House Finch, deep red splashed over dull brown, alights onto an open branch, testosterone boiling, a single-minded purpose of a mate and offspring. He opens his conical bill, head back, throat vibrating, and emits a stunning series of warbles and whistles, steady tempo descending. His drab counterpart appears, male and female together, a promise of new life.

On this empty street, the song releases a cascade of childhood memories, a soundtrack to my reminiscence. Other avian music has a similar effect. The song of the Horned Lark takes me back to my farm, heat bathing fields of wheat and hay, desperate roots sucking dry dirt, dust twisters, shimmering haze on the horizon. The hoot of the Great Horned Owl moves me back into my childhood bedroom, lights out, crickets chirping, moonlight through the screened window reflected on a Jurassic Park poster, stacks of books, a baseball glove, and muted noise from the television down the hall.

The House Finch takes me to another place. A private gasp, I stop, my eyes closed, and let the nostalgia wash over me, my mind now back in Wheatley in the early 90's, my grandpa's backyard in a small suburb, mid-July, big hot sun beaming in a large blue sky, parents at the picnic table drinking coffee, discussing town gossip, church sermons, hard times; us kids running through a sprinkler, wet grass between our toes, lemonade on our laughing tongues, carefree.

The memory of my grandpa is so vivid. For a brief moment I forget his passing, the three years of his body failing, the dementia and the pain. Instead I remember Saturday mornings, feeling tiny in his big navy GM Pontiac as he drove us past the four corners where Talbot and Erie Street intersect, Chimney Swifts twittering overhead, electrical wires black with starlings, a right turn to the Car Barn for breakfast. Him and I would sit at the same table every week, he smiling at the waitress and conversing with his friends from the Odd Follows Lodge or the Wheatley Legion, me a child clasping a perspiring glass of cold orange juice surrounded by old age, getting lost in the deep voices of proud men and the smell of coffee, eggs and bacon, boisterous talks of unions and pensions, taxes, crop sales, sports, doctors appointments, wives and grandchildren, politics, and changing times.

After a drive down the old #3 highway along Lake Erie, we'd head back to Leroy Street and I'd spend the afternoon with my grandma, cleaning the house and watching the melodrama unfold in afternoon soap operas or television judges presiding over small-claims court, a breeze steadily breathing into the living room window past billowing white curtains, the distant sound of a lawnmower. I was always mesmerized by my grandparents' bird feeder outside their back door, a palette of primary colour: Blue Jays, cardinals, and goldfinches. Sometimes an Indigo Bunting or a Ruby-throated Hummingbird would fly in and I'd yell excitedly for my grandma to come look; she never once missed the bird.

In the backyard, away from the little shed I always found mysterious where my grandpa kept his tools, avoided for fear of a hornet sting, I watched the martin house he cleaned every year to stop the House Sparrows from moving in. Above, Purple Martins, true aerial acrobats, streaks of violet zipping here and there over the lawn, catching insects and darting back into their nest box; below, an American Robin hopping through the grass, a sudden lunge, a tug-of-war with an earthworm, a juicy morsel, the bird's brick-red breast feathers concealing the muscle, straining; and in the evergreen stand abutting the yard, a male House Finch singing and singing.

Then, a truck drives by and just like that, I'm torn from my memories, now fading; a pile of discarded McDonald's cups at my feet. I continue my walk to work and I'm happy for my childhood and simpler times. In the distance, I see skyscrapers, the CN Tower, a labyrinth of streets and highways, corporations, small business, diverse communities, and those crucial little pieces of protected natural land. Dizzying opportunities in a great city, I can't help but appreciate it all, this vastness that surrounds us, our constant struggle to leave a lasting impression, to better ourselves and our city, and the experiences that make us who we are, that connect us. I smile.

A day of blunders

No force in heaven or on earth could have brought anyone out into the monstrous weather of Saturday, March 13th in Toronto. A sensible (sane) human being would have taken one look at the weather forecast and hid in fear under warm covers, sanctuary, subsequent comfort and a content smile under a mountain of warm sheets, hours passing dreaming of a summer afternoon, green meadows, rainbow flowers, wet footprints evaporating on poolside flagstones, birdsong and cicadas.

Instead, Mark Field and I (for his sake, I will conceal his identity and call him Jeb from now on to protect him from mockery, and perhaps shame, from his family and friends) stumbled out into the morning grayness, two dopes with high hopes, the thought of new spring migrants tugging at the centre of their bodies, moving them forward against reason's will. Environment Canada predicted 30% chance of showers until 10a.m., then onto 90% by 10:01a.m., and then the y axis of the graph just wasn't high enough, percentages only going to 100, you see. We tried other weather stations to see if perhaps the dependable EC could be wrong, but all other reports just told readers to not be stupid and stay inside.

Our morning began with a missed bus. Heavy with gear, we ran toward the bus screaming out to the driver who, in seeing a fumbling pile of binoculars and galoshes approaching, looked back from his rear-view, eyes wide with horror, foot to the pedal, tires of the bus squealing sending exhaust and sharp stones into our faces as it peeled out of High Park station. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly but that's certainly how it felt. We trudged around High Park, waiting for the next bus that would eventually take us to our destination...or past our destination rather, as we missed our stop. We had arrived, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Lambton Woods.

From a large bridge overlooking the park, we could see a trail next to the Humber River, which on any other day innocently winds through the park with calm, clear water where folks take peaceful canoe rides and Mallards rest on its surface, raising cups of tea to their beaks and discussing poetry. Today, the river looked like something out of a disaster film, brown raging waters filled with dead things and debris. I looked for destroyed homes floating by. Daring to overthrow science's studies of human intelligence, we decided, since we could see no other trails, to descend down a muddy rock-slide that seemed to connect to the river-abutting trail at its base. Our boots now weighed down by mud clumps and slashed by razor-sharp rocks, we finally were able to start birdwatching. Not even a starling was present.

Dedicated, we persisted. Eventually we found signs of life: a robin, a few chickadees and juncos, and 2 White-breasted Nuthatches. Our spirits rose infinitesimally. We saw Mallards and pigeons. We got colder. The sky grew more ominous. We grumbled. I felt something moving around in my rubber boot and figured one of my toes must have fallen off. I started to look in my pockets for paper and a pen to scribble down my will. Jeb searched his bag for a flare gun and rescue.

And then, we arrived at a spot that made the day at least somewhat worth the battle. A little oasis out of the wind where I immediately saw my first grackle of the year (second actually, but Jeb missed the first one I saw so I'll just pretend this was our shared first). House Sparrows and Mourning Doves abounded, both Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers popped out, giving a great size comparison, a Red-tailed Hawk flew over, my first Red-winged Blackbirds made an appearance, some Blue Jays flew through, and a Song Sparrow, bringing light to an otherwise dark day, lived up to its name and sang its heart out. The despondent dirge of the morning lifted for a time. A short time.

The weather decided to test us even more. After picking up a couple of American Black Ducks for our day list at a small pond at the park's north entrance (small pleasures), we took a break to have a coffee, a bite to eat, and to count our day list. The day list tally taking perhaps 3 seconds to complete, we took off for Humber Bay Park, a bizarre decision that only a deranged lunatic could possibly make. Rain falling in horizontal sheets, we dashed to the subway to catch another bus. The driver muttered something at us as we slopped off the bus, two wet rats on a death march toward the unforgiving swells and waves crashing against the lakeshore. Not a bird could be seen except a few mangled gulls struggling against fierce winds, sending bloody feathers in all directions.

Freezing rain like shards of broken glass pierced our faces and punctured our eyes, the salt of our tears burning raw skin. Rushing water raged at our ankles, a car was lifted off its tires and sucked into the maelstrom. I expected a cow to fly past in the wind but didn't see any. I may have heard a distant, terrified moo though. Still we fought onward. It may be that with these strong east winds, the ducks are taking shelter in the western bay, I suggested. I looked over my shoulder to see if the grim reaper was looming behind me. Then we reached the breaking point. That time where you finally realize what you're doing and where you are. Reality sets in and even the birds can't keep you going. You think to yourself, alright even I think this is crazy.

Standing between us and the next section of the park was a wide expanse of brown muck. Already sopping wet, we decided to try to cross it rather than swing back all the way around the trail we had just came from. Always the gentleman, I let Jeb cross first. Then, thinking my brain had finally snapped, Jeb started shrinking before my very eyes! Wait, not shrinking...sinking. I looked down and saw wet mud oozing over his boots. I pushed forward to try to lend a hand and found myself now sinking into the mud as well, a mad image entering my mind of a dog-walker sauntering through the park in the spring, tripping over the rib of one of our half-buried corpses, decaying faces still stuck in grotesque sneers, the dog beginning to chew at the fleshy remains of my skull. I took out my cell with plans of calling my mom to tell her I loved her before the mud went over my head, my hand still grasping the phone above the ground, its signal lost in the storm. By some miracle, we finally trudged through nature's death trap and dragged our bodies inch by inch back to the park's entrance.

Somehow, beyond belief, we managed to continue birding. Every atom in the universe was telling us to stop but my right hand was twitching for more year birds...and by golly we actually saw some. Our hands frozen to our binoculars, we found Trumpeter Swans, Long-tailed Ducks, Gadwall, Mallards and American Black Ducks, American Wigeon, Common Goldeneye, Bufflehead, Red-breasted Mergansers, and Herring and Ring-billed Gulls. Finally giving up, we made our way to the streetcar and called it a day, looking forward to the next chance to birdwatch, no situation too awful to ever stop the insanity.

Our day's list (in no discernible order):

Ring-billed Gull
Mallard
Canada Goose
Northern Cardinal
Blue Jay
Dark-eyed Junco
Black-capped Chickadee
European Starling
Rock Pigeon
Mourning Dove
Hairy Woodpecker
Downy Woodpecker
American Black Duck
Killdeer
House Sparrow
Common Grackle (FOY)
Red-winged Blackbird (FOY)
Song Sparrow
Red-tailed Hawk
Common Goldeneye
Gadwall
Trumpeter Swan
Mute Swan
Long-tailed Duck
Red-breasted Merganser
American Widgeon (FOY)

Total Species: 26

Running Year Total: 61 (pretty measly but I missed the month of January...didn't even birdwatch once during that month!)