We sleep till the last minute. Sleepily, hubby makes a pot of coffee and
fills our travel mugs. I slap together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We’ll
eat in the car. We grab our gear and head out.
No getting up early enough for the morning constitutional, no stretching,
no waking up first. We figure a short walk in
the woods, the Nature Center with restrooms open, a no brainer all around. It’s our first trip with the local bird club
to Middle Creek. We’re ready for some easy entertainment.
After the parking lot gathering, the meet and greet, we set
out high on anticipation. The morning is misty cool and softly lit. There is nothing better than quiet
camaraderie with people, sans small talk, and beauty everywhere. Meadows glisten with rain from yesterday’s
storm. We wander through the grasses and
wildflowers
 |
| pphotography-blog.blogspot.com/20212/01/loosestrife |
as dew and raindrops tickle our arms and legs. Fields of color explode before our eyes like
exotic ground fireworks, a spike of Goldenrod here, Purple Loosestrife there
and off in the distance, a patch of pink Joe Pye weed. Our guide begins calling out birds as he spots
them.
“Goldfinch,
hummingbird, cardinal, downy wood pecker.”
We’re right with him, binoculars up. Yes! Cormorants perch on stumps in a pond far in
the distance, wings stretch out, drying in the sun. Nothing we haven’t seen before, but it’s
wonderful to be here.
“Over there, juvenile bunting, little bit of blue…or a male
with breeding colors fading.”
I see it; marvel over new knowledge.
Then up to the woods, climb the hill slowly, looking,
looking. Not so pretty up here, lots of
mud. Shoes getting wet. No birds. Is it really possible to walk this slowly?
Wait, what is that? Sounds like the rasp of a big bird. Oh, the guide is making a whistle-whisper in
an attempt to flush out birds. I lower my perked up eyes and ears and look
around sheepishly. No one noticed my
newbie-ness; they are all looking through field glasses.
Two hours later, it’s a hot, humid, steamy day in the
Pennsylvania woods. We’re still on the same trail. The 30min trail. We’re going slowly.
S-l-o-w-l-y.
The man ahead of me has
interesting pants, pockets everywhere.
He has black straps all over his back and chest with handles and hooks,
packing bottles, books, thermos, and binoculars. Is he spending the night? With all those harnesses he looks like a
service dog.
“Oven bird on trail to the left,” guide says.
Five people lean left and block my view. The big powerful binoculars
I am so proud of now feel like they weigh 20lbs. Arms and shoulders tightening, I trade with
Jay; his binoculars are lightweight.
“Ovenbird, now to the right.”
Six people move right, one steps on my toe. We smile and excuse each other. I move purposely off the trail for a better
view and pocket man points to poison ivy five inches from my foot. I move back quickly, to my no view spot, and wish I had pants with
pockets full of anti-ivy wipes. I can’t maneuver into a good position, or spot an
ovenbird. I can’t even spot the trail as the field of view in these tiny binos
is microscopic. My back hurts. My feet hurt.
My whole body wants to break out into a strong hike. Standing in place
is strenuous.
The trail opens up into another
meadow and we hear the guide calling, warbler.
Thank goodness for movement! We all jockey for position. Again, I’m in the back watching all the
birders with big guns look first. It’s
rather pointless to try with this wretched little pair, anyway. Hubs and I listen to talk about wing bars and
yellow and song and finally the experienced decide the little bird is a Canada
Warbler. Once identified, the crew
begins looking in other directions. I
move in. I look and look. And look and look. The guide watches me and suggests ‘follow the
dead tree branch right here in front, turn left, follow the vine up and the
bird is at 9 o’clock’.
Which dead tree branch, there are hundreds? Which vine, there are thousands? Is the tree top the clock face, is the whole
tree a clock face? A woman birder sees
my blank staring and gently moves my binocular laden hands slightly to the
left. She points and encourages. She points again. And again.
I must have birding dyslexia. My eyes
are locked, and so is my body. I’m frozen,
arms raised, neck cocked, head thrown back, hands gripping a pair of tiny
binoculars, and sweating. Oh the
sweating! Minutes pass. The woman shifts her weight around, despairing. The guide makes uncomfortable noises and moves away. She persists.
I imagine whispered prayers “Please God, let her see something…anything …and let her think it’s the warbler.”
And then there it is, a little yellow bird wearing a black
dotted necklace. Whooeee! A tiny squeal escapes my lips and the woman
breathes in sheer relief. I grin and
sense her smile in response even as my eyes remain glued to the lens. Amazing this extra sensory perception birders
possess. My first Carolina, uh, I mean
Canada Warbler sighting.
After more very slow walking, a chucking sound thrills me. Oh, it's just the guide making noises
again.
An hour later we’re grouped in front of a cluster of trees. Walnuts covered in wild grape, poplars, and
pines. The guide calls out bird after bird: Nuthatch, Redstart, oriole,
catbird, titmouse. Warblers. The experienced ones are all mumbling happy
nonsense, seeing things. I frantically
search with minuscule binoculars, spotting leaf after leaf after leaf. I glance at hubs; he’s not paying attention,
shoulders slumped and head lowered, his binos dangle uselessly mid-belly. He’s given up. Or the weight of those high powered hunting
binoculars is pulling him down.
Good golly, when will this end? My
back kills. My legs are numb, can’t feel my feet except for the mud and slop
covering them. I can't lift my arms.
My neck feels broken. I need to find the
girl’s room. Much to my delight, someone
says peewee and I picture an outhouse in the woods. Pocket pants pulls a thermos from his leg and
drinks. The handsome man next to me
notices my pinched look and explains a Pewee bird. Don’t any of these people
have to go? How long can they hold their
coffee? And, if we don’t start walking
faster I’m going to die.
“Black and white!
Magnolia at 3 o’clock!”
What the heck is the guide talking about? Black and white what? Magnolia what? And what, for cripes sake, is the clock?
I grip the binoculars and pretend to see. I scan up and up and my lenses fog. I’ve seen my own magnified eyebrow hairs
through the lens before, am I now seeing sweat?
Peevishly, I lower the binos; rub the lenses with my T-shirt. I take off my glasses and give them a rub too,
stopping myself from asking pocket man if I could borrow some anti-fog spray. I’m
positive he has some in his leg parts. I
adjust the knobs on my binos and have another look. I see more fog. Bugs are chewing the few spots of leg skin
that isn’t numb.
“Red Eyed Vireo song again.”
I hear the song.
We’ve heard it many times during the morning and it’s still exciting. The
woods have been almost void of sound. I
usually love silence but find it a little creepy crawling through brush with
strangers and hearing no sounds.
Besides, I still hope to see this exotic sounding vireo. I never saw a
song bird with red eyes. It has to be awesome.
I’m eager to get home and look it up.
Finally, after three and a half hours on a trail that takes
30min, 20 at a brisk pace, we crest a grassy hill and I spot the best sight of
all. On the parking lot, all green with
a red ball on the antennae, our Chevy Malibu at 6 o’clock!
The guide and a few others are heading out to another place
to watch for more birds. The hubs and I
express our thanks and exchange goodbye pleasantries. I try to keep my eyes
from caressing the green bird with wheels.
We fairly fall into the car, gulp our stale coffee and inhale apples
from the backpack I forgot was on my back the
whole time, and wipe the sweat from our eyes. My back and neck may never be
the same again. Hubs is groaning
something about his back between apple bites.
At home, we look up the red eyed vireo on Cornell Lab of
Orthinolgy website, and snort. That little
brown bird is about as exotic as we are. Then we can’t help ourselves. We pull out our list and gloat over the new
birds added from this morning: Canada
Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, Scarlet Tanager, Field Sparrow, Red Eyed Vireo
(okay, we didn’t see it but they say if you hear it and someone properly
identifies the song, it counts). We
smile over all the repeat birds: cormorant, Green Heron, Indigo Bunting,
Catbird, titmouse, woodpeckers, song sparrows, cardinals, goldfinches, orioles,
robins, catbirds, flycatchers, nuthatches, wrens, bluebirds, jays,
swallows. We lust after the birds we
heard about but didn’t see: oven bird,
redstart, white eyed and red eyed vireos, blue winged warbler, Magnolia
Warbler, Black and White Warbler, Pewee, thrashers.
We look at each other and grimace.
We simply must go birding
again!
Joyfully,
Sharon
 |
| hubs and grand daughter birding |
