The Reluctant Twitcher (11 page)

But my spirits remain high. Hugh tells us three or four hundred of his favourite limericks. Carswell unknowingly encourages him; even writes a few of the more scabrous ones down. In revenge, I get Hugh onto lawyer jokes of which he has an inexhaustible store and we all have some good laughs, particularly Hugh. Lawyer jokes somehow become a fixture on the trip. True, Bob does not find the wit quite as sharp as Hugh does and does not beg for more, but then Bob is a lawyer and may even have heard some of them. It is a long trip for him.

As expected, I get a new bird even on the first day. Hugh tells us when to start expecting Brewer's Blackbird and several telephone poles later we see our first of many. The area around Desbarats has lots of them. Oh, man.
Brewer's Blackbird
(256)! I'm on a roll already.

My spirits are only slightly dampened by the flirtatious and ultimately dastardly behaviour of a King Rail at Pumpkin Point Marsh before the Sault. This is a fabulous marsh with an excellent viewing platform from which we see many good birds, but no King Rail, though we hear him. Oh, yes, we
hear
him, repeatedly, all around us. We try to sucker him out with tapes, but no deal. He plays coy. He isn't interested in being seen. After frequent near misses almost right underneath us — as he keeps changing sides — we give up and I have to relegate this bird to my heard-only list, where it will remain. Damn!

Things go further downhill at our motel near Wawa. It has Internet service and we log on to Ontbirds. Indecently quickly, after my departure from Cobourg, Margaret has posted a Glossy Ibis in the area. My heart soars with joy for her. I cry myself to sleep.

Saturday June 16 we have lunch in beautiful Rossport then motor on to Atikokan, where we stay in the old hotel, a favourite of mine, particularly because of the breakfast — and Hugh loves the price. My old friend, Dave Elder, comes and has breakfast with us and gets us all revved up. No mega-rarities to report, but he tells us exactly where to see many of our desiderata. My only fear is that they will all be like the Cobourg Laughing Gull — too easy. I like a four-to-five second wait to add a little frisson of angst to the kill.

By noon on Sunday June 17 we are west of Fort Frances and heading west along the Rainy River Road. I feel good things are about to happen. They do.

Off to the left over the river we see our first of myriad
American White Pelicans
(257), making my later sighting at Cootes Paradise in Hamilton somewhat less thrilling. Then we stop to check a field and I have a
Sharp-tailed Grouse
(258) fly right by me. Sadly, Hugh and Bob are down the road the other way and do not get this bird, but we do see others on the ground at Rainy River. After a quick cry, we press on.
Black-billed Magpie
(259)! We all see it and then scores of others. Ditto for
Western Meadowlark
(260) and
Franklin's Gull
(261). By the time we reach Budreau's Oak Grove Camp, which is to be our base, I have five new birds for the day, which puts me right on schedule. These five plus Brewer's Blackbird mean I only have to see fourteen more in three and a half days, not counting the trip home.

On Monday June 18, I only see one new bird; at least it's a good one —
Piping Plover
(262). We hear from Dan Lee, who is also staying at Budreau's, that there is a nest on a sand island off Windy Point. It has apparently been marked off by the MNR. We hire a boat to take us out and drop us on the point, which is only just possible because of the wind; the name Windy Point does not turn out to be a misnomer. After a brief distraction ogling the many Yellow-headed Blackbirds and Franklin's Gulls, we ascertain that indeed there are no Piping Plovers on the point. However, we do see what looks like a marker on the last of a series of flat, sandy, windswept islands just out of scoping range. Getting there could be dangerous. The wind is howling and the water rough and white-capped. While trying to make up my mind whether or not to go for it, I turn to consult with Hugh and am shocked to see how white his legs look; he already has his pants off. I hope he can swim. Oh, well, he must float (sorry, Hugh). We anchor our clothes and scopes and set off, having both left statements for the police and loved ones with Bob, who is happy to stay on the point. Many of the birds there are new for him this year and he does not
need
Piping Plover the way Hugh and I do.

It is rough going — hard on the feet and hard to lift a foot without being blown over. It is a further trial to be swarmed by hundreds of gorgeous Franklin's Gulls in full breeding plumage in dazzling sunlight and wind as we pass the first sandy islands, but we cope. A surfeit of beauty can be fatal, you know. As we approach the last island, we stop and scan it. Sure enough there is a yellow marker and the nest nearby in the sand. We can see a Piping Plover sitting on the nest, eyeing us closely. We immediately indulge in a round of high-fives. I do not stop to ponder what the plover makes of two semi-naked senior citizens standing up to their knees in water in a typhoon making high-fives, but it is at this point in the trip that Carswell starts locking his door at night. Hugh and I do not go a step closer, especially with all the gulls around. We take a long careful look and turn around. How Brother Currie stays upright is beyond me, but somehow we both make it back.

Monday evening Carswell and Pope briefly assume panic stations. We hear a cry of horror from Hugh's bedroom. We rush to the rescue and find him pointing at a tiny dark reddish spot moving along his arm. “It's a tick,” I say. Brother Currie is not amused. I execute the tick and we are able to go to bed, though Hugh imagines ticks crawling on him all night long. This is the first of many ticks attracted to the
Reisefuehrer
, though Bob and I have no problems. I tell Hugh he's a tick magnet. This also does not amuse him. Days after our return, he locates a tick bite with an aureole behind his knee and has to undergo a round of antibiotics. Mosquitoes love him, too.

Tuesday June 19. No new birds. Carswell nearly drowns in Fred's Marsh and we neither hear nor see a single Yellow Rail or Le Conte's Sparrow. The deep water in the fields is all the result of recent rains. The whole area suffered a severe drought in May and the rails have given the area a pass this year. May they roast in hell. They are nowhere to be found. At this stage I'd gladly crush a hundred baby rails with a steel cable just to glimpse one. So much for my fears of attack-Yellow Rails.

I must qualify my statement that we did not see a single Le Conte's Sparrow. While Bob was swimming back to the car, I did flush a small sparrow which flew ahead of me and over toward Hugh and disappeared in a low island of shrubbery. Hugh thought it might have been a Le Conte's, but after careful searching, all we found was a Clay-colored Sparrow at the spot. Hughie fell to brooding and said nothing else.

Wednesday June 20. No new birds. It is a dirty, windy day. Dan Lee generously takes us around to all kinds of little-known spots and the best we can do is hear one Connecticut Warbler — and only just. Dan is amazed because he has been seeing all kinds of them. Are we, then, the kiss of death? If they are dripping off the trees, it is only on the back side of the spruce bogs this year. The bird I didn't chase at Colonel Sam's flies back to haunt me. Only later do I learn that a determined Fred Bodsworth spent several weeks in June trying to see a Connecticut north of Lake Superior in spite of being eighty-eight and having cataracts on both eyes. He had to settle for a small shape speeding low across a road. I didn't feel so bad after hearing that. We weren't the only ones. And at least I have one more for my heard-only list.

Things seem rather grim. We have to take Bob to the Thunder Bay airport by noon on Thursday and I'm stuck at 262. I am a loser. Hugh talks about spending more time on Scrabble and bridge in the future. He wonders what's happening in the obits. Bob speaks of all the wonderful birds we are seeing. He seems to have lost perspective.

Thursday morning, June 21. We have three hours before heading for the airport. We discuss what to do. Hugh says he wants to return to Fred's Marsh. Bob, who has been unable to acquire a wetsuit, is not all that keen, but Hugh insists.

“Why?” I ask.

“Le Conte's Sparrow,” says Hugh. “I think that was a Le Conte's we saw on Wednesday.”

“But we chased that bird and it was a Clay-colored.”

“That was a different bird,” says Hugh. “I saw the one you flushed, flying, and I think it was a Le Conte's.” It's been keeping him awake at night.

Well, Bob and I realize we'll never hear the end of it if we don't go, and we have no better prospects anyway, and since Bob is happy to bird the surrounding dry area, we head off. Humour the old guy, you know. Poor old Hughie.

I start up the centre of the drowned field, and halfway across, right where I flushed the bird before, I hear a Le Conte's Sparrow. Hugh was right! I know this call and I also know that if I hear it well, the bird is close, damn close. I freeze. The singing goes on. I search desperately. I take down my bins and see the
Le Conte's
(263) seven metres in front of me perched on some bent grass just above water level — probably by a nest. I signal Hugh. He stares at me. He puts up his bins and I mouth “Le Conte's,” and point ahead. For a largish man he does zero to sixty rather quickly and comes charging through the paddy, cutting a swath like a startled rhino and leaving a considerable wake behind him. I desperately signal for him to stop as he approaches.

Photo by
Jean Iron.

Le Conte's Sparrow. Rainy River. Though hard to find, the beautiful
head pattern of these birds makes the search worthwhile.

“Where is it?” he asks.

I point right in front of me and he sees it. Victory is ours and it is sweet; sweet enough to hold us all the way to the Thunder Bay airport where we part with Bob. It was a good trip, eh Bob?

Bob made the right move flying home. Hugh and I drive back the long northern route through Nipigon, Geraldton, Hearst, Kapuskasing, Cochrane, and Timmins, and fail to find Olive-sided Flycatcher in 3,477 perfect bogs, including a desperation last-minute visit to Wolf Howl Pond in Algonquin, where the bird is usually hard to avoid. And Bridget Stutchbury thinks
her
birds are in trouble. Also, no Hawk Owls, Great Gray flybys, or anything else for that matter. Oh, yes, we do
hear
Pine Grosbeak, which gives me a third heard-only bird — big deal.

So, I'm at 263 instead of 275. Rainy River was thin like Thickson's Woods this year; just my luck. Hugh says I probably won't make it now. It's virtually all over. But I secretly still have the bit in my teeth. We'll see.

10
Making It Happen

Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

— A
LEXANDER
P
OPE
,
A
N
E
SSAY ON
M
AN

J
ULY 1 AND
I'
M STILL
at 263, twelve birds behind my self-imposed schedule, and Hugh says things are looking bad. Okay, I've got to make it happen. I shall not allow myself to suffer ignominy and shameful defeat without a battle. It'll be like an exam in high school; I'll let on I'm not even really trying any more, but go like hell behind the scenes.

Northern Goshawk
(264, July 6, Kilbride). These birds have bred on my Haliburton property for years, but do you think they are around this year? Ha! They've disappeared without trace or reason, unless they are in on some kind of conspiracy with the gods — not to be ruled out, the way things are going. Hugh says we should try for the bird seen at Kilbride, where there's supposed to be a nest and the bird is terrorizing local kiddies. Sounds very hopeful. At least it has food and may stick around.

We arrive, park at the described spot, and immediately see an empty nest in a big white pine, but I know it's not a goshawk nest. I head up the road while Hugh roots around in the back of the car with one hand, keeping the other free to ward off the hordes of mosquitoes that have already found him. God knows what he is looking for. I hear a Gos just off the road. I wave madly to Hugh who arrives, running, in full equipment featuring a very substantial bicycle helmet. He looks like an entrant in a roller derby. We head in, for some reason with me in the lead. Just as we spot her — a seemingly huge immature bird — she makes her first pass at us. I expect Hugh to step up to the plate and take the first hit, but he rather cravenly hunkers down behind me. I feel the rush of the wings. She circles.