The Reluctant Twitcher (4 page)

I used to have a little birding group and the older ladies loved me. They all turned out for my bird walks and asked questions about the sparrows, chickadees, and jays. Once, they organized a little get-together at one of their homes so we could all admire the baby Chipping Sparrows in the nest outside the hostess's kitchen window. Just my luck, moments before I arrived a Blue Jay swooped in and devoured all four nestlings rapid-fire, and apparently with untoward gusto, before any of the horrified ladies could rush out and save the day.

Photo by
Jean Iron
.

Blue Jay. Algonquin Park. Though aggressive, noisy, and fond of baby
birds, Blue Jays are gorgeous creatures.

I had some trouble explaining this one, I can tell you. No suitable apology for the now reviled Blue Jay was forthcoming. I spoke at some length about the beautiful plumage, but they weren't having any of that. I ended up taking the path of least resistance and admitting that the Blue Jay was a nasty, even depraved, avian. But secretly I still liked them, and I do to this day. Sure they can be “bad actors” when viewed anthropomorphically, but then what bird can't? The ladies all loved to watch the Turkey Vultures circling lazily high above on the thermals. But did I tell them why the vultures have bald heads? Or mention their breath? Get serious. Why turn them against yet another species.

Anyway, I suddenly realized I was going to have to look at a lot more than Blue Jays and other commoners if I was going to do a Big Year. My serene existence as a non-entity was shattered. I would have to become an entity, a somebody — and not just in muffler shops like before. Could I live up to it? I knew I had to.

Away with abject thoughts of failure, deep humiliation, and possible physical beating. No more brooding upon my bleak lot. Maybe for once I'd get lucky. I might even find a few really good birds. Imagine if I found Ontario's first Spangled Drongo! They might even name it after me —
Drongo
ontariensis popei
. I'd be famous.

Damn it all! I'll show them. I'll throw down the gauntlet.

I am committed.

Let the drama begin.

2
The Pecking Order

For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

— A
LEXANDER
P
OPE
,
E
SSAY ON
C
RITICISM

N
OW PEOPLE ARE REALLY GOING
to hate me. Who am I to do a Big Year? People hate pretension.

“I wonder what makes Pope think
he
should do a Big Year.”

“Who cares what Pope sees?”

“Pope's a geek.”

“Who the hell is Pope?”

Joy birding is out. Now I really have to worry about misidentifications — one or two on the Internet and you're dead meat. One mistake in the field and some bloody rookies are going to start thinking they're better than you. One in front of an expert and it's all over. Your reputation will be in tatters. That's why I like to study each bird, not just take a glance at it and go off half-cocked, though this, too, can backfire.

One day I'm having a very nice time by myself on a country roadside scoping an obliging Grasshopper Sparrow on top of a mullein — really studying the bird. The bird has no forehead at all, and what a nice little white eye-ring. I am happy, confident, on top of my game. There aren't many of these sparrows around today and I'm glad to find one. I feel good about it. You want a scarce bird, old Poper'll find it for you.

A car pulls to a stop behind me and someone gets out. Darn. I keep my eye to the scope. Maybe the person will go away.

“Got something good there?” a voice asks. A treacherous question.

My answer will, of course, depend on who is asking. If it's someone I'm better than, I can say, “it's a Grasshopper Sparrow” and start lecturing on field marks. But if it's Glenn Coady or someone, you don't want him to think you consider the Grasshopper Sparrow a good bird. What to do?

I glance over and my blood runs cold. Oh, my God, I can't believe it. It's Kenn Kaufman! I've seen his picture in books. I should have stuck to solitaire. I was quite good at it.

I must at all costs not let Kaufman think I am bogus. “You mean, you don't want Kaufman to
know
you are bogus, you fraud,” says an unpleasant voice. My confidence is sinking fast.

It's too late to run for my car.

“What have you got?” asks Kaufman again, cleverly concealing deep underlying malice and suspicion.

I fight back a panic attack. My Grasshopper Sparrow suddenly seems piddling and uninteresting. I could say I had a Brambling or a Fieldfare but it has just flown way off out of sight impossibly far away and has been hit by a Goshawk, but would he buy it?

I blurt out the truth. “Nothing at all, really. Just an ol' Grasshopper Sparrow. I saw him on the fence and decided to check him out.”

“They seem to be extremely common here,” says Kaufman in mock innocence. “I've had forty six in the last quarter mile.”

I'm tempted to say, “Is that all?” but instead I say, “Yeah, they're almost garbage birds around here. I'm seeing them, like, everywhere.”

“No bird is a garbage bird,” says Kaufman sternly.

I am racked with contrition. I despise the term myself. I only used it to impress him and make him think they were nothing to me, but now instead I've made him hate me worse. And I so wanted to get off on the right foot.

I glance at him and by mistake I make eye contact. I see what he's thinking and it's terrible. I feel like I'm before the Truth and Reconciliation Committee, only with no hope of reconciliation. It's like looking into the eyes of Desmond Tutu. I want to fall on my knees and embrace his shins and tell him I am a fraud and a shyster. I may even mention the Crispy Crunch I stole in 1947, though I've spent a whole life paying for it in guilt.

Kaufman begins to shift from foot to foot. He is watching my eyes. He fears he may be dealing with a madman. “Let's see your bird,” he says.

For the first time, I suddenly realize that it might not even
be
a Grasshopper Sparrow. What if it's a female House Sparrow or an antshrike or something? Oh, God, if only it would fly away. What's the matter with it? Is it stuck to the top of that mullein or something? I sneeze loudly. The bird hangs tough. I have a coughing fit. I try to knock my scope down into the poison ivy, but Kaufman is onto it like a jungle cat. How long, oh Lord, how long?

“Thanks,” I say. “Clumsy bugger, aren't I?”

“I do it all the time, but don't worry. I'll put the bird back in your scope for you pronto.”

Photo by
Sam Barone.

Grasshopper Sparrow. Carden Alvar. Foreheads do not come flatter.

Nos morituri te salutamus
, I say to myself — We who are about to die salute you.

Kaufman stares at the bird. “You dirty, lying snake,” he says.

Well, it sounds like, “Oh, that
is
a nice Grasshopper,” but I understand his true meaning. Oh, yes. Don't think I don't. He smiles. I search the corners of his lips for faint quivering — the sure sign of fighting back an incipient sneer.

“You wouldn't know a Grasshopper Sparrow from a watermelon,” he continues, masking his speech under the English sounds for “I really like the little guys.” But I am a linguist and understand him, even though he tries to encrypt his speech.

“Bogusness is rife,” I say to him. “Forgive, forgive, Master.”

Perhaps if I tear off my shirt and hurl myself down into the poison ivy, maybe stuff a couple of handfuls of leaves down my craw, he'll let me off.

“Thanks for the look,” replies Kaufman.

“I do a lot of work with orphans,” I say feebly.

As he turns to leave, he sticks out his hand and says, “The name's Kennn.”

“Kenn?” I say.

“No, Kennn. I'm Albanian. Enver Kennn. Just started birding. The Grasshopper's a lifer for me today.”

“You mean you're not …”

Suddenly I recall that Kenn Kaufman is dark, bearded, tall, and lean — something along the Lesser Yellowlegs line. This guy is blondish and clean-shaven, shorter and more heavy-set — closer to the Dunlin style. I could have been lording it over him the entire time. I am just about to review the field marks of the Grasshopper Sparrow for the guy, when I suddenly understand the deception. Dunlin. Dunnlin. This is all part of some bizarre test. No, of course it isn't Kenn Kaufman. Nor is it Enver Kennn. It's Jon Dunn! Kaufman has sent him here to sucker me into some minor descriptive error. If he asks me anything about the remiges, I'm outta here in a flash.

I smile weirdly and Dunn suddenly makes a break for his car. Probably going for his laptop to spread the truth on “Birders' Exposé” — this just in. pope entirely bogus.

“Funny little tail, eh?” I cry out as he speeds away. “Nice breast!”

Oh, dear. I hope Dunn didn't think there was anything odd about me.

I am devastated, but I see the lesson in all this. I must be super careful all year lest my enemies rejoice. Make it hard for those who loathe pretension to expose me — earn my place in the pecking order, so to speak. Better a pecker than a peckee.

So much for stress-free birding.

3
The Rules

Scooby weeWEEtee zitZEEzer chup chup dooby oowah

— C
ROCKMAN'S
S
PARROW

P
ERHAPS
, I
THINK NAIVELY, SINCE I
don't even really want to do a Big Year, people will at least cut me some slack and show some understanding.

“Going for 339, eh?” says Carley, pandering to my worst fears. So much for understanding. Three hundred and thirty-eight is the magical record number for a Big Year in Ontario achieved by Glenn Coady in 1996. They say it will never be equalled, let alone beaten, and I do not doubt it. I am appalled that someone might think I even want to beat it. I'd kill myself if I got to 337. All I hope to do is have a little fun, chase a few birds, and try to see three hundred in the year. But now if I come in with a mere three hundred or so, I will still be seen as a failure and loser. Oh dear, oh dear.