Uncooked Birds

plucked birders

When a wit from New York City was asked how he enjoyed a recent visit to a friend’s country home, he said, “It was dreadful.  The air was full of uncooked birds."  

For me, birds are a constant source of pleasure. From the Florida Keys to Oregon, there seems to be a never-ending supply of birds I can’t identify without my Peterson, Roger Tory Peterson’s bird book.

Later, living in Key West and enjoying pelicans as I do, it was fun to predict for tourists the direction the birds face when they dive and when they come back to the surface. (At the last instant on the dive, pelicans “dump” air from their wings and hit the water facing downwind. Then they re-emerge facing into the wind, which gets their feathers realigned faster and gets them into lift-off position for the next dive.)  At my former home in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies, I marveled at the Steller’s Jays in the sunshine.  Where else can you find a radiant blue like that?  

A couple of years ago, I read about a sighting of an Ivory-billed Woodpecker in Arkansas.  There was an enormous hue and cry, with coverage in the New Yorker among other places, about a bird thought to be extinct since the 1950s. I joined the crowd, but with plenty of skepticism.  It would be very cool to find an extinct species of birds, particularly as beautiful as the Ivory-billed Woodpecker with its 30-inch wingspan.  

I love birds, but I’ve never trusted “birders,” those self-styled experts at spotting birds in the wild.
Imagine being in court with a birder on the stand.  It might go something like this:
When I lived in Portland, Oregon, I had to pass a course on goose identification so I could get a goose hunting permit.  I’d never seen half of the Northwest geese.   

When the feathers settled, there were no more sightings than the one original one, despite extensive efforts by a number of organizations. The thing is, you can go online and hear a recording of an Ivory-billed Woodpecker’s call. You can look at old photographs. So it’s not like trying to find the Abominable Snowman! The Ivory-bill once existed.

Bird or no bird, all the action focused attention on the Big Woods of Arkansas, and the Nature Conservancy’s efforts to stop development and forestry efforts in the area. As a result, a zillion acres of swamp land and cypress trees are now protected from loggers and developers—all in the name of a bird that may be extinct.

     
I can’t help feeling that the guy who said he saw the woodpecker was somehow involved in clandestine tree hugging down in the swamp.  It all had a tall-tale, backwoods hustle to it.  I’d bet a hundred bucks that the guy who says he sighted the bird is a member of The Big Woods Conservation Partnership.  Some zealots have actually tied themselves to trees and lived there to prevent logging. I admire their conviction, in a way, though I suspect they’re all crazy as loons. Did anyone actually see an Ivory-billed Woodpecker?  Doubtful.

     
My best hunting friend in high school was an avid birder. (Hunting to kill things you love is an age-old paradox.  John James Audubon killed birds by the thousands.) I knew a lot of birds by sight, but my friend knew considerably more, and it was fun to learn from him—usually. His sightings were sometimes subject to question, like the day when a bird the size of a cockroach landed in a cherry bush near our house. He instantly identified it as a certain type of wren.  The weensy bird had flitted by in an instant and landed hidden in the leaves, yet he claimed to know it, even while admitting that he’d never seen one before.  

     
On the spot he added the sighting to what he called his Life List. In an instant, the “wren” flew away, never to be seen again.  My friend was offended when I doubted him, which I’ve come to learn is standard for birders. What they say they see is gospel.  

     
One fall day my friend and I and another pal were duck hunting in a marsh near Fort Drum, Florida.  We were shooting a few ducks, some Widgeons and Ring Bills mostly. Both are easily identified.  They have distinctive wing beats, coloration and size, and we’d seen thousands over the years, so we knew them on sight—like a wino knows a pigeon.  

     
We were crouched down in a makeshift blind when my birder pal said, “Be still!  Here come some Pintails!”  Off in the distance, maybe a half-mile away, there was an indistinct formation of birds I didn’t recognize.  I could see that they were birds, but what else could they have been?  Identifying birds starts with basics like that.  I allowed as how they were too far away to tell what kind of birds they were, and my pal answered rudely, “They’re Pintails, damnit!”  His voice got that birder, lecturer tone.  He did not say, “You stupid fool,” but that’s what he wanted to say.  Our other pal said he didn’t think they were Pintails either.  They looked like Grackles to him. That got a response like, “How would you know what they are?”  We knew he couldn’t tell a Snipe from a Turtle Dove.  Things were getting tense.

     
Finally, the flock of birds started coming our way.  We all crouched down and remained still.  I blew softly on my Pintail/Widgeon whistle.  More tension as they came closer, still quite a distance away, but definitely coming.  And then they were obscured by the sun for a few seconds until…they landed in a pine tree.  Pintails don’t ever land in trees, ever.

     
Another time I was walking around on Bald Head Island near Wilmington, N.C. with Bill Hofmann, who told me he was a birder of many years, an expert.  He regularly sponsored visits by other birders from his hometown of Cincinnati to the coastal areas of North Carolina.  

     
I had made the mistake the night before at a gathering at his home. In a mild way, I thought, I challenged something he said about a specific bird. His wife lit into me like an angry mother goose.  Didn’t I know that Bill was a Master Birder? She urged me to shut my mouth, and listen. Spirits were flowing, and everyone was having a good time.  So I let it go—even though I knew I was right.

     
The next day Bill, his brother Tommy and I went for a walk along the dunes at Bald Head.  It was a beautiful clear day with lots of shore birds on the beach and in the air.  Bill was lecturing, pointing out the characteristics of a few different types of small birds rushing into and around the surf line.  I was paying close attention, not being very knowledgeable about shore birds.

     
As we came up to a rise in the dunes a bird popped up out of the sea oats, and then set its wings and glided over the back of the dune a few yards away.  Bill immediately said, “Quail…a Bobwhite!”  Just as quickly I said, “Bullshit, that’s a Meadowlark.”  Well, you might have thought I had peed on the Queen’s ball gown.  Bill snorted, and his brother said something like, “If Bill says it’s a quail, it is a quail!  I didn’t hesitate to tell them both that they were full of it, and we headed where the bird had gone a few seconds ago, to get another look.

     
As the land lay, just over the dune there weren’t any more bushes or trees for a hundred yards, just one small myrtle bush swaying in the sea breeze. Supported on its uppermost branches was the most perfectly plumed Meadowlark you can imagine.  His yellows and greys, streaked breast and touches of white were as distinctive as his yodel-like call, which he favored us with before he flitted away.  I’ll always remember that bird.  It was a fond moment for me.

     
Another time a man with a birding reputation came to deliver parts for one of our appliances.  I remember reading about his cataloguing various bird sounds in an annual bird counting event sponsored by the local chapter of the Audubon Society.

     
As this gentleman and I started talking about our stove problems I noticed that he tilted his head quickly, quite birdlike, when I spoke, like a robin on wet grass listening for a worm. (I’ve always assumed that’s what robins do when they tilt their heads like that.)  It was an amusing sort of movement for a birder.  It wasn’t long before he added another gesture, when he cupped his hand behind his ear to hear what I was saying more clearly.  (Another odd birder in my life, my younger brother, does the same two things because he’s lost hearing in one ear.) It struck me that this guy couldn’t tell the difference between the call of a tit and Common Loon!  Birders!

Defense Attorney:  Mr. Birder, as you were the single eye witness on the 14th, I am curious about an earlier statement you made about being on your porch observing hummingbirds when you heard the fight break out between the accused and the deceased.  Your testimony is the heart of the Prosecutor’s case, the keenness of your vision crucial.  You said that you observed a Calliope Hummingbird in the tree nearby.  How far away was the bird, approximately?

Mr. Birder:  Approximately 75 to 100 feet away.

Attorney:  I see.  And how large are Calliope Hummingbirds?

Mr. Birder:  About 3 inches.

Attorney:  I see.  Slightly longer than a kitchen match, is that about right?  Not quite as long as my little finger?  The smallest of North American birds, is that right?

Mr. Birder:  Yes.  Stellula Calliope is….

Attorney (interrupting):  A simple yes or no, Mr. Birder, please. And it was up in a tree, behind or within the foliage, the leaves, 100 feet away, and you were able to recognize it how?  What were the identifying characteristics?

Mr. Birder:  It was green on the top, white underneath, with green flanks.

Attorney:  What amazing vision you have!  Were you using binoculars?

Mr. Birder:   Oh, no, I didn’t have my binoculars.  It was just there for a few seconds.  I didn’t have time.

Attorney:  My research indicates that there are approximately 20 different hummingbirds in North America, of which 18 have some green on their wings.  Are you telling the court that you were able to tell, with the naked eye and at a distance of 100 feet, which of the 18 you saw, based on its having green on its wings and a white underbelly?

Mr. Birder:  Yes.  I know what I saw.

Attorney:  You’re absolutely sure that it wasn’t a female Broad-tailed Hummingbird, a Black-chinned Hummingbird, a Costa’s Hummingbird, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, an immature Anna’s Hummingbird, a Bahama Woodstar, a Broad-tailed Hummingbird or a female Lucifer Hummingbird, all of which also have at least some green on their wings and whitish underbellies?

Mr. Birder:  Yes.  I am sure.  I saw a Calliope.

Attorney:  I see. Please let the court record show that the witness is sitting in the chair with his pants legs slightly raised.  It is plain to see that he is wearing a blue sock on his left foot and a brown sock on his right. Also, please note that the witness is wearing glasses, thick ones.

Attorney (continuing):   Are you aware, Mr. Birder, that the Calliope Hummingbird has never been seen in the state in which you say you saw it, New York?  According to National Geographic’s Field Guide to the Birds of North America, the Calliope is found only in the northwestern states of the U.S.

Mr. Birder:  I know what I saw.  

Attorney:  Did anyone else see the bird?

Mr. Birder:  No.  I was alone, but I know what I saw.  

Attorney: Yes, I see. 

At this point the attorney and the prosecutor approach the bench, and the attorney addresses the judge:  

Attorney: Your Honor, this witness either has superhuman powers of observation, or he has delivered to us a magnificent whopper under oath. The prosecutor may want to consider charges of perjury. I move to have the witness dismissed, and his testimony stricken from the record.