really know what you’re seeing until long after it’s gone. Only when you’re hunkered in front of your field guide looking at page after page of photographs that may or may not accurately reflect the variances among every sub-species, can you sometimes rule out what you thought you saw in favor of a more common bird. In the beginning, that can be a little defeating, but in the long run, real birders come to realize their skills are sharpened by the exercise, and at some point you realize you’re not in it for a prize. There are awards nationally for Most Birds Spotted, but if you’re watching birds for a prize, I’ve always thought you’re kind of missing the point.
IDing had gotten easier with the rise of the internet, but it still wasn’t as simple you might think. Fights broke out among bird nerds online all the time over sightings of rare birds—even over whether or not you should post photos of them. The argument was that poachers or miscreants would use your information to find the beauties. Personally I didn’t know much about the wild bird poaching trade, but I resolved myself today to keep my photos from this Big Year to myself; or at least to share them exclusively with my birding pals.
No, this trip was just for me. I’d bought a paper journal just for the purpose. It had a silhouette of a sparrow on the cover, and was decorated with the names of different birds. The pages were blank, lined and trimmed with a sweet birdie icon. I wasn’t sure what I would write in it, other than lists of birds spotted, but I didn’t rule anything out.
I’d parked at the Falls Interpretive Center and flipped through Dad’s layout while I ate my muffin, washing it down with whole milk. Didn’t have the heart to do the chocolate milk now. The Ohio was up, meaning the famous fossil beds in the falls were off-limits today, but that was okay with me. I’d be sticking to the woods, mostly, anyway. I left Dad’s book in the car and took just the essentials.
I took the path through the woods, excited as the memories returned. Wildflowers climbed up tree trunks. It was early spring and flowers that wouldn’t bloom for another month up in Chicago were already attracting hummingbirds here.
I met a few hikers and fishermen on the path. We exchanged smiles and waves, and then I was out of trail. A floodwall rose to my right, and the river swelled to my left. Gravel and boulders formed a sort of rough path through the forest floor, so I left the park trail and climbed over driftwood, slowly making my way among the trees to a large flat rock the size of a farm tractor.
I sat on the stone, letting the warmth of the sun stored in it heat me to the bone. I watched the river, snapped a few photos, and jotted the names of birds I saw. The music of the songbirds and the rushing water pacified me. I might have napped if I’d brought something cushy to lie on.
In the journal I added:
Bring blanket
Have Dad’s book digitized
I’d brought a garbage bag, and when I was ready to leave, I pulled it from my pocket. I knew I couldn’t clean up the whole of the banks of the Ohio River, but I’d never been birding when I didn’t regret taking some trash away with me for proper disposal.
Two beer cans and an old shoe later, I came across the origami bird. A barn swallow watched me from a branch, and I snapped his photo. As I stuck my phone back in my pocket, I reached for what I thought was another piece of trash—and realized what it was.
“Now, how do you like that?” I asked the swallow. He chirped and flew away.
Chapter Fourteen
Laurie
I painted the outside of the letter, folding it first into a bird shape, then washing it gently with brown and gold watercolor pigments. Carefully, with India ink, I drew the heavily lined eyes of a wren.
The puppy tugged at my shoelaces with his teeth. “What should I call you? Silly Ass Dog? What’re those initials? ‘SAD’? Forget that.”
The puppy flipped
IDing had gotten easier with the rise of the internet, but it still wasn’t as simple you might think. Fights broke out among bird nerds online all the time over sightings of rare birds—even over whether or not you should post photos of them. The argument was that poachers or miscreants would use your information to find the beauties. Personally I didn’t know much about the wild bird poaching trade, but I resolved myself today to keep my photos from this Big Year to myself; or at least to share them exclusively with my birding pals.
No, this trip was just for me. I’d bought a paper journal just for the purpose. It had a silhouette of a sparrow on the cover, and was decorated with the names of different birds. The pages were blank, lined and trimmed with a sweet birdie icon. I wasn’t sure what I would write in it, other than lists of birds spotted, but I didn’t rule anything out.
I’d parked at the Falls Interpretive Center and flipped through Dad’s layout while I ate my muffin, washing it down with whole milk. Didn’t have the heart to do the chocolate milk now. The Ohio was up, meaning the famous fossil beds in the falls were off-limits today, but that was okay with me. I’d be sticking to the woods, mostly, anyway. I left Dad’s book in the car and took just the essentials.
I took the path through the woods, excited as the memories returned. Wildflowers climbed up tree trunks. It was early spring and flowers that wouldn’t bloom for another month up in Chicago were already attracting hummingbirds here.
I met a few hikers and fishermen on the path. We exchanged smiles and waves, and then I was out of trail. A floodwall rose to my right, and the river swelled to my left. Gravel and boulders formed a sort of rough path through the forest floor, so I left the park trail and climbed over driftwood, slowly making my way among the trees to a large flat rock the size of a farm tractor.
I sat on the stone, letting the warmth of the sun stored in it heat me to the bone. I watched the river, snapped a few photos, and jotted the names of birds I saw. The music of the songbirds and the rushing water pacified me. I might have napped if I’d brought something cushy to lie on.
In the journal I added:
Bring blanket
Have Dad’s book digitized
I’d brought a garbage bag, and when I was ready to leave, I pulled it from my pocket. I knew I couldn’t clean up the whole of the banks of the Ohio River, but I’d never been birding when I didn’t regret taking some trash away with me for proper disposal.
Two beer cans and an old shoe later, I came across the origami bird. A barn swallow watched me from a branch, and I snapped his photo. As I stuck my phone back in my pocket, I reached for what I thought was another piece of trash—and realized what it was.
“Now, how do you like that?” I asked the swallow. He chirped and flew away.
Chapter Fourteen
Laurie
I painted the outside of the letter, folding it first into a bird shape, then washing it gently with brown and gold watercolor pigments. Carefully, with India ink, I drew the heavily lined eyes of a wren.
The puppy tugged at my shoelaces with his teeth. “What should I call you? Silly Ass Dog? What’re those initials? ‘SAD’? Forget that.”
The puppy flipped
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