This time of year, a few birds knock themselves cuckoo by hitting our windows. And they’re almost always the same species. The Veery.

This happened yesterday. Heard a smack against our bedroom window. On the ledge below, there it was: A Veery, dazed and confused.

It was breathing hard, eyes closed. Then eyes half open. An hour later it had flown away, glad to say. That’s the usual outcome, although I’ve seen them DOA on occasion.

During migrations I’ve seen dazed birds on the sidewalks of Chicago under hi-rise buildings. All kinds, including Veerys. I’ve also seen American Redstarts there, and other warblers.

Northern Flickers, too (you wouldn’t expect this of a hard-headed Flicker). And once, even a Woodcock that bystanders were calling an odd pigeon. They were right about the “odd” part. Ever see a Woodcock?

But when it comes to birds hitting my suburban windows, Veerys top the list. In fact, they own it.

Coincidentally, a two-fisted nature girl named Denise just emailed a cell-phone photo of a bird she’d found near her house. It was dazed and confused. I knew that look. Denise asked if I could I.D. the bird.

“Veery,” I replied, and she wrote back, “I think it’s something else.”

Maybe she’s right. There’s a bunch of Veery look-alikes. The Hermit Thrush, Gray-cheeked Thrush, Swainson’s Thrush.

Whatever the name, it was a wild bird that got concussed by a window. It was dazed and confused. I was dazed and confused, myself, last night after a few beers. Just ask the friends I was out with.

The good news is that today’s another day. And also that Denise’s bird—whatever it’s called—snapped back to life and flew away. If you ask me what it was, I’d still say Veery. Am I sure?

I’ve got a one-word answer for that. Figure it out.

Today I looked at them and realized they’re dinosaurs.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise to me or anybody. We’ve all heard that birds descended from pre-historic sci-fi monsters.

The only new thing is that today, the thought hit: Hey, these hulking birds didn’t descend from dinosaurs; they are dinosaurs.

A Nova rerun that I saw last night is responsible. I don’t want to get all scientific here, but it showed some guy in China hammering open a rock, and there was a dinosaur fossil flattened inside. The fossil had a faint indication of feathers.

A prototype dino-bird? Maybe. Feathers don’t stick around like bones do. We’re not sure who had them way back when, and who didn’t.

It got me thinking: What if this one little bird-like dinosaur wasn’t the only one that had feathers? What if all dinosaurs did?

Maybe T-Rex was feathered like an Osprey instead of walking around with bare reptilian skin. Maybe the dinosaurs we saw in Jurassic Park were based on incomplete interpretations of the fossil record.

Imagine how we’d picture dogs or bears if we never knew they had fur. Naked, and looking nothing much like dogs or bears.

But wait. Didn’t feathers evolve for flight?

Maybe not. Let’s ask an ostrich. Point is: what if feathers came first, maybe as a protective covering. And flight evolved later for the small, lightweight dinosaurs. Feathers just made it possible. Hell, that’s for the science geeks to work on. They’ll get it straight eventually.

Meanwhile, today when I saw cormorants I thought: living dinosaurs.

Later I saw a Great Blue Heron at the edge of the swamp. And Mourning Doves on a wire, a circling Turkey Vulture, a flock of Starlings. I saw a Kestrel on a traffic sign, and a couple of American Goldfinches on the wing.

I still thought: dinosaurs. Not just the prehistoric-looking cormorants. All birds. Including the chicken you’re having for dinner tonight.

Dinosaurs haven’t gone extinct; they’re singing outside your window and sizzling on your grill.

]]> http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?feed=rss2&p=4991 3 http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4951 http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4951#comments Tue, 31 Aug 2010 17:44:41 +0000 Two-Fisted Bird Watcher http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4951

August’s Hidden Bird Contest got off to a drab start. This made sense. The hidden bird was drab. Unless you knew what it was. Then you’d realize it was interesting: a bird that walks under water. An American Dipper.

Toward the end of the month, we mentioned on Facebook that entrants for August’s contest were coming in slowly, and that turned things around. We wound up getting a stream of last-minute Dipper discoverers.

We got so many, that it was only fair to pick two names out of the hat.

So, from all the people who found the hidden American Dipper amid “The Ferruginous Hawk” in our “Stories” category, we pulled these names:

Chris Reynolds of Pawling, New York, and Olli Haukkovaara of Valkeakoski, Finland.

Congratulations Chris and Ollie. You’ll each receive a Two-Fisted Birdwatcher hooded sweatshirt. To everyone else who found the American Dipper, thanks for birding on our site, and for your commentary. Now, let’s go again.

September’s hidden bird is: Red-Headed Woodpecker.

This is an all-time favorite, with a name that actually makes sense. A photo of it will be in plain sight and have no caption. It could be in any part of our website listed on the Contents page.

It might look like it belongs where it is, or like it’s been dropped in just so you can find it. As always, there’s no need to leave Two-Fisted Birdwatcher by going to outside links. The Red-Headed Woodpecker will be right here, somewhere.

What if you find it?

You get to say, “Gotcha!” It’s like birding in the wild, but you can do it from your keyboard. Then there’s the prize you might win: Everyone who contacts us with the location of the hidden Red-Headed Woodpecker will be in a drawing.

We’ll pick a winner at random (usually just one—in spite of August’s double dipper). The prize will be a Two-Fisted Birdwatcher hooded sweatshirt.

To tell us where you found the bird, use our Contact page. Or click “Leave a Comment” under any story on the site. We’ll reply to let you know you’ll be in the drawing. Good luck!

I guess I’ve got dippers on the mind because our contest is ending tomorrow. And it involves a dipper that’s hidden on this website.

After mentioning on Facebook that we didn’t have the usual number of entrants, we got a boatload of last minute dipper discoverers. Not sure why Facebook’s worth something like 33 billion. But it did goose our contest.

I also see dippers that aren’t birds. Started when I walked my dog every night. I’d look at dark treetops for silhouettes of owls. And I noticed stars. I got to know the dippers. Big and little. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor.

Minor is well named, and doesn’t always show up. But you can count on Major, the big dipper. Always visible, pointing to the North Star, Polaris.

Those dippers in the night are not as interesting as the uninteresting-looking birds called ”dippers.” There are European versions, so we call ours “American Dippers.”

I saw them working in a creek that ran through a mountain town in the Rockies. Fast water didn’t faze them. They were doing what field guides said: walking on the bottom.

I’ve seen birds dive before. There’s a Pied Billed Grebe that visits our neighborhood pond. I watch it dive out of sight and pop up somewhere nearby. But the grebe, like cormorants and loons that do similar dives, are basically just swimming.

Hell, we can swim.

But how many of us can use our toenails to walk along the bottom. Against the current. That’s what dippers do. They hold their breath, grab on and walk, picking insect larvae and other bits of underwater food as they go.

The dippers in the night sky can help you navigate. But they don’t do much except show up. The dippers of the bird persuasion are stunt men.

That’s why I’m glad we received a bunch of last minute entrants for our August contest. Whether you’ve entered or not, whether you win or not, I hope you see a dipper some day.

Not one on a website, and not just the easy ones in the sky, but a real American Dipper dipping under a real American stream, walking on the bottom, then popping back up, looking uninteresting.

Until it goes under again.

By Bob Grump

Okay, Mr. Two-Fisted Birdwatcher, I’ve got a suggestion for you and your readers out there.

I think you’ll like it, because I’ve seen that on your website you often grouse about birds having stupid names. No pun intended.

By the way, ever notice how people say “no pun intended?” That’s bullshit. It’s always intended.

So, here’s my idea:

Start a groundswell movement…get your readers to suggest better names for birds. Not all bird names, just the stupid ones.

"...a dick what?"

Come on, two-fisted birdwatchers, does anybody really want to see a Peewee? How about a Hudsonian Godwit. Can you say Hudsonian Godwit with a straight face?

The Indigo Bunting sounds like something in your grandma’s knitting basket. Can you tell your girlfriend you saw a Yellow-Breasted Chat, or a Dickcissel? Dick what?

I think you mentioned these names in your blog. That’s why I bring them up again. I figure you’re gonna support me because you’re already on my side.

I KNOW you recently wrote that a Green Heron isn’t green, and a Great Blue Heron isn’t blue…and a Great Crested Flycatcher isn’t crested. Or great. We’re on the same page, right?

You, and other regular folks who are interested in birds, have been saddled with using stupid names that have been passed down to us from bird namers who were cuckoo.

Hey, that’s another one. Cuckoo. Yellow-billed, Black-billed…the clock.

Okay, what do we do about it?

Trust the people, that’s what I say. They have a way of righting things. Just give ‘em time, and a voice. Ask your readers to pick a bird name that bugs them. Let ‘em write in with their idea for a better name.

"Bark Hammer?"

Say somebody doesn’t like “Yellow-bellied Sapsucker.” So they suggest another name. Like, for example, “bark hammer.” That’s one I kinda like.

Somebody else (maybe you, right?) says they don’t like “Bald Eagle,” because (as you also pointed out in one of your stories) this eagle ain’t bald. Maybe the person says we should call it a “fierce fish-eater” instead. Personally, I’m not wild about that one. But run it up the flagpole and see who salutes.

So that’s my idea. Have people get caught up in this thing. Let’s see what happens. It’s about time, you know. And it’s something we can do something about.

We can’t do much about the collapse of the economy, military unthinkables, kids squawking in restaurants, new human and computer viruses, all the crap that’s coming down the pike every day…but we can do something about stupid bird names!

Spread the word!

Sincerely,

Bob Grump

Bob wants us to spread the word. Okay, if you’ve got any bird names that you could improve, let us know. If there’s enough interest, maybe we’ll make a another contest out of it. Like our “hidden bird” contest. And the best name wins a prize. Or maybe we’ll invite everyone to vote for a winner. Might even send winning ideas to the American Ornithologists’ Union and get the bird officially re-named. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe this will go nowhere. If that happens, all we can say is: Sorry Bob Grump, whoever you are.

I wasn’t worried. This moose looked lazy. Not moving. Sleepy-eyed, and busily chewing something. Too gawky to be a threat. A big, slow bull.

Well, that theory’s bull. I can laugh now. Actually, the moose did some laughing at the time. Or at least I thought he did.

I was somewhere near Yellowstone, in the woods. I’d seen a Western Tanager and other birds that we don’t have back home.

Gray Jays, Clark’s Nutcrakers, Steller’s Jays, a Golden Eagle overhead, big noisy Ravens; and a few Northern Flickers, that are called “Red-Shafted” out west.

These have red under their wings, a red Nike swoosh on their faces instead of a black one like eastern Flickers have. And no red on their heads. Quirky little regional variations in design.

Then I saw a dark brown animal and I stopped caring about the design of red-shafted Northern Flickers. At first I thought it might’ve been a grizzly. If it had been, I’d have been meat.

But it was a moose. I’d never seen one before. I had a camera, and the animal wasn’t moving. This was going to be good. I eased in for a better look.

The moose heard one camera click too many, too near, and spun toward me. Fast. Faster than a horse. I’d never seen any big animal move like that. Quick feet for a monster. Its racked-up head swung toward me and dipped, a clear sign that it meant business.

I’d seen bison earlier, and a distant bear, too. Both bison and bear, though big, moved slowly. The moose was bigger. How could it be coming on like a lightweight fighter?

Easily seven feet at the shoulder...

I took off. He might be faster on paper, but this wasn’t on paper, and I don’t think anything could’ve caught me.

But I ran into boggy ground I hadn’t noticed. Soon my feet sunk to the ankles. Wet mud grabbed my boots. I went down on my belly. Got a face full of warm glop. It tasted like worm.

My camera was under me but didn’t get ruined. Neither did I, as it turned out. When I looked for the moose, it was way back there, pulling up vegetation, unconcerned.

But I heard him laugh. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the vegetation he was chewing; it was laughter.

I couldn’t blame the moose. I’d run into a bog and fell in mud. He’d made his point (“Don’t get so damn close, camera boy!”), and I looked like a clown.

All in all, a good experience and fun memory. It emphasized what I already knew: when you go bird watching you sometimes see other things.

Once I saw nudists in a creek. Once, I saw a fox chasing several deer—an inexplicable incident. There’s more to bird watching than watching birds.

And another thing to know: big, lumbering characters should not be underestimated. They can be faster than they look. If you’re lucky, they’ll have a sense of humor, but don’t count on it.

I go temporarily dumb.

“Bird watcher?” he says, “Man, you’re more like a bird quack.”

This is a good put-down because the guy’s a doctor, and the word “quack” carries weight in his business.

It’s doubly good because it comes as a result of my getting stumped by a waterfront bird. (It’s long-legged and wouldn’t quack like a duck. But there are ducks in its neighborhood.)

The bird is familiar. I know its name. But I’m stuck. Why? Could it be the Blue Moon beers that the doctor and I were drinking? Could it be the deep martini that came before the beers?

“Wait, wait, I know this bird” I say, “…a Stilt. Yeah, something like that.” My heart isn’t in it. The doc diagnoses my indecision. (“…bird quack.”)

Okay, to quote an odd movie, The Big Lebowski, “Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you.” Win some, lose some.

So it does me no good to suddenly have the name of the odd bird hit like a punch right after the doctor and I part company.

But there is solace in knowing that the bird doesn’t really belong around here. Not on a Michigan beach, or anywhere near Chicago. The field guide in my mind came up empty because I’m thinking Midwest.

And it’s a Western Bird. I’ve seen these birds on California beaches. But never near Chicago. The doc’s right to say he’d seen an odd bird.

Here’s the picture that he took. Do you know what it is? Of course you do. But we can’t go back and impress him with our knowledge. That bird has flown.

I told this guy he was lucky to work in the woods. He said yeah, but ticks are a problem. There’s a bumper crop.

This reminded me of an experience I’d had years ago…

I’d gone into the same woods to take pictures. I spent an afternoon concealed in deadfall near a creek where I’d set out chicken from a can. Wanted to attract bears or coyotes. Maybe see a bobcat. I had binoculars and a camera.

A coyote came. It was big. Might’ve been a wolf. And a fox showed up. Separately of course. Later I saw porcupines, deer, Great Blue, and Black-crowned Night Herons, Scarlet Tanagers, Evening and Pine Grosbeaks. Several types of woodpecker and an Osprey. Bald Eagles, too.

At my rented cabin on Lake Gogebic, I took off my shirt and noticed wood ticks around my middle. A lot. They must’ve crawled in when I sat on the ground. They were bloated with my blood.

Generally there are two kinds of ticks to know: Wood ticks like these, and smaller deer ticks. It’s the deer ticks that carry Lyme Disease. Wood ticks can give you Spotted Fever and Tularemia. But I wasn’t interested in the science of tick-borne disease at the time.

I was freaked.

There’s a procedure for dislodging ticks, but at that moment I forgot it. I slapped and scraped.

(Procedure? Yeah, right. I’ve heard you’re supposed to stand still when you see a grizzly. But when you see one, you’re gonna run like hell. So much for procedure.)

The ticks came off like velcro being un-stuck. They popped out or broke up, and piled on the floor. A smeary mess. Not a proud moment in my exploring experience. I showered and soaped and didn’t get a tick disease.

But there are tick diseases you should know about. What are they? Sorry. This website is about birds and fun. If you want to read about sickness, the internet is all too obliging. Google away, but be careful. It’s crazy-making stuff.

Just remember that when you go into the woods, there’s a bumper crop of ticks these days. And they can make you pay a price in blood for every other thing you see there.

“I’ve got a problem,” she said. “I think I need…a bird detective.”

She smelled good. Jungle Gardenia, or something. I don’t know a gardenia from a garbanzo, but I like jungles. “How can I help you?” I said.

“Every night I walk Derek,” she answered. “And now we’re afraid. We can’t do it any more.”

“Derek?” I asked.

“Come on,” she said. “You and I are neighbors, Mr. Bird Detective! He’s my German Shepherd. You’ve seen him.”

Of course. I knew him. I knew her. She was the pretty woman who worked in our community as a theater director. I said, “Of course. Please go on.”

"I've got a problem..."

“Well,” she said, “a few nights ago I was walking Derek, rewarding him with Yogurt Yummies when he does his business. And there was this unholy scream behind us! Scared us out of our socks!”

“Where did this happen?”

“End of the street. By the woods. Gave me chills. Then I figured, hey, we have a coyote in the neighborhood, right?”

“Right out of a cowboy movie,” I said.

She said, “I remembered poor Cheech.”

Cheech was a cat who lived on our block. He disappeared recently and we were all warned about coyotes.

“Could a coyote be what howled at us? She asked. “Doubt it,” I said. “Coyotes wouldn’t get close.”

“And they don’t fly!”

“And coyotes don’t fly, do they?” She said, leaning forward, eyes wide. That got my attention. I said, “Fly? What are you talking about?”

"...they don't fly!"

“Mr. Bird Detective…here’s where the story gets weird,” she said. “The shriek happened again, louder, but this time over my head. This is why I’ve come to see you. What kind of bird scared us?”

“Hawks scream pretty loud,” I said. “But not at night. And there’s no motive.”

“Then I heard it again!” she said. “A block away. Still blood-curdling, still high in the sky.” She raised a shapely arm, with a shapely hand and a shapely finger pointing. Up. “Since then, I’m afraid to walk Derek at night. He’s not getting exercise.”

“Or Yogurt Yummies,” I added.

It sounded like she was describing the scream of a cat. They can make a loud caterwauling. Hey, could that be where the word, “caterwauling” comes from?

“Ever hear a cat scream?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was kinda like that,” she said. “But cats don’t fly. Besides, we haven’t had a cat in the neighborhood since Cheech was eaten by the coyote.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. I was getting an idea about what had happened. I’d seen something at the end of that street, too, a long time ago. Sometimes the only clue a detective needs is a memory…

It was a black silhouette against a black sky, right out of a Halloween story. I’d shined a light on it, back then. Big yellow eyes stared back, unafraid. A Great Horned Owl doesn’t get afraid.

"...this wise guy was involved..."

I had a feeling this wise guy was involved. Owls don’t do screams, but they sure can cause them. “It was an owl,” I said. “Great Horned. And great big.”

“Why would it screech and scare us like that? Hey, was it a Screech Owl?” she asked. “There are Screech Owls, right? I’ve heard of them.” I nodded. This babe knew birds. “Yeah, there are Screech Owls. But this was a Great Horned, and deadly quiet.”

“So what made the noise?”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” I said. “And more than one cat in this neighborhood.” She was all eyes. Nice eyes. “Hmmm,” she said, “I guess there could be other cats…poor Cheech couldn’t have been the only one.”

I said, “One of those other cats must have got out, and had been following you as you walked Derek. Probably smelled your Yogurt Yummies. Cats hunt at night, and they’re quiet.”

I reached for a field guide. Opened to the owl page and showed her The Great Horned. I said, “This guy grabbed that cat, the cat that was tailing you.”

She studied the page. I said, “Take a look at those talons, madam director. They steal the show.” The illustration showed a large skunk skewered in the owl’s claws. A cat would’ve fit even better in them.

“And the cat,” she said, “…made the noise!“

“He caterwauled,” I added. She said, “Poor thing. Those talons must have hurt. And he kept screaming as he was carried up, and away…”

“Which explains why the screams were flying,” I said. “No bird made them. But a bird caused them.”

"Derek will be pleased."

You’re good, bird detective,” she said. “And Derek will be pleased.”

“Because now he can walk at night again?” I said.

She shook her head. “Not just that. I think you exonerated a relative of his.”

It took me a second, but I saw her point. And I said, “Aha…the same owl probably got Cheech. A coyote wasn’t the culprit, after all. You’re pretty good, yourself, madam director, take a bow.”

~

A word about “The Bird Detective” and his adventures:

They’re an homage to two-fisted detective writing made popular by guys like Robert B. Parker and Mickey Spillane. But there’s a difference. Even though the pieces in this “Bird Detective” category seem playful, they’re all based on events that are entirely true. The story about the Cardinal that banged on a door, the cop who let a speeder go free because of a Pileated Woodpecker, the crow that got eaten thanks to a misguided tuna sandwich…the scream that flew…all these things really happened. How could they? It’s a mystery.

]]> http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?feed=rss2&p=4759 5 http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4667 http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4667#comments Wed, 11 Aug 2010 02:20:55 +0000 Two-Fisted Bird Watcher http://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/?p=4667 I’m standing on the north shore of a small, woodland lake. The wind is blowing out of hell.

It’s a hot wind. But temperature is not the reason it’s from hell. This wind has come up here after blowing over Chicago, which sits to the south. It carries factory smells, car exhaust, burnt rubber from highway tires, greasy urban humidity.

A Green Heron comes in for a landing. His skinny wings stretch and slow him, like a jet on a carrier. He walks in the shoreline mud. Doesn’t see me because I’m not moving, just watching.

Green Herons are small for herons, but have the predatory beak and long legs. It hunches its shoulders, and is all eyes, looking for fish or frogs.

It’s got orange legs, white neck, a rusty body. What it doesn’t have is the color green.

Yeah, there might be a weak excuse for some vague greenish-gray on its back, but this doesn’t cut it.

Reminds me of another heron, another visitor to this lake, another misnamed bird. The Great Blue Heron. It’s tall as a big kid; with eagle wings, long legs and a sword beak. It’s gray, white and black. What it’s not is blue. It’s a great heron, okay, just not a great BLUE heron.

When the wind is blowing out of hell, you get pissed about little things.

Author Raymond Chandler wrote that when L.A.’s hot Santa Ana blows, “…it can…make your nerves jump and your skin itch…every booze party ends in a fight…”

I think about bird names, and wonder what the hell caused some to be so wrong.

Herons are only part of it. The Great Crested Flycatcher isn’t great, and doesn’t have a crest. It’s pointy headed, but so are other flycatchers. Including one called a Peewee.

Ever see a Red-bellied Woodpecker? I like the word “belly” and think it’s amusing in any bird’s name. But this guy’s belly ain’t red.

Then there’s the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. Same thing. Although, there’s a tinge of yellow near the crotch. But not much. You couldn’t even call it a Yellow-crotched Sapsucker.

And the Bald Eagle’s not bald. It’s got a full head of thick, white feathers. The Golden Eagle’s not gold; it’s brown.

And so it goes.

True, some birds have okay names. The Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher works. Especially if you spot one while it’s catching gnats. And the Blue-footed Booby’s a good name, because it’s got blue feet and it’s a Booby.

The Green Heron takes off while I’m thinking this. Must’ve got tired of finding no food on my shoreline, or maybe he noticed me. He flew south, into the wind.

He moved with healthy energy, comfortable in his own body. He didn’t know that he was called a Green Heron even though he’s not green. Or that the wind was blowing out of hell.

Why should he care about such things? Why should I?

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