They call such a bird a vagrant. But I prefer hobo. An old word that means carefree wanderer.
The sighting that’s causing these thoughts is an improbable Tri-colored Heron. A bird not found in Chicago.
But I saw one in a pond near a highway cloverleaf around here. Looked like a Great Blue, but brown. And smaller.
Tri-colored Herons live in the southeast.
But, today, I saw it again. Could be an American Bittern, I thought. Bitterns aren’t lanky, though. This was lanky. Like a Great Blue, but brown.
Done: I’m going with Tri-colored. No range map is going to stop me. Birds fly. Western Tanagers from Colorado have been known to surprise people in New England.
And if a 300-pound Jaguar can wander from Mayan jungles to Texas, a bird can be anywhere.
Tri-colored Heron. It was near a Chicago highway, and I saw it. A genuine vagrant, one for the record books.
Or, to put it more simply, a two-fisted hobo living a life free of maps.
This guy, or one like him was living around a golf coarse in Greeley, Co. a couple years back. He (she) was paired up with a similar but not identical species. They were seen gathering sticks.
You talk about jaguars, and I know what you mean. Large predatory mammals have a way of making birds take a back seat. I was in Hanes Alaska watching bald eagles when a brown bear, what we’d call a griz down in the lower 48, stole the spotlight and suddenly the eagles lost their hold on us as we all watched the bear, from a safe distance. I agree with you. Birds are wild animals worth going after, but when you see a bear or a mountain lion or anything really big and wild, they get all your attention. Good observation. And good observing, 2-fisted, keep it up.
This bird is also known as a Louisiana Heron, or at least it used to be. Some time in the 1980s, I think it was, that they started calling it Tricolored. Guess that’s because it’s not just found in Louisiana, although old timers still call it that–Louisiana Heron. But you can call it a hobo, that’s cool.
Benjamin, thanks for bringing that up. Louisiana Heron. I remember it. Thought that “Tri-colored” sounded odd. It’s hard to like the changing of names. I still call a Northern Harrier a Marsh Hawk, and a Northern Oriole a Baltimore Oriole. I’d rather call a Tri-colored Heron a Louisiana Heron. Who cares if it strays. Ever see the range of a Louisiana Waterthrush?
From a lifetime of working in hospitals, I have practical knowledge that averages include the bizarre top and bottom of ranges, and that normal is relative. As a birder, I pay attention to probabilities, but know that birds don’t read range maps, and for their own reasons (or for no good reason) can end up far from where they belong. That is part of what makes birding so much fun. On any given day, you just never know what’s out there.
Saw one by the side of the Frio River in Texas. Our local birding mentor frequently reminded us that “they got wings & they don’t read books”. BTW, saw your cup in “The Big Year” —great product placement
Here in Pennsylvania little green herons are regulars, and my Audubon guide shows their range reaching as far as Chicago. They are masters of camouflage — which is pretty remarkable, considering their bright yellow legs.