Tag Archives: Zeiss

What it takes to see a Northern Shrike

Beloved birders,

I think today’s torrential downpour was nature’s “payback” for last weekend’s birdy bonanza. Actually, today is the rare day when I should have just stayed home and believed the forecast, which called for nonstop rain all morning. But you see, last time I bailed on birds because of a poor weather forecast which never materialized, my group went and got 80+ Bohemian Waxwings. I have no reason to complain, since I spent part of the day playing with my extraordinary nephew, but still — 80 bohemian waxwings! That’s birding — can’t have it all!

So this morning I decided to venture out in spite of the rain because — who knows — it might just be another magical birding day, weather notwithstanding.

Well, it wasn’t. We started off in Milton, where we waited for a Harris’ Sparrow (Zonotrichia querula). He popped out a few times, but I missed him every time, and then once we were all sufficiently soaked and frozen, we opted to take a break for coffee and donuts. Back we came to find the Harris’ Sparrow who seemed to have other plans, and we had to content ourselves with fantastic looks at Common Grackles, House Sparrows, and Dark-eyed Juncos. By the time a Black-capped Chickadee flew over, I nearly jumped for joy! That said, the Grackles were in tip-top shape, the metallic blueish-purple on their heads positively gleaming — it was the only patch of color I saw all morning. Always good to be reminded of the fantastic beauty of our commonest birds.

Once we were soaked for the second time this morning, we decided to head for Saltfleet to look for Snipe and a Shrike. By this point in the morning it was pouring intensely, visibility on the highway was at an all-time low, and I gripped the steering wheel until I could see my white knuckles, wondering why I hadn’t just turned back and gone home. But then Mozart’s Piano concerto 21, K. 467 came on the radio, and before I knew it I was singing along, happy to be out, driving in a wild downpour in search of a Northern Shrike. In fact, I even managed to compliment myself on how well I was driving in dismal conditions. For those of you who know me, you know how much I *loathe* driving fast in the rain. But here I was, zipping along cautiously while doing the worst possible Mozart-Karaoke, no longer wishing I had stayed home.

By the time we saw found the Northern Shrike posing for us on a fence post, I was on to Tchaikovsky’s 1st Piano concerto and even though my coat was now drenched for the third time, I smiled and considered the day a success. I love the shrike’s black eye mask — like he’s wearing a slick pair of Ray-Ban shades. When we later saw the possible Wilson’s Snipe, which I couldn’t really distinguish from a pile of grassy dirt, I was humming along to a Schubert sonata, no longer noticing that I couldn’t feel my toes and feeling totally content that today might turn out to be a one-bird day.

Gorgeous Northern Shrike (Lanius excubitor), otherwise known as the Butcher Bird. Photo from here.

Was it a great day? Definitely not. Do I regret going out? Definitely not. The perfect Shrike sighting proved to be worth all the frozen extremities and the fact that I smelled like a wet sheep by the time I came home (Icelandic sweater + rain = worst wardrobe choice imaginable). And you know what else? I’m no longer afraid of driving through torrential rain, so how’s that for an unexpected bonus. And besides — how often do I get to karaoke to my favorite piano concerti?

On Wanting and Not Wanting

Beloved Birders!

I’ll be entirely honest here: I didn’t want to go to Long Point yesterday. The weather was dismal: flurries, freezing fog and an attendant, constant drizzle, coupled with winds and eternally grey skies. What was the point of driving the two hours to see a bunch of swans and sandhill cranes in poor visibility when I had already seen Tundra swans a few weeks ago and had seen more cranes in Arizona than I could ever have imagined. Would it really be worth it?

You’ll also be happy know, beloved birders, that I kept these thoughts to myself.

Our first stop on Lakeshore Rd yielded a dozen or so gorgeous, if prehistoric-looking, Sandhill Cranes standing in a small ditch very close to the road. As soon as I saw their facial red patch, I was transfixed. Sure, I’d seen close to 30,000 of them in Whitewater Draw a few months ago, but cranes never get old, especially the way they parachute down from the sky, exhibiting the kind of celestial grace I can only ever aspire to in ballet class, when I see my own jumps in the mirror end in unsavory thuds.

Shortly thereafter we heard the bugling calls of the Tundra swans, a bit of cacophony on its own, but when you know it signals the advent of Spring, the sound becomes a sign of something larger, more majestic, and you delight in it, over and over and over again (and they are incessant).

These are the birds I had expected to see — Long Point never disappoints this time of year — but I still wondered if it was worth the drive.

And then we stopped at Lee Brown’s to scan the small pond and I saw a sight I couldn’t ever have imagined. Hundreds of American Wigeon — with their platinum mohawk-streak — both in and out of the water, waddling on the grass, in the company of Wood Ducks. We scanned for Eurasian widgeon, but it was not to be. In the water, I saw more Ring-necked Ducks than I’d ever seen before — I can now safely ID them because of the white patch on their side which looks like a sideways whale (thanks for the tip, Mary!). And there were Redheads and Northern Shovelers and Northern Pintail, which I loved all the more because I could ID them. And later we stopped in another place and picked up all three Merganser species, Scaup (lesser & greater though I couldn’t tell those apart have no fear — I”m not yet ready to change my brand to Intermediate Birder Extraordinaire) along with a bonus Bald Eagle.

On our drive back home we decided to make a quick stop at RBG in Hamilton/Burlington, where a particularly cooperative Ross’s Goose was reported. To be honest, I didn’t really want to stop there either because I’ve never been a Goose-Gal if you know what I mean. I love warblers and even raptors and woodpeckers and wrens and most things, but geese leave me cold, so I didn’t see what the possible big deal about a Ross’s goose could be. (And who was Ross anyhow? Ah, turns out he was Bernard R. Ross, a 19th Century budding naturalist who worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company in the Northwest Territories; he was ultimately responsible for considering the Ross’s goose as a distinct species and later donated all his specimens to the Smithsonian. More on Bernard R. Ross anon.)

Again, I kept my opinions to myself. Once we arrived at RBG, and I laid eyes on the stupendous, and utterly bizarre, diminutive Ross’s goose, for which there exists no other adequate descriptor than CUTIE, I understood. This is a goose like no other. A miniature Snow goose, a strange otherworldly creature amidst the gaggle of Canada Geese, he stands out, proudly and defiantly. There he was, grazing on a little hillside, with the Canada Geese who were almost twice his size. What was he really thinking that this sight could look remotely normal?  

(The fabulous photograph comes from here.) There was something fantastical and extravagant about this smallish goose walking proudly amidst giants.

I couldn’t have imagined a better way to end the day.

Oh but there WAS a better way to end the day: we finished off at Colonel Sam Smith park, where we picked up the King Eider (juvenile, sadly), a Red-necked grebe, long-tail ducks, and brought our waterfowl count to a record-breaking (for this beginner birder) 25 species.

Thank heavens I never listen to myself in earnest when I don’t WANT to do something. As with writing, there is no WANTING. One just does it, ploughs ahead, shows up, and the rewards are colossal (some of the time).

The Perfect No-Shrike Day

Beloved birders!

Some days just work, even when you wake up and the weather network says -11 degrees Celsius, and you put on an extra sweater and head out anyway. On your way you notice that it’s 6:45 am and it’s light out, and for a minute you fear you’ve read the time wrong, but no. It seems that the light has snuck back, miraculously.

Before you know it you’re standing in Lasalle Marina, staring at a Wood duck, wondering how nature created such a thing. It dawns on you that you first saw a wood duck in this very place three (or was it four?) years ago. You’ve seen other wood ducks since, and they’re all marvellous, but the Lasalle Marina wood ducks hold a special place in your heart. There’s something about site fidelity — not just the birds’ but your own as well; you’re an incorrigible creature of habit. Waterfowl abounds here: canvasback, redheads, common goldeneye, red-breasted mergansers, and a lone American coot. You even see a pair of overexcited mallards engaging in some early spring canoodling. Your feet are freezing, but you know there’s a Carolina wren singing somewhere in the thickets and you won’t stop until you see it. It turns out the repeated triplets — some say it sounds like teakettle or Germany — are sung by a stunning pair of cinnamon-colored beauties with light polka dots on the wings with a gorgeous cream-colored eye-stripe. They spent their time ducking in and out of the thickets, hopping from branch to branch. Nearby, a brown creeper makes his way up a tree-trunk, and by this point you can no longer feel your feet.

You cash in your free coffee win at Tim Horton’s (you could have won a Honda civic, but you already have a car, so what would you do with two when your husband can’t even drive? A free coffee turns out to be better than a car), eat a few timbits and off you go to Hamilton/Burlington, where you catch a glimpse of an Eastern screech owl in a cemetery, and then head up the mountain where you’re rewarded with gorgeous views of an American kestrel, killdeer, a northern mockingbird and a completely unexpected northern flicker. There were other highlights of the day, including a Peregrine falcon hanging out in its usual place on the lift bridge, a white-winged scoter, a yellow-rumped warbler and a possible eastern meadowlark.

Mind you, the day wasn’t all perfect: we saw numerous leaf-birds and branch-birds and twig-birds. At one point someone mistook the meadowlark for a rough-legged hawk. The northern shrike we chased all morning had other plans today and was nowhere to be found. And yet even in its imperfection — warts and all — there’s nowhere else I would have rather been instead.

And throughout the day, the most comforting soundtrack accompanied us: the song of a red-winged blackbird. It’s my spark bird — this raspy yelp (I think it’s an anapest) that has now become synonymous with spring.

Balmy February

Beloved birders!

It shouldn’t be 15 degrees celsius in mid-February. -15 would have been more like it, but our 2017 new normal is quite different. That said, Toronto finally saw some blue skies and bright sunshine, and I suppose that’s reason enough to celebrate even though there’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind reminding me that balmy temps in mid-winter are probably the sign of an oncoming apocalypse. OK, the tiny voice is pretty loud most days. What can I say — I’m of Eastern European descent and we are not optimistic people.

That said, birding is forcing me to rethink my relationship with optimism. It’s hard to think the glass is half empty when you wake up in the morning to see the horizon dotted with pink, only to recognize that spring is just around the corner and the days of rising in the dark are over. It’s even harder to imagine a glass half empty when you drive out to Burlington/Hamilton and see a rufous phased Eastern Screech owl peeking out of its familiar tree, looking all puffy and perfect. And it’s damn near impossible to contemplate a half-empty glass when you’re standing in the open fields somewhere above Hamilton or Dundas or Grimsby (that area is like the Bermuda triangle for me — I lose all sense of orientation) and you hear Horned Larks tinkling in the fields along with Snow Buntings and exquisite Rough-legged and Red-tail hawks soaring above.

And then you find yourself up near a quarry and everyone in your group sees a Peregrine Falcon but you miss it because your attention is directed elsewhere and you simply don’t look up in time. You’re a bit miffed because everyone goes on and on about said Peregrine for a while, but you let it go, eventually. And then just as you park your car at Humber Bay park before heading home, you walk along a muddy path and come face-to-face with a PEREGRINE FALCON who seemed to be perched on a snag, just waiting for you.

And you marvel at the serendipity of things and the unexpected warmth and light of February and who knows, maybe birding-optimism will trump Eastern European skepticism and general malaise? I’m still mortified by what spring weather in February means for the state of our planet, but I’m willing to bracket that fear and just bask in the beauty of birds and sunshine.

 

On Finding the Duck

Beloved Birders!

The unbelievable has happened. I read Ontbirds, the birdy listserv, saw that a Histrionicus histrionicus (Harlequin duck) was lurking in nearby waters, convinced the Mister that his life goal on a frigid Sunday afternoon was to see said bird (okok, I bribed him with coffee at Birds and Beans cafe — thank GOD for geographical happenstance), and off we went, AND I FOUND IT!

Yes, beloved birders, I had to scream those last four words because I am not accustomed to such turns of fortune. I’m usually the one who sees what I want to see rather than what’s in front of me, or make egregious misidentifications (mistakenly calling a Green heron an enormous hummingbird, for instance). Very — tremendously rarely — am I the one who actually sees exactly what is written on the bird listserv!

Not only that, but I also helped others find the duck. One photographer came in super handy because he took a great picture, showed it to my husband who was having a hard time distinguishing the Harlequin from the flotilla of greater (?!) scaup. My directions didn’t seem to help much either: JUST LOOK FOR THE GORGEOUS ONE! THE ONE YOU’D WANT TO BE IF YOU WERE A DUCK!

Photo from here. Photo by Andy Johnson. Seeing two Harlequins side by side like this would be a dream come true. Nothing of the sort happened today. I saw ONE Harlequin lazily dozing amidst a couple hundred Greater (or lesser, who knows…) Scaup. But then he put his head up and I swooned. The duck with the greatest fashion sense ever.

Let’s just say the photo helped. Anyhow, once he saw the duck, my husband agreed with me. It really was a bird worth putting on three layers of clothes. We also saw gorgeous, sunlit Redheads, Common Goldeneye, Buffleheads, Hooded and Red-breasted Mergansers, and a lone White-winged Scoter. And then, we thawed our freezing hands and feet at Birds and Beans cafe, over delicious coffee, spinach empanadas and breakfast cookies.

There do exist those rare days when everything happens according to plan. And let me tell you, they’re marvellous.

Winter Birding

Beloved birders!

There’s no better way to deal with winter than to embrace it full-on. And by embrace, I mean go on an 8 km walk looking for waterfowl and owls in Tommy Thompson park with the good people of the Ontario Field Naturalists. Had I checked the weather report, I might not have gone on the outing — -10 celsius, plus wind. I put my woollens to work (basically, two layers of everything) and set out before reading the weather forecast.

And…the weather was bracing. I met up with over 20 other intrepid, fabulously winterized birders and off we went. Highlights of the day included a gorgeous Northern Pintail duck, an American Widgeon, a King Eider (sadly not in gorgeous adult male breeding plumage, but what can you do), White-winged Scoters, and a Mockingbird that struck me as deeply confused because he was IN the water, pretending to be a duck. Birds are weird creatures. There seems to be no other way to say it.

The greatest peril of the day wasn’t freezing my extremities, as I had feared. Oh no, it was trying to bite into a rock-hard, frozen granola bar and nearly breaking my tooth in the process. But near-injuries aside, the day was a success. Three species of mergansers, a gorgeous Red-tail hawk, and the other usual winter suspects. The numbers weren’t spectacular, but it felt so good to be out in the semi-wilds of Toronto, binoculars in hand.

The beautiful, sunny winter day wasn’t without a tinge of sadness: I learned from my friend Anne-Marie that Don Barnett, fabulous birder, and the person who introduced me to the Christmas Bird Count, passed away. I didn’t know Don well, but I have fond memories of his encouragement, exemplary generosity and empathy back when I was a total novice who still couldn’t tell a Chickadee from a nuthatch.

(In other news, it appears that Anton Chekhov traveled back to Moscow from Sakhalin Island by way of Ceylon, where he acquired a mongoose with whom he lived for two years before donating the animal to the Moscow Zoo. This sheds light on a whole different side of Chekhov. The Chekhov-Mongoose terrain seems rich and positively bursting with potential meaning.)

Hello Mincing Mockingbird (Bring on 2017!)

Beloved Birders,

For those of you following me on Twitter, you might know that I had a momentary, yet profound crisis in November when I realized that the Sibley wall calendar did NOT have a 2017 iteration. I’ve lived with the Sibley calendar since 2010, roughly when my birdy nerdy ways began, and couldn’t really imagine how I’d cope without one. In my mind, David Sibley can do no wrong (except for that minor misstep when he chose the CANADA GOOSE as the September bird, and my birthday month began on the wrong note), and his calendar has become a critical part of my home-office decor. I searched for a replacement for the Sibley and eventually settled upon an Audubon calendar, but let’s face it, it wasn’t SIBLEY.

Yesterday, I went to my mailbox to find the most amazing gift: a MINCING MOCKINGBIRD wall-calendar by Matt Adrian, whose bird art blows me away. Check out this majestic Snowy:

Matt Adrian's Snowy Owl. From the Mincing Mockingbird wall calendar.

Matt Adrian’s Snowy Owl. From the Mincing Mockingbird wall calendar.

Now imagine a calendar with 12 such glorious images. And that’s what I received from a friend in NJ when I was least expecting it. In a way, the gift summarizes 2016: unexpected gifts in the midst of, well, all sorts of, world politics which started resembling a dystopian world more and more.

But in the midst of everything, there were extraordinary highlights:

  • A trip to Israel, where I met my wonderful relatives and their 45+ feline creatures and realized that my marriage can be summed up by the phrase “the steppe buzzard and the little bee-eater.”
  • A pair of hand-knit socks, made from wool called BLUE TIT, no less, from an amazing new acquaintance on Twitter
  • an introductory ballet class, where I move in fantastically clunky ways, but every so often I sense a glimmer of grace
  • an ornithology class (I’m four chapters in and currently learning the difference between pennaceous and plumulaceous feathers) which saved me on election night since I had the luxury of choosing theropod dinosaurs over the alarming and depressing results trickling in on my computer screen
  • an owl-shaped soap-on-a-rope
  • an unexpected warbler party at the banding station; watching my friends band a Snowy owl in the wild
  • multiple bird-chases that yielded a Gray Kingbird, a Lark Sparrow, among other highlights
  • wearing my binoculars more than ever before
  • seeing my first Pileated woodpecker and discovering the unexpected loss of no longer having a nemesis bird
  • watching my nephew learn to walk, “talk,” and grow 12+ teeth
  • driving the backroads in Southeastern Arizona and developing a rather keen fondness for taxidermy

It wasn’t all rosy: there were losses, from which I’m still reeling, painful rejections, spectacular failures of all and every persuasion, but that is pure evidence of living, putting myself out there, again and again.

This world is a truly strange and wonderful place, forever surprising, often devastating, and endlessly fascinating. And though I’m a little sad to retire my Sibley calendar, I’m entirely ready for the Mincing Mockingbird. Bring on 2017!

 

When a Raven Looks like a Goose

Beloved Birders,

There are some days when, no matter how you look at things, a raven looks more like a goose. It’s an unfortunate moment in time when ravens start to look gooselike, because I think it’s a sign of larger things going awry. And that’s the kind of couple weeks it’s been here in Birds and Words land. (You’ll remember that a few years ago I nearly lost it when my beloved Sibley wall calendar had a Canada Goose grace my birthday month. A friend of geese I am not. I want to tell the geese of the world that it’s not you, it’s me. But they likely won’t listen to me.)

img_0455

Sheojuk Etidlooie’s magnificent “Raven in Red” (1996) is, alas, a misnomer. Correct me if I’m wrong, but this raven looks positively goose-like. 

The good thing about time is that it passes. And what appeared to look like a goose a few weeks ago, now still looks like a goose, but without the touch of resentment.

And then before you know it you’re out in the field searching for a Lark Sparrow and you see it almost immediately, which relieves you from having to stand in frigid temperatures for more than five minutes, and the day keeps getting better because you then drive to Thickson’s woods, dreaming of owls, see none, but continue onwards to Lynde Shores — where you happen upon a field of 10,000 CANADA GEESE of all things and instead of screaming you just laugh — and find the most resplendent Barred Owl imaginable. And you’re home by noon, just in time for the day’s second cup of coffee and the pile of holiday cards that need composing, and the work projects that need attending to.

And suddenly that goose-like raven, which had offended you so gravely, now looks rather cute. And you wonder how an artist’s imagination could perceive a slick black raven in such radiant red hues. And for the first time in a while, you smile, in earnest.

Naked Birding

Beloved Birders!

Alas, nothing risqué going on here in middle-aged birder-land at Birds and Words. The title is a slight misnomer, since all it really means is that I went birding yesterday and forgot my binoculars in the car. I could have perhaps gone back to get said binoculars, but I was also desperate for coffee, and given that the forecast was 100% rain, I let the actual birding take a backseat to the coffee quest, which felt nothing short of essential.

Anyhow, I birded sans binoculars, essentially by GISS (general impression, size and shape), and none of this was too difficult since there were almost no birds around Ashbridges Bay yesterday. Bufflehead, long tail ducks, mallards, a gazzillion chickadees, northern cardinals, a downy woodpecker. I probably missed a few ducks and a few sparrows, but I wasn’t too concerned.The skies had darkened, it was about to rain, and I didn’t feel like I was missing all that much anyhow. I thought about what a boring morning it was, but also recognize that boring mornings are a healthy phenomenon too. The highs of chasing after birds are naturally followed by ho-hum birding experiences.

And then right when I got to my car, a red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) swooped down and grabbed a rat in its talons and absconded with said beast. I watched the hawk fly to a nearby tree and ran to get my binoculars from the car. And there he sat on a low tree branch, a dozen meters away from me, feasting on his (her?) mid-morning snack. How very civilized to watch a hawk delighting in his elevenses.

Not the Red-tailed hawk I saw. This is perhaps the most famous Red-tailed hawk in North America, New York City's Pale Male. Photo from here.

Not the Red-tailed hawk I saw. This is perhaps the most famous Red-tailed hawk in North America, New York City’s Pale Male. Photo from here. The hawk I saw had a darker head and the stripes on his breast-band were more pronounced, but the rat was very much identical. I am no rodent-watcher so cannot (yet) comment on the singularity of rats. The tail on yesterday’s rat was a little perkier, however.

As I watched the hawk up close — saw its cinnamon tail with a black band near the tip, the dark rusty band no its belly — and watched him disembowel the rat and dig its hooked beak deep into the rodent’s body, there was suddenly nothing whatsoever ho-hum about the morning. It had turned into a riveting spectacle, and reminded me that there is absolutely nothing cutesy and pretty about nature. Fierce, primal, vital, a manifestation of raw energy. But maybe that’s a better way to describe nature after all.

Mug Chasing

In addition to chasing birds, I’m always out looking for the perfect cup of coffee. I seem to have found a favorite at Birds and Beans café, and that’s the Nicaraguan Wood Thrush coffee blend. Armed with the coffee, I started chasing the perfect mug.

Earlier this summer, I had tea at my good friend Kerry Clare’s house and had the good fortune to drink out of a mug made by Diane Sullivan and decided right then and there that any morning coffee experience would be incomplete without a Diane Sullivan mug of my own. The stars finally aligned one weekend in September (which also happened to coincide with my birthday month—surprise!) when Sullivan exhibited her work at the Cabbagetown Craft show. So off I went in search of the mug I had held at Kerry’s house, and found a different but equally formidable mug of my own. The shape is perfect, the stencil reminds me of William Morris designs, and the size suits my daily dose of coffee consumption. My Nicaraguan Woodthrush morning coffee has found the ideal home.

My new mug by Diane Sullivan. It's empty because I drank my coffee too quickly. Wouldn't you if you were drinking out of this beauty?

My new mug by Diane Sullivan. It’s empty because I drank my coffee too quickly. Wouldn’t you if you were drinking out of this beauty?

I used to think that a mug was a mug was a mug – kind of how I had once erroneously assumed that all ducks were identical-looking creatures. How impoverished that former life of mine now seems! There is nothing wrong with buying mugs from Target, but I now think there’s something deeply amiss with the person who not only has generic made-in-China mugs but also walks by a congregation of ducks without giving them a second’s thought and operates under the assumption that they’re just ducks.

It’s hard for me to imagine my life when I hadn’t paused to consider the difference between a Bufflehead and a Mallard, or a Harlequin (Histrionicus histrionicus!) and a Wood duck! I suppose that’s what life is all about, really: the pleasure of learning to see the detail of things. And it’s a good reminder to me not to judge other hobbies or interests that I find dumbfounding: even powerlifting competitions have their share of fascinating moments, stylistic quirks, technical variations. And I say this having just sat through a 7-hour powerlifting competition in Oakville, where Mr. Birds and Words won a silver medal and lifted insane weights. His 255 deadlift would have seemed massive to me even if it had been in pounds, but the fact that the weight was in kilograms made it all the more superhuman. I’ll admit that the day might have been a colossal disaster and might have caused a rift in our marriage had I not been in the presence of the perfect latte (purchased at Kerr Street Café) and Ann Patchett’s Commonwealth (purchased in the amazing Archetype Books), whose meticulous prose not only saved me from stultifying boredom, but also reminded me to pay attention to every single detail.

Thank you Diane Sullivan for elevating my morning coffee experience to new heights, and thanks to Kerry Clare for setting the ideal-mug-chase in motion in the first place.

Now if only I could find an American Woodcock…

American woodcock. My chase continues.

American woodcock. My chase for the ideal bird continues.