Dot.

March 23rd, 2024

You’re driving on a gray four-lane outside of gray Chicago. There’s wet snow in the air and low clouds. Up ahead floats a living warplane soaring over the road, losing altitude.

It’s a large gull on wide wings. White-gray against the white-gray sky. Next to the road is a tall, narrow pole. Behind it, a strip mall and retention pond of flat gray water.

You notice the bird dip and bank, drop airspeed and calmly alight precisely on the pointed tip of the tall pole. You think: an incredible feat. Then: incredible feet. How did the bird land perfectly on just the pole’s top? There’s nothing much to grip up there.

Now, with folded wings the gull sits. Chest out, head back, calmly above it all. This gray-white flyer which you know is a local Herring Gull. You drive past. Tires swish on that wet street and the odd sighting is quickly history.

But the bird leaves you with a fitting ending. You think: it “dotted the I.”

 

A dogfight and a dog story.

March 20th, 2024

Birding with friends can be okay. But birding alone, or with your dog, is better. The dog can be quiet, and when you stop to watch something, he watches, too. He’s glad to be on the trail with you.

If you don’t have a dog anymore, you still hike, and maybe you think about him when something interesting happens. Like today…

A camouflaged Cooper’s Hawk dropped out of a tree where it had been hiding like a mountain lion. It tried to snap up a slow-moving Mourning Dove, and almost did. Then another Cooper’s Hawk, more unexpected than the first, flew in from the side to steal the meal.

These hawks are solitary, two-fisted birdwatchers, themselves. But during migration they’ll cross paths. The two engaged in quick aerial combat. Feathers flew. A dogfight. My dog would’ve liked that. Would’ve been good to see it together.

That triggers the memory of another dog who made a pretty good companion. Second best thing about this other dog’s story is that it’s true. What’s the first best thing? We’ll get to that in a moment.

The dog was a Skye Terrier named Bobby, and he lived in Edinburgh, Scotland during the 1870s. He accompanied a night watchman, John Gray, on his rounds. The two became great companions. One day, Gray died. Bobby observed the man’s burial service, then stayed. And stayed.

Through all weather, he didn’t leave the graveyard. Neighborly Scots left scraps of food, and the dog became well-known. As Europeans will do, they built a statue honoring him. But dogs don’t care about statues. They care about you. Something to think about when you’re hiking with your dog.

How long did Bobby stay by John Gray’s grave? That’s the best part. He stayed until his own death, 14 years later.

 

 

An Irish insight on St. Pat’s Day

March 16th, 2024

On a March 17 around 12 years ago, we put a semi-serious piece in Viewpoints: “A Bird Watcher in Ireland.” It was about Ireland being interesting, but disappointing in bird diversity.

We’ve been rethinking the “disappointing” aspect of avian Ireland since then, because of a little field guide rediscovered in the clutter of a dusty bookshelf. “The Birds of Killarney National Park,” a souvenir from an Irish trip fondly remembered.

The book is profoundly skinny, fitting with the profound reality of Ireland’s lack of birdlife. Unlike other field guides, which can be fat and heavy–or simply digital storehouses that scroll endlessly–this peewee volume can be flipped through in minutes.

But we gotta say–it gives you the feeling that each bird in the little book is a bigger deal than any one bird in the bigger books. Because there aren’t that many.

“Irish Stonechat. That’s big.”

In America, you’ve got more than 900 species to spot. We’ve seen a respectable number, and when something new gets added to the list, we’re pleased but pretty cool about it.

By contrast, in Ireland’s national park field guide there are 140. If you see even a Stonechat, hell, that’s big.

Point is: Too much choice can de-sensitize you. Less choice can make what you find…more of a find.

So, on reflection, as we celebrate another St. Pat’s Day, we must say that Ireland’s a fine place for bird watchers. It’s not just about pubs, music, friendly folk and awesome green landscapes. It’s also about rare birds. Because there, most of them are.

 

No new birds.

March 2nd, 2024

You get to a point where you’ve seen ‘em all. Just takes being in the game long enough. One afternoon a neighbor phones to tell you there’s a “Bald Eagle on the deck behind your house.” Huh? You look out the kitchen window. Eagle. Eye contact. It flies off with wide wings that make you recall scenes shot on an aircraft carrier.

And it goes on. A Pileated Woodpecker flies alongside your car not far away in place or time. You remember a Groove-billed Ani on a Caribbean Island and a White Wagtail in Scandinavia. The “Doctor Bird” in Jamaica, a storied long-tailed hummer.

“The boys are back…”

So much history. Bobolinks, Meadowlarks, Cuckoos. All the thrushes including routine robins from kid-hood on. Grouse, grebes and egret types. Pheasants and one wobbling Woodcock. Kestrels, falcons, most every kind of warbler, woodpecker and flicker, a passel of passerines! Including the flashy favorite tanagers.

So many checked off and remembered. The wish list became the life list. Your motive to score something new feels honestly extinct. You wonder if the thrill is gone.

Then yesterday you see a feisty Red-winged Blackbird, first one of early spring. Big male, waiting for female companionship to arrive. You take note of this. Why? A common sighting; you’ve seen a million in a life of two-fisted birdwatching. But you smile and hum: “The boys are back in town…” homage to the earthy rock classic by Thin Lizzy from the 1970s. A soundtrack to this moment. Who cares if there are no new birds; you’ve still got the old ones and they’ve got you.

Souvenir on a freezing morning

February 24th, 2024

Your early morning dog-walk combined with late winter snow today, and brought you not just into a mundane Midwestern neighborhood, but also into Norway. Norway in your mind.

You’re no world traveler, but years ago circumstances allowed for a trip to this place of fairytales and fjords, far from the beaten paths of Paris, London or Rome.

You were in a Norwegian neighborhood with similar snow and silver sky. You’re mentally back for a visit. Now in two places at once. The place where you and your dog are rooted in reality…and the place where you once felt stupidly amazed at how “They have pine trees just like ours,” and “There’s a cottage with a picket fence, a Norman Rockwell scene, but we’re in freakin’ NORWAY.”

And so, yeah, you’re in the Midwest morning, but also in that other one far away in miles and time. There’s a bird there. Of course. This is a “Daily Sightings” column. It ranges free, but there are usually gonna be birds.

And the bird could be a real one, say a winter Robin on your neighbor’s lawn. But it also could be a memory, the “White Wagtail” you saw perched on that picket fence in front of the Norwegian cottage.

Fun to remember the moment, to see that non-American bird in your mind again. And to surprise yourself again by knowing its name.

You’re there in far-away Norway, on a hilltop street overlooking Oslo, while others in your party visit a nearby museum where they’ll come out marveling at Norse carvings or something.

But you have chosen a neighborhood walk. And you see a White Wagtail. Two things about this are notable. One: you’re there—a place you never thought you’d be on this planet. Two: you know the name of that bird.

How? Why? You’ve never seen one before. Only in “birds-of-the-world” books, probably. Maybe the Hall of Birds in Chicago’s Field Museum? You cannot imagine why you knew the name of that bird. Then, or even now. You just did, and just do. White Wagtail.

On this snowy morning north of Chicago, there it is again, this “memory-bird” joining you and your dog, a souvenir better than anything from a museum in that country of pine trees, Norman Rockwell scenes, friendly folk and birds that somehow—for unfathomable reasons—you know by name.

Back to the woods.

February 17th, 2024

“Whose woods these are I think I know…” You do, huh? Okay, Robert Frost, I also know. They’re mine. And by the way, gotta say: you are one hell of a two-fisted poet. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is a favorite around here. Maybe it’s the woodland setting. You’re good at taking us there—avoiding the “road not taken” if you don’t mind an allusion to another of your cool poems.

So, Robert, yesterday I’m in the frost-chilled woods. The “frost” thing has nothing to do with you, everything to do with February weather.

The woods are “mine” for reasons rooted in no legal ownership, other than spending a lifetime in their familiar wilderness that’s deep enough to attract the solitary Pileated Woodpecker. They’re a half-day out of Chicago along a river and broken by swaths of prairie, but mainly they’re old growth Eastern broadleaf forest, dense and lively. Plus, I’ve given names to many locations within them, a kind of “staking of claims,” which we’ll see.

I hadn’t been back for a bit—call it a hiatus—but it was like I’d never left. My woods hadn’t changed if you don’t count a few fallen trees. No, there were things I recognized, and realized with a smile that I’d named privately. You don’t forget something when you give it a name.

I hiked past places I’d dubbed “Dead Deer Fork” and ”Raccoon Vomit Trail.” There was “Fat Beaver Beach.” And one of my favorites, “Coyote-Stare Ridge”“ I won’t bore us with explanations. You can guess the origins of such names, especially if you’re a two-fisted woods walker yourself, with your own private grab bag of funky place names.

We’ll stop, but first, gotta give a quick nod to “Scarlet Tanager Cottonwood” and “Last Meadowlark Creek.” Plus it’s fun to mention “Praying Mantis Rock”…and the “Pileated Police Pullover” at an unforgettable weedy roadside.

Point is, you just can’t help remembering a place when it’s linked to a moment, and that becomes its “name.” After a bit of a hiatus, it was great to get back to the woods and revisit those names, still there in the quiet, dependable wilderness.

The story behind the following stories…

February 11th, 2024

“I’m searching for a falcon…a “Maltese Falcon.”

He was one of the original two-fisted guys. Humphrey Bogart, AKA Sam Spade. Hero of the 1941 film classic, The Maltese Falcon. Roger Ebert—a two-fisted movie critic—called it one of the best films ever made. But that’s not the point.

The point is this: if anybody says that the words “Bird” and “Detective” make an unlikely pair, we say: yeah? Bogart was two-fisted, quick with a .45, and in the business of finding a rare bird. The jewel-encrusted Maltese Falcon. This raptor ain’t in any field guide so don’t try looking there.

But if you’re in the mood for a hard-boiled trip into film noir, you can find the falcon wherever vintage movies live again. For more contemporary avian mysteries, keep an eye on this site’s “Bird Detective” category.

How and why to find a Mountain Bluebird

February 5th, 2024

 

Picture the Rocky Mountain wilds. If you’re not from around those parts, you’re not likely to have seen a little all-blue bird known as a “Mountain Bluebird.”

 You’ve seen other bluebirds (Eastern) and Jays (Blue) and Indigo Buntings (cool!). But your life list needs a Mountain Bluebird.

So on a trip West you drop out of society and spend a few rugged days wandering Colorado’s high country.

You get your shot of a Mountain Bluebird, but it sucks.

Your photography lacks skill. The subject is too far, and the focus is fuzzy. The little bluebird seems to know this, the way it glowers at you—eyes burning with disapproval. But you saw your Mountain Bluebird. And the photo, though poor, is proof.

Yeah, and while you were out there in the high country, you happened to snap a shot of a full-curl ram. You don’t see those guys back home. This shot—though still somewhat of an amateur effort, commands a bit more attention.

And you never would have gotten it if you hadn’t been roaming around the Rockies looking for a tiny blue bird. As the Two-Fisted Birdwatcher said somewhere, “it ain’t always about birds, but it’s always about watching.”

“3 billion birds and sexy roller skates”

January 28th, 2024

Whoa, another guest essay has come our way from the enigmatic, sporadic and possibly pseudonym-ic Bob Grump. The guy has reached out to us in the past (the “past” is his subject of today, it seems). Also in the recent present, something about “Turkeys Ain’t Birds?” Whatever. Like all Grump’s gripes, it’s got its moments.

“3 billion birds and sexy roller skates”

By Bob Grump

Hey,  two-fisted birdwatcher, here’s another blast from the Grumpster if you care to print it—jeez, it just hit me that Grumpster sounds like dumpster, so I’m never going to use that stupid expression again. Let’s start over: Bob Grump here, with another “guest essay,” this one about the appreciation of things past.

I could give you a lot of reasons why the past is better than the present and way less scary than the future—but here are two timely ones:

First, there were more birds there!

Don’t look at me for science stuff, but I had a feeling about this so I checked. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology reports that since the 1970s our bird population is down by a third! Yeah, we have about three billion fewer birds in America than in the days of Woodstock! (A cartoon bird, as well as a hippie music festival. Both very cool).

The past is birdier than the present, and surely much more than the future. Read your own short story—“The Ferruginous Hawk!” You’ll get the idea.

And here’s a second reason: the past had Melanie in it!

That cute, talented hippie chick singer who blew us away with her song from the 1970’s, “Brand New Key.” Melanie left us a few days ago, so she’s in our minds at the moment, as well as suddenly part of the past.

She’s a musical, poetic, sexy, funny, carefree example of what was better about the past.

The past had Melanie’s break-out hit…”I’ve got a brand-new pair of roller skates, you’ve got a brand-new key….we should get together…”

This was regarded as possible “sexual innuendo.” (Ya think?) And some radio stations wouldn’t play it. But you can’t stop art. The song became a hit and Melanie became famous. Now they’re in the past. Along with three billion more birds!

The future can kiss its artificially intelligent butt—let’s hear it for the past! That’s where Bob Grump goes for a little escapism, and you’re invited to do the same. Meanwhile, listen to “Brand New Key,” an earthy, youthful, rhythmic funky and fun-loving tribute to the era, and the missing birds!

“What’s all the barking about!”

January 26th, 2024

The dog keeps barking. You get up to see what’s going on. You could be at your computer typing something like this. You could be in bed. Could be day or night. The dog barks a lot.

Amazon delivery? Since the pandemic these have become common. Maybe a neighbor’s walking by? Or an animal? There’s a forest preserve nearby. A two-fisted birdwatcher likes that.

But your dog’s not going to bark at a Junco. He was quiet when a Red-shouldered Hawk sat on your backyard swing, a sight that made you feel like barking.

Back to the moment. Mystery solved. Two deer are out front. Meat on the hoof, according to wolf DNA programmed into your ten-pound poodle. You clip a leash on him—time for a bathroom break anyway—and you move outside.

The deer are winter-hungry and want to stay where foliage pokes through the snow. You stare at each other. The dog barks and pulls. They prance off, toward the neighboring forest preserve you appreciate every freakin’ day. You recall another recent visitor…

You were starting your sunrise dogwalk, leash in hand (good thing) when your dog bolted. He pulled so hard his front legs rose and he stood vertical, straining forward. At the bottom of your driveway going eye-to-eye with him was a giant coyote. We’ve seen coyotes here but never one this big. He’s staring back with interest, not running off as usually happens.

Our poodle seemingly wants to attack. You realize that if you accidentally lose your grip on the leash, hell could happen fast. The coyote holds your eye for a moment then trots off, ignoring you and the little white curiosity that would have made a quick breakfast.

What a great sighting. Not a deer. Not an Amazon guy. And it hits you. All those times when you don’t look outside to see what causes the barking. It’s wildlife you never see. Deer of course. But coyotes, too. That monster and others. The neighborhood has lots of them. Until the 1980s these prairie wolves were relegated to cowboy movies, not cities and burbs. But they’re here now.

Probably the reason for much of the barking. That’s okay. You don’t mind. Whether caused by an Amazon delivery, or something wilder, it’s just the ordinary sound of an ordinary day, and you smile at your ten-pound dog who thinks he’s a badass.

Cakes of fat

January 20th, 2024

It’s freezing, and you’ve been buying cakes of fat.

Personally, you don’t mind the cold. Every breath is rich in oxygen. This makes you feel good. But cakes of fat? Yeah, also known as “suet.” Birds love to eat it.

You put these square cakes in little holders, and hang them outside near a window. Birds are so frozen and hungry, they leave the wild and come close.

For people, congealed fat is believed to be bad news. But for birds it’s money in the bank. So we buy cakes of it, sometimes flavored with seeds and bits of fruit.

It’s surprising how many birds this draws, and how many different kinds.

What’s also surprising is that you might not feel this is real bird watching. Definitely not “Two-Fisted.” Too easy. But at the moment, who cares?

           Fish in a barrel

It’s good to give the birds a hand when it’s freezing. Even if spotting birds at a feeder is kinda like shooting fish in a barrel.

Today there was a big Red-bellied Woodpecker on the other side of the glass. Lured here with fat and seeds.

Also,  American Goldfinches in sparrow-like winter plumage, Dark-eyed Juncos, Cardinals, Black-capped Chickadees, White and Red-breasted Nuthatches, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers. A forlorn Mourning Dove.

Your yard’s become something like a zoo. (If you see a gorilla in a zoo, you don’t feel like you saw a gorilla. You feel kinda sad.)

You tell yourself that if you want to do some real bird watching, you’ll put on a coat, boots, a stupid-looking hat, and get your freezing butt into the woods.

It won’t be “too easy” to see a Red-bellied Woodpecker there. But if you do, it’ll mean something. And if you don’t, maybe that’s because the bird’s in your backyard, bopping around in front of a kitchen window.

Footnote: The above post was adapted from one that ran in 2012, so if it looks familiar, thanks for having a two-fisted memory. The original  was titled “Too Easy,” a critique about that “fish in a barrel” thing. Somehow, in this era of declining bird populations and on this day of sub-zero wind chills, we’re not as concerned about sightings being “too easy,” and we’re pleased to keep those cakes of fat in the game. 

You’re never the same.

January 13th, 2024

When you see an unusual bird, that’s cool in itself. But there’s something more at play. You’re different after. You’re a person who has racked up a notable sighting. Maybe you add it to your “life list.” Maybe you don’t even keep a life list. No matter. Seeing a rare bird makes you a rare bird.

You can’t go back to being somebody who’s never seen it. Say it’s a Bald Eagle, a surprise as it soars in front of you, low and fast over a running river while you’re hanging out near the shore. For a moment you’re all eyes and that massive eagle is all you see.

The unexpected size, the surprising speed, its white head and deadly yellow beak like a spearpoint, a weapon on a weapon…and then that big bird is gone. But no. It’s never really gone.

It soars in your memory, now and whenever you want, that sighting. Sometimes when you’re down in the dumps, depressed, dejected or disappointed for earthbound reasons, you can retrieve that moment.

You can remind yourself, hey, whatever else, at least you’re someone who’s seen a Bald Eagle on the wing. You own that sighting. You own a piece of that power. You’re never the same, you’re better.

When you feed the birds…

January 6th, 2024

You figure you’re being a good sport. You put feeders out. Seeds, maybe suet. Sure, you get a kick out of watching. But you feel you’re doing some good, helping birds make it through the winter, nourishing them, fattening them. But wait.

There’s another pair of eyes coldly watching. And agreeing with you about the “fattening” thing. The eyes of a predator. Eyes of hunger. And they’re glaring. Just look at the photo below. Let ‘em bore into you. Get a feel for nature “red in tooth and claw” as Tennyson famously wrote.

The ironic thing is that when you, kind citizen of the natural world, go out of your way to feed the birds you may very likely be feeding the bird—singular. Take a look in the surrounding trees. Don’t be surprised if you see a lone Cooper’s Hawk blending into the foliage, its markings made for camouflage, its beak made for butchery, its eyes made for watching, waiting.

And its preferred diet: small to medium-sized birds! Mostly caught on the wing. Again, just look at those eyes in Dr. Bob’s backyard photo. They say more than words. When you set out to feed the birds, you might indirectly be feeding a lightning-fast, cannibalistic Cooper’s Hawk.

That does NOT mean we should stop feeding our neighborhood birds. It simply means that we should know the score. It’s a hungry world out there. Look in the trees above your yard and see what might be looking back at you.

Thanks to Dr. Bob, photographer extraordinaire—the guy who sent in this shot of his backyard Cooper’s Hawk. He’s also the photographer who shot and wrote about a female Cardinal here in “Guest Essays” on December 10. No telling what we’ll get next from him. His cameras are set up, and he’s a two-fisted birdwatcher.

A Seasonal Moment

December 23rd, 2023

After a long winter’s hike, you’re nursing a beer in your favorite restaurant bar. You’d been out all morning looking for a Snowy Owl, but didn’t see one.

You’re no stranger to this bar, or this beer. Both are old friends. But there’s something different today. The place feels nicer. Why is that?

You gotta think about it. But first, you gotta hit the men’s room.

There’s a big guy in there who got stuck watching his kid while his wife shops in the neighborhood. He’s changing the kid’s diaper on the sink.

The atmosphere’s worse than usual in the men’s room. Plus, you can’t get at the sink.

It’s a deciding moment.

You’re pissed off because you didn’t see the Snowy Owl that many people have been talking about on the internet. Now this.

You want to give the guy a dirty look in the mirror, and say something like “cheeez!” Then leave, and slam the door.

Something stops you. Instead, you say, “Ah, the joys of fatherhood.”

You smile at the guy as he struggles. He looks up and says, “Tell me about it.” And smiles back. Now you both feel good instead of bad.

Back at the bar, it hits you. Why the place feels nicer.

It’s the lights. This restaurant bar is lit up with little holiday lights. They’re strung across the ceiling, over the bottles, around doorways.

You hate to say it—it’s not a two-fisted comment—but they’re kind of pretty. They give the place a…glow

Normally, you don’t care about things in a bar being pretty. Except for tall, blond Donna who sometimes sits with you.

No, you don’t care that they’re pretty. But you gotta wonder, why don’t they have these little lights all year ‘round?

~

This post was first published twelve years ago, and it seems worth posting again. It evokes a feeling that hasn’t changed much in a world that has. Enjoy the season.

Stuck on the ground.

December 18th, 2023

It must have happened. Picture it. You’re in prehistoric times. Cave people rubbing their eyes, waking up to the possibilities of intelligent thought. Looking around. Thinking. Wanting. Imagining…. one of them sees a bird. What’s the first thing this early human is thinking? (After “wonder what it tastes like”…).

That early human is thinking, “Jeez, wish I could fly like that!” There’s a tentative flapping of hairy arms, innocent hoping, resounding disappointment. Flap all you want, Grork, messy hair ain’t feathers. And you ain’t getting off the ground ‘til you get smart enough to invent aviation.

Prehistory repeats itself with human kids throughout time. A child of today sees a bird and thinks (after “wonder what it tastes like”)… “Jeez, wish I could fly!” There’s a tentative flapping of chubby arms. Disappointment repeats itself through the millennia.

The beautiful reality of avian life, and surely one of the factors behind the universal human need to become two-fisted birdwatchers…is that birds are built to fly. We have envied them through the ages, and that includes this morning…

You’re in your car at a stop sign near a suburban park. A Canada Goose calmly walks across the road in front of you. So you wait. He casually puts one clown-sized foot in front of the other. Step, step. You gotta wonder, “Why does a goose cross the road?”

This is NOT a reference to the old chicken joke. You’re in no mood for jokes. It’s an honest question. You think: hell, if you had wings you sure wouldn’t walk. You’d have flown to where you’re going. You’d have eyeballed the whole city from a bird’s-eye view just for fun. You’d have climbed high. Soared like a Top Gun jet. Banked, swooped, power-dived …A “honk” behind you! Not a goose. A driver in a car. This breaks your flight of imagination.

The guy’s wondering why you’re not moving. You realize the goose in front of you has now waddled to the curb and is off the road. You hit the gas. As you drive away, you muse about a curious fact of nature…

There are no animals, other than birds and humans, that walk on two legs. How can species that are so biologically different—we’re mammals and they’re hatched—be the only ones to have “bipedalism?” You try to imagine if there are any other bipeds. Kangaroos? No, they use tails and front legs sometimes. Apes? They’re not built for walking. Forget it.

Chalk it up to just another curious fact of life on Planet Earth. Where you’re stuck on the ground.

An unlikely origin

December 13th, 2023

Say you spend your childhood playing in smoky industrial prairies and wetlands at Chicago’s southeastern edges. How the hell are you going to become a birder. Or—better word—a birdwatcher. (Always had trouble with that popular word, “birder,” but we cover that gripe in another post long ago and not so far away).

How is a kid going to become a birdwatcher when nature is found beneath steel mill smokestacks, a mile from a paint refinery as the crow flies…and neighbors with a municipal dump. Yeah, crows do fly there. Don’t be surprised. Here’s something you might not expect. ALL the birds are there. The whole Chicago-area aviary.

The air doesn’t smell like pristine forest. Still, birds are where you find ‘em, where they have a mind to be, even where the pollution is. Goes against expectations. But birds have little interest in what we expect. Say you’re ten years old and exploring the prairie in the smog of a summer afternoon. You and friends were looking for snakes by lifting a flat rock or chunk of garbage, and pygmy rattlers would wriggle away while you’d jump and whoop, feeling like jungle explorers.

But then you see a Purple Gallinule. Time stops. This is not a backyard bird. It’s an ad for Jurassic Park. It gets you interested in birds. For life. You investigate, learn its name, its origin, its habits. Basically you like its brash coloration and knowing you know stuff about it. You become a two-fisted birdwatcher. Starting in the rank-smelling warm winds blowing across  prairies near factories. An unexpected origin for wildlife and a wild lifelong interest.

“One shot”

December 10th, 2023

Today’s guest essay is a departure from the recent one by Bob Grump. It comes to us from a different “Bob,” a “Dr. Bob,” and as much as we enjoy the attitude and yucks from “Bob Grump’s” occasional contributions, we appreciate the chance to switch gears and enjoy the serious tone, honest excitement and spontaneous photography that Dr. Bob has sent our way. 

 

“One Shot”

By Dr. Bob

After waking up in the morning, I usually stay in bed checking my phone for half an hour, but suddenly today for the first time, I felt the need to go downstairs because I thought…just maybe, I could get a photo of the elusive female cardinal. Her mate  poses for me frequently, but she seems to remain in the background, elusive.

As I entered my sunroom where I have my camera aimed at our birdfeeders with 2 inches of fresh snow on the ground, I was hoping to get that female in my viewfinder. For some reason, I raced downstairs much earlier than usual, not doing my morning stretches…strangely I felt I was to have a special meeting with “Lady Cardinal” early this morning.

But I was disappointed… no birds at the feeders, no birds on the ground. Then suddenly Ms. Cardinal flies to my suet feeder and perches on the top. The only bird out this morning! I figured she would disappear before I got my camera set up. She stayed, I think, posing for the shoot. Perfectly still on top of my feeder. It took me a minute to focus, and I just presumed she would fly away before I could press the shutter. She didn’t. I got only one shot, but it was good. I think she knew it, and she left.

You can’t convince me that we were unaware of each other. Why did I wake up early? Why did I leave my warm bed on a sunny cold morning with 2 inches of fresh snow? I never do this. Why did I feel that today I could get the shot of this lady Cardinal that has been elusive?

I ran downstairs, set the camera, waited only one minute. No birds around. Suddenly she appeared, 10 feet from my camera. Knowing the photo shoot was done, she left for better things to do. I left to eat breakfast. One shot. You can’t convince me she wasn’t posing and knew that I would comply.

“Appearing and Disappearing.”

December 7th, 2023

Last summer, we put a hummingbird feeder close to our kitchen window. Our Midwestern Ruby-throats appeared, sipped sugar water for a moment, then disappeared. That’s the motto of the hummingbird kingdom. “Appearing and disappearing.”

They made me recall the first time I saw any hummers. Years ago, I was a writer of TV ads on a trip to Hollywood where we’d shoot my commercials. I’d be in the film capital of the world, but also in a hummingbird capital.

The studio owner, a sixtyish success, invited me to join him and his wife for dinner at their home in the hills. My shy impulse was to decline. But during conversations while filming, I mentioned I’d hoped to see a hummingbird on the Coast, since I was somewhat of a bird nerd. “We have feeders on our patio,” he said. “Hummingbirds come in droves! We’ll eat out there.” I accepted.

The evening was mild, the dusk a hazy purple, air scented with eucalyptus and pine. The studio man and his wife were silver-haired, worldly and kind. Their dinner was California cool. And there was wine, a big topic. But also, hummingbirds. Western species I’d heard of, but some I had to look up later, like “Black-Chinned and “Costa’s.” They’d appear at the feeders for a quick visit, then disappear.

The evening was pleasant, but it was soon time to go. We had an early “call” in the morning. Studio business. Setup at seven. Actors in makeup; faces I recognized from sitcoms. Hollywood jazz. But I’d seen exotic hummingbirds. As I left the hilltop house, L.A. lay below, a sprawl of glittering lights to the sea.

I remember all that in detail when I see our hummingbirds. They bring it back, the sights, smells, socializing. Not long after that night, I’d heard that our kindly host had died suddenly. A guy who was happy all those years ago to invite a young business guest to his home in the Hills. Where we enjoyed seeing hummingbirds, humming, flitting, always on the move, appearing and disappearing.

“The belly is not red.”

December 4th, 2023

And…what’s a childish word like “belly” doing in the business of avian taxonomy? This gripe came to mind again while sighting a “Red-Bellied Woodpecker” today. If you mention its name to anybody all they hear is, “belly.” Ornithology screwed up. Or at least English naturalist Mark Catesby did in 1729 when he saddled this bird with its misguided name. Sorry, Mark, the bird’s belly is NOT RED.

People want to say, “Hey, look at that red-headed woodpecker!” But that name’s been taken by another species, and for good reason. No, today’s visitor is stuck with “Red-bellied.” A false and phony handle for this two-fisted bird with its jackhammer beak, black-and-white ladder-back pattern, tan chest, red top and neck.

We knew a guy who drove for Chicago’s Red-Top Cab Company years ago when cabs were not “private cars.” Maybe this woodpecker should be called “red topped.” Oh well, we’re just blowing off steam on a cold morning. But, c’mon, belly?

 

“Gulp”

November 29th, 2023

If I told you I was one happy Belted Kingfisher this morning, would you believe me? Of course not. Maybe you’d think Belted Kingfishers can’t talk. Maybe you’d think Belted Kingfishers can’t write. Maybe you’d think you’re not sure what a Belted Kingfisher is! Some kinda bird, right? Hold on. I’m a KING of birds. The king-fisher! I talk. I squawk. I write. Go with it.

This morning I was perched on a branch overlooking a wild little lake in an old Illinois forest. The sun was shining. The water was that bitchin’ greenish-gray you gotta love. The air smelled like weeds and fish. Great smells! Wait, fish? A great smell? Yeah! Delicious wild fish… mmmm!

And I dove off my branch, fast, (blink and you’d miss that move!) into the lake with a splash. And caught a fish! This is what I do, streaking point-first (my long sharp beak, the point of my story) and zooooming into the water where I speared a silvery fish that caught my eye. Then up and out. Wings working. Taking to the air. Head back, beak open, GULP, fish down the throat. Happy!

Ah, that cold, sleek, sweet, smooth, fleshy, bony, scaly, salty, pure food, a fish! But what really made me happy is that I was watched by a human half-hidden in the trees. Some guy with a shaggy head of hair, almost as wild as my Kingfisher crest! I’m happy to be seen doing my thing, hunting and splashing and fishing, flying and gobbling, looking sleek and cool while scoped out by the human.

Meanwhile, back at the branch…I’m sittin’ in the sun. Buuuuuuuurrrrrrp! Whoa, that was fishy. But almost as good comin’ up as goin’ down. Ah, does life in the wild get any better? Hope you’re still watchin’, shaggy head.