I don't think I can explain it to you.
This obsession that some people have with birds. I say "some people," like they are all someone else and not me. Sorry. It's me, too, but I think only a little. My youngest son would probably tell you it's more than a little.
But no. I don't drive 500 miles to see a bird. Or travel the whole United States. Or the world.
We have been known to travel 263 miles to see the wintering Snowy Owls in Pickford.
And 163 miles to see the Forked-tailed Flycatcher in Menominee.
For some reason, we never took time to drive 133 miles to Munising to see the Crested Caracara. I don't know why, and frankly, now that the bird has moved on, hopefully to warmer climes, I regret not seeing it. Because unfortunately, we will probably not travel to Florida where the bird usually hangs out.
Fortunately, and extremely rarely, you don't have to travel to somewhere, and the bird, almost miraculously, comes to you. Like the Bullock's Oriole who has been hanging out with me the last week.
A summer resident of the western United States, and a right-now-ought-to-be resident of Mexico, this bird has his internal compass somehow flipped upside down or something and he decided he wants to vacation way, way northeast of his preferred winter spot.
We had had a storm that traveled across the US from west to east that week, lots of wind and a little snow. It probably blew him here from somewhere, but still, he was not where he was supposed to be when that happened, since most of his buddies have already been sunning themselves in Mexico for a few weeks. Someone told me that when autopsies are performed on birds who get lost and then perish from the cold, most of them are found to have brain tumors and somehow impede the function of their otherwise amazing internal compasses.
Imagine if someone right now were to say to you, you must drive to Mexico and find a specific spot that you will come back to every year, or maybe a certain forest or even a specific cottonwood tree in the middle of Wyoming someplace. You don't get to follow a map, or a GPS system or even read signs. Never been there before? Go anyway. How many millions of birds do that twice a year, arriving on nearly the same day, in the same forest, maybe ultimately nesting in the same tree?
Are you starting to get it?
Now multiply that by the approximate 800 different kinds of birds you can find in the US alone, or the something like 400 you can find just in the state of Michigan. And every one is so different, yet so intelligent.
And let's not forget, extraordinarily unique, and breathtakingly beautiful.
I can hardly stand it. Because you don't have to locate all 400 species to be happy. Just studying your favorites, or the ones you can coax into your yard over the course of a year are enough to make you very happy.
And if you do enough coaxing, for instance, by having convenient feeders that offer an eclectic menu like sunflowers or niger seed
now spelled nyjer in the world of political correctness (even though birders like me have been pronouncing the word correctly from the get-go), millet, assorted suet/peanut butter/fruit mixtures, all served at different platform sizes and heights or from torturous (to humans and squirrels) hanging devices or a cute but scary when it stares at you through the window penguin-in-a-top-hat sunflower feeder,
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| not scary in the daytime... |
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| a totally different story at night |
which is beloved by goldfinches and siskins and redpolls and chickdees, and other birds who don't mind hanging upside down or at any other strange angle to enjoy their dinner, something really REALLY rare might show up someday.
Like a Bullock's Oriole. I admit, Bob saw it first, fighting with a starling (rat) at one of the suet feeders.
At first I DID get the oriole part identified correctly. I knew because of its markings that it couldn't be the normal Baltimore, but my second thought, Orchard Oriole was also not correct. When I asked for an ID from some folks I know at the
whatbird.com bird identification forum, I was amazed to see that my stranger had indeed straggled there from a strange land.
The first couple of days were cold (for him, anyway) and he huddled, as birds do, allowing his amazing down coat to keep him from freezing.
But with a little warmer weather, he started becoming more active, venturing around to all the suet feeders, plus reaping a bounty of downed fruit in the neighbor's yard as well.
So what happens when you report a rare bird to those people who indeed "get it"?
They ASK, first, before invading your yard. And then they come, from 100 or 500 miles away, wearing their Carhartt jackets, mud boots, and sporting a 400 mm lens on one hip. They share stories and photos and suet and a love for these little miracles.
And it feels good to be validated for what you already know:
His eye is on the sparrow. Big time.
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| like this lovely autumn White-Crowned, to be precise |
Not to mention the Black-capped Chickadee-dee-dees,
and the tiny Common Redpolls,
the velvety Snow Buntings,
the grazing hoards of American Goldfinches,
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| personally, I like their muted winter colors |
or comical, beautiful, intelligent waves of Evening Grosbeaks.
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| three boys and three girls...aren't they beautiful? |
I happen to think that Eye which gazes so fondly upon every sparrow of His own creation, will also shed a tear if this little orangy miracle gets caught up in a snowstorm or a cold snap and doesn't ulitmately live out a relatively (11 years, maybe) long livespan of forests and flight and nectar and amazing nest building and sunny Mexico vaycays.
I will shed a tear (or two), too.
Happy (and safe) travels, little miracle, and thanks for visiting.
Amen.
P.S. Do you get it now?
