stories in birding
A Week of Finding My Nature
Last week was a flash. It started with a scarlet tanager and Baltimore orioles at Croyden Creek. Continued with cedar waxwings sunning in treetops and a crying white-eyed vireo at Izaak Walton.
I took a break from the birds and learned the dance foxes do on Monday.
Tuesday I had physical therapy and rode my new motorcycle to RedGate. That's a new club idea, bikers for birds. That late in the day all I could make was the usual northern flickers and red winged blackbirds. Maybe I do know some calls after all.
Wednesday was the social. It was nice to be among peers. Admittedly, it was really nice to be recognized.
Thursday all I could remember was the edge. My friend Annie had invited me to meet her in Davis, WV as a spot opened up for the Wildflower and Birding Festival and she knew I was up for spontaneous things. I already had walks scheduled that weekend, but the leaders would understand me bailing. I don't like doing so, but this was a once-a-year thing. It's also nice to be invited.
In the few years I've been a member of MBC I've also volunteered for a few things, been elected board chair of MBCP, served on two MOS committees, and most recently been elected a chapter director. I like to give back what I've been given, and it was birding that brought me back to my true self after concussions and covid. But I was reaching my limit professionally and personally and wasn't feeling myself. It's hard to always lead. At times it's nice when others hold space for you. And that's what Annie's invite meant for me.
Luckily I was able to take Friday off and made the drive up to Davis. I was still a bit edgy, but with the windows down I was on my way. Once I passed the valley and got into the hills alone the Virginia state line I finally felt a release. Seeing the vultures ride the thermals also helped.
Annie held more than space for me. She let me unload. It's nice having another (birding) mother. We walked her dog near the Blackwater River just outside of town and tried to make out a few birds but didn't have our bins. After dinner we went to the lodge at the state Park to grab my registration packet and head the reports of the days trips. Birding was mostly a dud and I was still a bit edgy and couldn't make it all the way to end of the overlook view behind the lodge.
Saturday we were up early to head to a walk that took is almost into the Dolly Sods Wilderness, a place I hadn't been in nearly 15 years. Before we left I did make it out to the view and got a picture to remember the moment and maybe my edge subsided.
Our walk took us up an old rail line next to a creek. We were greeted by pileateds in the parking lot. Then I got a lifer, a great view at a chestnut sided warbler. The evening prior I saw one on a tile (it's what they give you as a souvenir) from a past festival and asked Annie what it was and here it appeared before my eyes!
An indigo bunting signaled our way through a farm field into the woods. Throughout the walk we were graced with the sounds of black-throated green warblers and wood thrush.
The birds were hard to see in the canopy and my neck is quick to take on the name of the invisible birds, but the ground gave us plenty to look down upon. Mayapple, jack-in-the-pulpit, flox, foamflower, star chickweed, miterwort along with tree frogs, millepedes, spiders and butterflies were all coming to life. It was spring in the mountains.
The sun decided to make an appearance after the rain failed to as we returned to the lot. The edge was gone and the weak side of my nature was fading like a shadow in the light.
That evening there was a banquet and the leaders gave their reports. They had been instructed to keep things short, but even with abbreviated lists the second day was a greater success than the first bird wise. I slept sound that night.
Then morning came and Annie was up early for the morning walk. I slept in and packed up when she returned. Before leaving town I went to see the falls named for the river. I sent pictures to my mother and sister, it was Mother's Day after all.
I hadn't felt the Sunday edge in a while, but my recent unease was bringing it back. If I took it day by day, and bird by bird, I'd be back in my true nature before I knew it.
may thirteenth ‘26
the juncos dance
They remind me of life
In a frozen falling rhythm
To go when most home
Feeding when the jay can only cry
And a crow gets lost in flight
Their cousins I call them at least
Are harder identities for me
Perhaps thats why they are my favorite
Among the sparrows I’ve known longer
But the pinkish beak
And prancing feet
Give pleasantries to a winter come
jan twenty-fifth ‘26
treehawk
The last time I was in Chestertown was over two years ago and while a fondness for small towns, historical preservation, water, and flavor-filled foods to name a few had always been present, the search for birds wasn't quite what it is today. I mean, owls, hawks, eagles, ducks, woodpeckers, had always held some sort of sway, but the serenity of morning walks for feathers and framed snapshots hadn't taken such a strong hold. Now it does any time I take to the road.
The shore has long fascinated me. The son of a navy man, born along a beach, but afraid of the open sea. And a bridge crossing so challenging the past 5.5 years triggered anxiety and pay for passage as a passenger in my own vehicle. Yet four times in the past nine days I conquered the connection. Originally, friends helped face the fear, and when you have them in between your ears and in your heart the solo roll is never alone.
I was going to be early and a quick glance of the map found a national wildlife refuge barely fifteen minutes farther. I drove to scout the area and would return to take my break there after my scheduled meeting.
Tundra swans, buffleheads, and ruddy ducks opened the gates. Over the course of a more thorough search I found at least eight bald eagles and four juveniles. Turkey vultures circled and perched. Harriers stalked and scattered our invaders from the north. Lastly, a turned head over a red-shoulder bid me farewell before taking flight, landing at a distance, and surveying my retreat.
I had found good bbq in Chestertown prior, but having removed pork from my diet, I was glad a recent encounter had brought knowledge of a worthwhile pizza pie. On the way along the side of the two lane by-way I saw a raptor take flight from afar and land four to five feet from the ground. I doubled back, hoping it stayed, to see if I could make it out.
I watched, what I believe to be a red-tailed, hop up and around a few branches. I thought I saw more than one bird between the split trunk but wasn't sure. A bluejay came close to what I couldn't quite make out and a flash of a wing frightened it off. For fifteen minutes I watched for more movement.
I wasn't sure if it was fascination or fear, perhaps both, that fueled my hesitation. There was something more to what I couldn't quite make from my eyes and bins and I had to get closer. Only this tree seemed to be on private property. Woody Guthrie would've been pissed.
I crossed the road and squatted in the right of way to get a better angle. There was definitely a raptor reluctant to release its talons. Or maybe, what feared me, it was unable to. There were no signs to return America to its once great state, but as a brown man, you may understand why I did hesitate, to drive down what I thought was a private driveway to seek assistance for our avian friend.
Luckily, the drive was a cut through, and multiple homes lined its sides distant from the tree. I turned around to get back in the right direction and parked along the edge of a ditch. Maybe it was this new found love of birds, a resurgence of confidence in my rescue abilities since taking a recert CPR/AED course the week prior, or maybe it was my inner self waiting to erupt in triumphant heroism the likes of which would make Hasselhof and Anderson proud.
It no longer mattered if this was public or private land. It didn't matter the color of my skin. They could shoot at will. I was a birder before I knew it. I was definitely one at that moment. And I was prepared to be a birder eternal.
With only my phone in hand, to document my reluctant rescue (or demise) I slowly stalked closer to the tree. The raptor was holding on perpendicularly. It was not ordinary. And as I ventured closer it gave a few wing beats. I stopped. It flew. I snapped a shot of its escape. At least it was capable and healthy.
In actuality, it was not the tree that its talons had held, but a squirrel. I came closer to the tree and I could see that it had ceased to be. Wedged between vines and brush it would not release, and so the raptor would not in turn. I took a stick, pried it loose and moved it closer to the open in hopes the hawk would return. Besides, I hadn't earned this meal, it had. And I wanted pizza.
The last time I was in Chestertown I appreciated its smallness, its history, its proximity to the water, and its flavor, to name a few fondnesses. But, what I remember most is that I came home with Covid on Halloween weekend.
This time I returned with a story to tell. And what I'm hoping is a much happier ending. Oh and pizza. I also got pizza.
dec seventeen ‘24