Snow, sleet and a Black-crowned Night Heron

I’m beginning to think I like extreme weather birding. In all areas of my life, I seem to practice extreme moderation, but when it comes to birding, I love harsh weather conditions. Today was, in all honesty, a truly dismal day. A fine mixture of snow, rain and gusts of wind accompanied us on our venture out to Humber Bay Park where for a long time, we saw absolutely nothing, and marveled at our sanity for going out in such inhospitable conditions in search of (you guessed it) owls. And then, we noticed a brown mound up in one of the spruce trees that turned out to be a juvenile Black-Crowed Night Heron (Nycticorax nycticorax)! The bird also has the best sounding Latin binomial, but that’s neither here nor there, perhaps just a good mnemonic… Here’s a photo by the venerable Tom Grey, though the bird we saw was slightly more beige in coloring and was perched up on a tree, looking totally lost and confused to still be on the shores of Lake Ontario instead of flying through warmer climes…

I hope the bird survives our winter (such as it is)! We saw a majestic Herring Gull (Larus argentatus), which looked gargantuan as it towered over the horde of Ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis). And mergansers and Gadwalls (Anas strepera) and Bufflehead all bouncing about in the waves. There were other folks in the water, but my eyes were watering, the wind was ruining my hairdo and my waterfowl ID skills (such as they are) suffered on account of the natural conditions. From Humber Bay Park we drove to Kipling Spit, saw nothing apart from a lone Mockingbird, and were nearly flattened by the wind.

Weather aside, the morning couldn’t have been better. The day actually began with a trip to Toronto’s best-kept coffee secret, Birds and Beans, where I bought two pounds of Brazilian coffee beans, ate what literally tasted like a bowl of oatmeal in the shape of a cookie (YUM!), and had a fantastic cup of strong coffee. In fact, the weather conditions brought us to Birds and Beans twice this morning! Once before and after the Mockingbird sighting. The coffee shop really is spectacular, with close-up photos of birds lining the walls. I sat under a luminous Indigo Bunting and it made my day.

Overly caffeinated, we set out for our last stop, the Humber Arboretum. It’s a good thing we didn’t peter out after the Mockingbird, because things really picked up at the Centre for Urban Ecology, which not only sports a tremendous bathroom with an elaborate eco-friendly flushing system (would that all bathrooms were so environmentally savvy) but also has a fantastic bird-feeder outside!  We saw scores of chicadees, goldfinch, house finch, a glorious downy, and — the piece de resistance — a Redpoll (which I’m not 100% sure I actually saw, but I know it was there).

Alas, no owls today, but we had an unexpected find, a few great looks at birds I’ve already seen but also had a chance to forget, a couple astounding cups of coffee and a great day, all in all.

On my wall

It’s the beginning of January, and I’ve acquired yet another bird calendar. This year, I opted for Roger Tory Peterson over the usual, sensible Sibley calendar (I still love Sibley, don’t get me wrong, it was just that the somewhat unsightly idea of having a Canada Goose — of all possible birds in the universe — grace my birthday month saddened me a little; hence the change). I’m not disappointed in the least, since September 2012 will be the month of Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus).

Not bad, Roger Tory Peterson! I’m delighted to spend 2012 with you!

 

Happy Smew Year!

Yes, dear birders, we were supposed to see a Smew (Mergellus albellus) here in Toronto this morning and… you guessed it. Sadly, the Smew was gone before we arrived at Whitby Harbour, but in its place I finally made eye contact with a glorious  Snowy Owl (Nyctea scandiaca)! My first Snowy owl ever! (remember? Last year, I spent a good hour and a half looking for a Snowy in a white field, and all I saw was snow!) What a perfect way to end 2011.

I saw a great close-up of the bird (our fearless leader brought a scope!) and watched the owl rotate its neck 270 degrees. The Snowy looked almost like a mechanical toy! It would have been great to catch a glimpse of the Smew, but I wasn’t as disappointed as John Vanderpoel must have been. JV is finishing up his Big Year and the Smew would have brought him into first place! He’s currently at 743 (+1) birds for the year and flew into Toronto yesterday morning to add the Smew to his list. Alas, it was not to be and by 3pm he was en route to Arizona to get a flycatcher of one sort or another. Good luck, John! (Information source: friendly and highly knowledgeable birder [with a charming British accent and a scope] whom we met in Whitby; same birder who wished us a HAPPY SMEW YEAR!) Honestly, the lack-of-smew didn’t disappoint me as much as it would have if the smew in question had been a MALE. Now, here’s a taste-test for you (hint: the male is at the top of the picture):

We continued onward to Thickson’s woods and saw a tremendous Mockingbird sitting atop a tree (a few minutes later, we caught the same delightful Mockingbird chasing a fat Robin). And a Downy, and Chickadees, and Starlings, and a Tree Sparrow (I think!). I forgot to mention the exquisite Buffleheads (Bucephala albeola) and Red-Breasted Mergansers (Mergus serrator). We stopped for a delicious breakfast at Scrambles (“Where Ajax meets for Breakfast” and you should too…), located across the street from a rather unfortunately named diner called Daddy’s Little Grill.

Happy New Year everyone! May 2012 be a happy, healthy, bird- and word-filled year!

Razorbill!

You’ll never guess what I saw this weekend in Niagara on the Lake? (I suppose the title of the post gives it away, but the sighting remains monumental nonetheless.) A Razorbill (Alca torda)! This bird is a coastal creature and makes its home in the Atlantic ocean. Who knows, it probably got confused and mistook the St. Lawrence river for the ocean and eventually ended up on the shores of Lake Ontario and the Niagara river! Quite the momentous sighting:

Well, I’ll be honest with you — I didn’t quite get a penguin-esque view of the bird. On Saturday, he was swimming around diving for Lake Ontario delicacies (to each his own!). It ended up being a thrilling day, in spite of tenuous beginnings. At one point, I was beginning to fear that our most exciting sighting was a 10 pound brown trout!

This past Saturday was an important Gull day, as it turns out. The Who’s Who of the Ontario birding world were out in the field with their binoculars and scopes and blackberries! At one point, we were trying to distinguish the Thayer’s Gull from a normal gull (apparently the Thayer has a darker eye) and someone screamed, “Oh My God! There’s a Kittiwake at Whirlpool!” And before I could assess what was happening, we piled into the car and sped down the road toward Whirlpool to catch a glimpse of the Kittiwake, which looked suspiciously like every single other gull flying below. People stared intently and every so often someone would narrate, “see there between the trees, yes black plumage on the tail, flying down below, on a raft up again toward the tree, hiding, back out again yes there oh look oh it’s definitely a Kittiwake, no wouldn’t mistake it for a little gull, no way, oh what a beauty,” and after a while I zoned out and pointed my binoculars at the group of people on the shore below us, on the American side of the whirlpool and found myself wondering whether they had enjoyed their Black Friday shopping experience and pondered what their Turkey must have tasted like.

I didn’t see the Kittiwake (Rissa tridactyla). But it was wonderful to experience the Niagara area off-season, in mid-winter light. Verdict: Gulls are worse than sparrows which are worse than hawks in terms of my ability to distinguish them. Difficulties aside, it was a marvelous day.

Obsessions

I’m obsessed with how we describe home, how we gravitate toward home (no matter how far we attempt to run), how we define home, and all the difficulties that lie therein. I think (and write) about these things constantly and just came across an essay by E.B. White, who phrases his own homecoming so exquisitely:

What happens to me when I cross the Piscataqua and plunge rapidly into Maine at a cost of seventy-five cents in tolls? I cannot describe it. I do not ordinarily spy a partridge in a pear tree, or three French hens, but I do have the sensation of having received a gift from a true love. And when, five hours later, I dip down across the Narramissic and look back at the tiny town of Orland, the white spire of its church against the pale-red sky stirs me in a way that Chartres could never do. It was the Narramissic that once received as fine a lyrical tribute as was ever paid to a river—a line in a poem by a schoolboy, who wrote of it, “It flows through Orland every day.” I never cross that mild stream without thinking of his testimonial to the constancy, the dependability of small, familiar rivers.

Familiarity is the thing—the sense of belonging. It grants exemption from all evil, all shabbiness. A farmer pauses in the doorway of his barn and he is wearing the right boots. A sheep stands under an apple tree and it wears the right look, and the tree is hung with puckered frozen fruit of the right color. The spruce boughs that bank the foundations of the homes keep out the only true winter wind, and the light that leaves the sky at four o’clock automatically turns on the yellow lamps within, revealing to the soft-minded motorist interiors of perfect security, kitchens full of a just and lasting peace. (Or so it seems to the homing traveler.)

E.B. White “Home-Coming”

Meteorological Confusion and Beard’s Birds

Birds and Words can’t get enough of weather-talk. Maybe it’s a sign that I really am an octogenarian living in a 37 year old body, but seriously, folks, have you noticed that the Weather has developed a severe personality disorder of late? It’s November 16 and it feels like spring outside! Yesterday, the sun was shining, I was wearing my (pink!) spring jacket, and happened up a conglomeration of Robins (Turdus migratorius) who seemed utterly confused by the season. They were chirping up a storm, as if it was early May and they were in the midst of hoarding food. (Speaking of Robins, my favorite non-avian who goes by the name of robin, the writer, Robin Spano, is launching her second book in her fun crime series, Death Plays Poker, and though eschews writing about birds, it’s still a great read and you should check it out!)

I also saw the cutest Downy Woodpecker (Picoides pubescens) who looked exactly like this and I thought to myself, “hey, where is that red patch on its head? What happened to the Downy I used to know and love?” And…. lo and behold, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology tells me that it’s a FEMALE (hence, less flashy). Nevertheless, a fabulous woodpecker:

There SHE is! I’m pretty sure dear female Picoides pubescens also thought it was spring-time. She kept looking up at the sky in utter confusion. After all, it was close to FIFTEEN degrees (celcius, my friends) yesterday, which is virtually unheard of in November. Other sightings on my walk included sparrows of all stripes and colors and a murmuration of Starlings.

In other bird news, Rick Wright linked to a fabulous book on his blog (which, if you’re a birder, I’m sure you already know, read and memorize) : http://www.archive.org/stream/cu31924000188999#page/n0/mode/2up. Ms. Adelia Belle Beard wrote a tremendous book in 1912 with instructions about how to make life-size, standing birds out of paper with adjustable wings! Just think — you could make your very own American Robin! She even instructs you on the correct coloration of the bird. In  her introduction, Beard emphasizes that the book can be used as a teaching (and mnemonic) tool, for adults and children alike! (No binoculars needed.) Included are endorsements from the Audubon Society and the New York Zoological Park. What would possess anybody to let such a gem go out of print?

Murmurations

Did you know that a group of Starlings (Sturnus vulgaris) is called a Murmuration? Thanks to a dear friend out West, I learned that The Washington Post recently linked to a Sophie Windsor Clive’s fabulous video that captured a murmuration of starlings.

The Post also informs the curious of other collective nouns used to describe birds: “A parliament of owls. A nye of pheasants. An unkindness of ravens.”

Nostalgia Tour

Birds and Words has just returned from a full-fledged Nostalgia Tour.

This is my old dorm, Hope College, where I lived in 1994-1995, fourth floor, fourth window from the right, for those of you who are extremely curious. I’d been resisting a trip back to my undergraduate haunts because I feared I’d have a Chekhovian-style emotional meltdown (a la Ranevskaya, from The Cherry Orchard) and would walk around wailing, “Good bye, My Precious Youth! Farewell!”

Thankfully, I managed to maintain a modicum of decorum. I will admit to one truly melodramatic outburst, which took place right as I was taking a photo of my old dorm: I wanted to share the extent of my nostalgia with a passing janitor and proceeded to tell him all about my old dorm room, how much I missed it, how much I loved my undergraduate years, and how happy I was to be in Providence again, and he responded by telling me this was the first snow fall they’d had this early in the season since 1978. No mention of my dorm room, no response to my tear-stained voice. Perhaps the world really had moved on since I graduated back in 1997.

I did go a little overboard on my nostalgia-induced shopping spree, including two pounds of freshly roasted coffee (and a mug) from my favorite coffee shop on Wickenden St., The Coffee Exchange, and a t-shirt from the Brown bookstore. I showed my husband all three dorms I lived in, the rare books library where I once worked, the music department where I played my first chamber music concert (Beethoven’s trio for clarinet, cello and piano), the library where I first read The Brothers Karamazov, the cafeteria where I ate brown rice with lentils for the better part of a year, but it tasted ok because the company was so good… I could go on and on, but even my dear husband lost interest in the minutiae of my nostalgia, so I’ll stop here.

I did squeeze in a walk around campus at 7:30 am one morning — I wanted to have campus to myself, to feel like it was mine again. The strange thing is that I found myself paying attention to things I never would have noticed as a student, 15 years ago: morning light bathing the Georgian buildings, a sparrow of one persuasion or another stopping in its path, head tilted upward, calling out to his companion, autumn leaves reddening past a brightness I recognized. The place belonged to me then, certainly, but I was also surprised to recognize that it also belongs to me now in fuller, more nuanced hues. Perhaps the passing of time has its own advantages.

We returned home via Boston and made an obligatory stop at the MFA. I came home with Audubon bird note cards (hardly surprising). Not something I would have chosen in the mid 90s, but then again, I didn’t know what I was missing.

For the future Pine Grosbeaks in my life

Literary Birders! I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on a Pine Grosbeak (Pinicola enucleator) yet, since it’s a Boreal bird, and Toronto isn’t exactly in the middle of the Boreal forest.

Here he is in all his radical red glory! This bird is reason alone to visit Alaska and the Yukon, where he regularly hangs out. The Grosbeaks I’m accustomed to seeing around here are Rose-Breasted and, on occasion, Evening.

I encountered the Pine grosbeak a few weeks ago, in Banff, in Clea Roberts’ wonderful poetry collection Here is Where We Disembark (Freehand Books, 2010). Clea is a fabulous poet living and writing in the Yukon. She writes beautifully about the Northern landscape and equally exquisitely about birds! She also has amazing taste in childrens’ socks — if you meet her stunningly cute children, you’ll be mightily impressed by the argyle patterns covering their feet! Here is one of my favorites from her collection:

Pine Grosbeaks

In February
even borrowed
colour is welcome.

Birds as red
and plump as apples
bob in the pine trees,
sharpen their beaks,
dream fine, green buds
months away.

Birds. Words. And James Bond.

Delightful Birders! I am back from the Rockies. Though I didn’t manage to ID much other than a Black Billed Magpie, I did manage to see about a thousand of aforementioned bird, and marvel at them each and every time. I also caught an exquisite looking woodpecker working his magic on a tree in Downtown Banff. I stared and stared and tried my hardest to identify some defining features, but came away with nothing but polka dots. White on Black. Or was it black on white? In any event, I think it was a Downy (as usual), but I was hoping for something infinitely more exciting. My genius bird group would have come in handy, that’s for sure.

photo by: Kirsten Alexander

My Identification problems didn’t end with birds, unfortunately. While ambling down the streets of Banff (I think I was near the intersection of Muskrat and Buffalo; all street names in Banff are, in fact, animal names) when I came face to face with what I immediately assumed was a horrifyingly large ELK. I did exactly what I was told not to do: I stared him in the eye and promptly turned around and ran screaming in the other direction. I did run, and I did let out a yelp just as a woman was getting into her car. Frantic, I told her there was a huge elk at the end of the street who looked like he was about to eat me! (I have this innate fear that ALL animals, no matter their size, are on the verge of eating me. It goes back to my childhood, but I’ll spare you the details. No, I’ve never been bitten by an animal, but growing up my parents always said “see that dog? Don’t go near it. He bites. HARD.” And being the diligent child I was, I believed them.) She took one look at the “elk” and then turned back to inform me that it was a harmless deer. What can I say — I’m new to the animal world! (She also asked me where I was from, to which I could think of no other answer than, “I’m an artist.” Our conversation went no further.)

I’ll spare you my other misdemeanors in the realm of animal IDs.

In other news, the wondrous Elif Batuman has a fabulous article  in this week’s New Yorker complete with stellar podcast — all about a conservationist in Turkey and birds (and words! and Pushkin!) in the Turkish town of Kars, on the border with Armenia. I was quite taken with her analysis of birders:

In certain respects, the lives of birders resemble the lives of the saints: the early portents, the moments of revelation, the physical mortifications, the miraculous apparitions and violent ends.

I don’t know about the violent ends, which I hope to eschew, but I’ve certainly witnessed many a miraculous apparition! What a novel idea of think of birders as types of saints. I rather like that. Batuman seems to be a font of knowledge in any subject matter; I also learned from her a fascinating tidbit about Ian Fleming, author of James Bond:

Ian Fleming, both a secret agent and a bird-watcher, borrowed the name James Bond from the author of a manual called “Birds of the West Indies.”

Who knew Ian Fleming had birds on his mind, perhaps in this very photo?!