The Joy Of Birding

Avocet Chick – Bear River Migratory bird refuge

Birding is one if those things people do to get outside and commune with nature where many of the wild birds live. Their sole purpose is to look at those birds and say “I saw you, now I can go home and have a beer.” They make a list of all the different kinds of birds they’ve seen over the years and write them down in a little book, which is called their ‘Life List’. This is shown to other birders and gets them Street Cred in the “I saw a bird and you didn’t” world of birding.

This is not a sport for the uneducated. You can’t be stone cold dumb and be a birder. Many birders have attended highly prestigious places of edification where they don’t necessarily teach birding per se, but they do teach Latin which is used to name and classify bird species and confuse non Latin speakers. This makes the Latin user appear to be much brighter than the poor unwashed non Latin speaker and maintains the guild system that we Americans seem to love so much. It also keeps the rif-raf where they belong and the superior, well, superior. This system is primarily human based as the birds themselves couldn’t give a flying fig about what people call them. Except for peacocks, they are so vain.

One of the burning questions in the birding world is where to go to see birds. Where do they live? Are they accessible to Americans? Does one have to quarantine before looking at a bird? Can you see a bird if you don’t know its Latin name? What do they eat? Are they carnivorous? Do they favor the various root vegetables such as Rutabaga or Turnips? We know they don’t like Parsnips, nobody likes parsnips. These are just a few of the questions asked by people who don’t know any better but want to know so they can move up in the birding world.

One of the places where you can go and look at a bird is one of the various wildlife refuges. This is land that the government has deemed to be of absolutely no other use and therefore suitable to warehouse our excessive bird inventory. Species like those little brown birds you see pecking at everything everywhere. They’re all over the place. You’ve probably tripped over them. It’s very likely they have a Latin name of some sort but who knows what it is. Even if you heard it you wouldn’t know what it meant so one can safely discount and ignore them and go on to look at more interesting birds.

Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge near Brigham City, Utah is one of those holding pens where excess birds are held until they’re needed elsewhere. There you can see huge quantities of birds. They have them stacked all over the place. There are whole fields of those little brown birds spoken of before, which has been learned are actually a house sparrow or the Latin named Passer domesticus. There are great huge lumps of the White Faced Ibis piled willy nilly in unsightly stacks anywhere it’s wet. There you can select an assortment of birds for your own migratory bird refuge, if you have one. Way in the back of the refuge where it’s quieter, is an enormous area filled with lockers where larger birds such as the Tundra Swan are kept until it’s time to cut them loose and send them on up to the Tundra where apparently they are desperately needed at different times of the year.

One of the all time favorites for birders is the American Avocet. The image above is of a young Avocet or chick as they’re more vulgarly known. They look surprisingly like an adult Avocet only smaller. Its bill or beak has yet to grow into the graceful recurve that it uses to sweep through and syphon the water for its favorite food, the Rattle-back Shinsnuggler larvae which is only found here at the Bear River Migratory bird refuge. At least it is believed to be the Rattle-back Shinsnuggler larvae. There were no explanatory signs to indicate what the food is so an assumption was made which is believed to be close to what ever it is that the young Avocet or Chick is eating.

If you are interested in ‘Birding’ or its companion sport ‘Snake-ing’ you can contact any sporting goods store where they’ll sell you everything you might possibly need in the way of birding equipment. They also might tell you where to see birds but I wouldn’t count on that. However you already know where to go as you have just been told right here. It’s the Bear River Migratory bird refuge. So, Happy Birding then, and look down occasionally, that’s where the snakes are.

The Case of the Limping Ibis

Limping Ibis1484White-faced Ibis   Northern Colorado                            click to enlarge

May 8th 6:07 PM. I had been hired by a small bird refuge in Florida to ascertain the where abouts of a certain White-faced Ibis and her brood. She had skipped out without paying her food tab and the refuge wanted their moola. Why any bird refuge would go to these lengths to collect on a food bill was beyond me but then I was just a flat-footed gumshoe with a camera in his hand and a need to feed my habit of taking pictures, and I didn’t need to know everything. I was just there to find the bird, take her picture and collect my 40 simoleons. Forty simoleons doesn’t sound like much but when you’re down on your luck you’ll do a lot of things for not much money. Besides I was getting low on pixels and needed to fill my cards up.

When I did my initial interview with the director of the refuge, a short little rat-faced weasel with too tight shoes and a comb-over I found out a few of the facts I needed to know to start this job. The first was this guy needed to brush his teeth, his breath smelled like burning tires and unfortunately he had to open his mouth to talk and that made matters even worse, if they could be. He also needed to change his ” I ♥ Ibis ” t-shirt, too much of his pasty skin was showing. It didn’t help that there were what looked like Ibis feathers stuck in his teeth. Who licenses these places anyway I asked myself, but then I thought about the dough and moved upwind.

The second fact was more useful. It seems that this particular Ibis had a limp. A very pronounced limp and she was traveling with her two off-spring who were following in Mom’s every footstep. Both of them had records going back to when they were eggs. Petty theft, missing school, selling slightly used crustaceans to the younger ibis, some sordid behavior with a juvenile spoonbill, the list went on and on. No wonder they were on the lam. Every bird refuge in southern Florida wanted these three. It began to make sense that they were up here in the backwaters of Northern Colorado.

I got my first break in the case when I was going into town one rainy overcast day. I needed smokes, I didn’t smoke but we’re required to carry them in case some sultry dame with long red hair, gams that go up to there, and knowing eyes asked us for one. It ‘s part of the gumshoe code. My warning light came on to tell me I was low on gas. Great, the 40 clams promised by ratzo the Ibis lover hadn’t come in yet, so much for the checks in the mail bit, I was out of smokes, low on gas and all I’d had to eat in the last three days were a can of anchovies, a few soggy saltines and some grey stuff I found on the top shelf of the fridge. I was feeling so low that whale shit looked like star-dust. I missed Angie too. She wasn’t much of a secretary, my girl Thursday, but she could make a mean enchilada. And the fact that she had curves in all the right places didn’t hurt, much. She knew how to make a man feel good though and that’s a skill that is worth its weight in gold. I let her down as is my habit with women, I answered her truthfully when she asked me if those fishnets made her butt look big. I should have lied to her. That’s another part of the gumshoes code. Lie to them if you have to. Women want it, hell they need it. I was sinking fast.

I was thinking real hard about whether I should just dump this lousy crate into the bar ditch and put it and me out of misery when I noticed three dark shapes moving amongst the marsh grass. What the hell, I thought, could they be Ibis and then swear to god, they were. White-faced Ibis looking for food in all the wrong places. I couldn’t believe it, was I gonna get a break here or what. I wasn’t close enough to see if any of them were limping, so cutting across two lanes of traffic and one very large Navajo freightliner, luckily both his horn and his brakes worked, I pulled up to where I could see them better. They didn’t see me, Ibis don’t look in truck windows. There it was, she was limping, I could hardly breathe. She looked exactly as I expected her to, the kids had a few new tattoos but otherwise they fit the bill, I had them. All I needed was a picture.

I reached for my trusty Nikon D700 with its 80-400 VRII image stabilizing lens and quickly checked its settings, this was no time to screw things up by not having my crap together. I always carry my gear with me, my camera and lens are my bread & butter, I couldn’t live without them. They’re to me what the splits are to VanDamme, what wide teeth are to a game show host, what cleavage is to Sophia Veraga, well you get the picture. When Angie left she took the big screen, the microwave, my socks, the front floor pads out of my truck but she didn’t touch my gear. I guess there might be a small amount of human kindness left in that black chunk of basalt she calls a heart. Then I thought nah, she just missed them.

Just as I was ready to squeeze off a shot a car with Florida plates comes skidding to a stop, two idiots dressed like it was Plaid day at the senior center jump out with point and shoot cameras and flash those birds right in their little red eyes. Then before I could even get out my stun gun out to give a friendly birders welcome to those bozos the Ibis were gone. All I heard was one warning squawk and the hard flapping of wings and the marsh was empty again. When the rage cleared and I was able to locate the three they were just specks in the sky heading north along the foothills. The Hyundai the two intruders were driving was slowly wobbling after them, I must have luckily been able to slash their rear tire as they went by. They’d be able to follow my birds until the tire came off the rim then they’d be off-line for a while. Mad, sure I was, mad as a blind potato farmer with a dull shovel, but I wasn’t out of the game. I had a hunch where those three birds were going and it wasn’t Disney world. It was a much cooler place, a place where they could blend in with other white-faced Ibis and disappear.

They were going to the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge and so was I.

To be continued……