It’s hard to write upbeat stuff about warblers in clean Midwestern woodlands when you’ve got a blob of sludge the size of Puerto Rico heading for coastal zones along the gulf states and all around Florida.

Those steamy sunny places are where I’ve done some of the best bird watching of my life. I’ve seen Willets and Sanderlings in so many numbers they became junk sightings. I know they’re possible on Lake Michigan beaches but I almost never see them up here.

Down on the warm gulf I’ve seen Frigate Birds, Laughing and Bonaparte’s Gulls, Brown Pelicans flying low in single file, Anhingas, ducks, egrets and herons of all makes and models; ibises that look like they escaped from a zoo but didn’t.

I saw a Purple Gallinule one time—that was something to remember—countless sandpipers, and my favorite Ruddy Turnstones. I’ve taken for granted that there would be beaches with Common Terns, Least Terns, Caspian Terns. The list goes on. And it’s not a life list. It’s the freakin’ opposite.

Yeah, sure, the problems that the gulf oil slick might present for birds and other wildlife are only part of a multi-dimensional story. There’s the human cost. And the fishery story, the possible devastation of an industry. The blob of runaway oil could muck up a big chunk of the natural world if it’s not contained, and the unnatural world, too.

Even though we live up north, we’re watching what’s going on down there. We don’t know how the story’s going to end. Or when. But in the meantime, the spring warbler situation around here seems kind of trivial at the moment, and it’s going to have to play itself out without much commentary from us.

The woman across the street died suddenly. I wish I’d known her better, but our acquaintance was casual. I do remember that she was an adventurous traveler.

She and her husband had been to jungles, deserts and mountains. She’d rafted the Amazon. Trekked the Himalayas. Maybe she climbed Everest; I think there was some talk about that. I wish I’d listened better.

I saw the movie “Amelia” recently, and the actress who played Amelia Earhart, Hilary Swank, was tall and pretty, with a no-nonsense hairstyle and great smile. Like the real Earhart. Like my neighbor.

Earhart’s similarity to my neighbor extended beyond appearance. It included her adventurous spirit. I don’t know if Earhart was kind and personable, but our neighbor was.

When my wife got the news by phone she paled, and after hanging up, told me in a hushed voice about our neighborhood’s loss.

My first reaction, after a few expletives, was, “Hell, she explored Tibet.” As though I were saying: No, can’t be true; the woman once walked in the Himalayas, must be some mistake.

I guess I felt that a youthful, strong Himalayan explorer would live forever. Nothing about what I felt made sense. But then my wife said something that did.

“I’m glad she explored Tibet!”

This hit home, rang true, felt right, even offered a bit of solace. My wife communicated volumes in five words, and they made a pretty good eulogy, spoken privately and in shock.

What they meant was this: we can’t be sure how long we’ll be around, so those of us who are smart get out into the world and do things. Like see the Amazon and climb the Himalayas.

On Loren Eiseley’s headstone it says: “We loved the earth but could not stay.”

This statement applies to all of us, sorry to say. But at least our neighbor, the nice woman across the street got to see the earth. She climbed mountains in Tibet. We’ll miss her, but she didn’t miss much.

It’s not a chrome-dome. It doesn’t have a comb-over. It doesn’t have a thinning patch, receding hairline or bald spot. Get rid of the word “bald” altogether.

How did our Bald Eagles get such a stupid name? The science nerds who care about arcane things like bird taxonomy, and are picky about picking names, have blown it.

These guys changed the Baltimore Oriole to the Northern Oriole. Okay, they’ve got reasons. They changed the Marsh Hawk to the Northern Harrier even though Northern Harriers can live in Florida.

They changed the Rufous-sided Towhee, the Myrtle Warbler, and others. We’re not going to reopen that can. Two-fisted fans of this site have encountered similar rants. We’ll move on.

But the eagle thing is just plain wrong.

I was at Yellowstone Lake a while back on a bright, cold, clean morning with mountains in the distance, wild forest in the background. Inland pelicans and the promise of bears. A cool moment.

Very American. Purple mountains and all that. You could use it for a travel poster. Europeans would drop their tiny coffee cups and head for the airport. Yellowstone!

As though on cue, while I was thinking these American thoughts, a Bald Eagle flew by, low and slow. A great American moment. His thick, white head feathers lifted in the breeze and ruffled as he flew. That eagle wasn’t bald.

Call it the white-headed eagle if you want. Call it the snow-capped eagle, I don’t care. Yeah, I know, the word “bald” has linguistic derivations that go beyond the common meaning today by which someone like, say, George Costanza or Terry Bradshaw might be described.

It’s from “balled” in old or middle English and meant white and shiny. Well, balled has meant other things in my neighborhood. But all this is beside the point. The eagle I saw wasn’t bald. No Bald Eagle is bald. Its name’s a bald-faced lie.

Somebody oughta tell a taxonomist.

Footnote and afterthought: By the way, “taxonomist” is not such a hot word either. It means “classifier of biological names.” But there are plenty of yo-yos around who think it means taxidermist. Which is a guy who stuffs dead animals, puts plastic eyes in their heads and makes them into creepy displays. Or trophies. Or both.

It’s cold and windy in the woods. I’m on the planet of no birds. There’s nothing. It’s early in the season, so this isn’t too surprising.

But it’s curious that I’ve been seeing pictures of migrants on ambitious birding websites. Brown Thrashers, Eastern Meadowlarks, Red-headed Woodpeckers. Some guy even got a picture of a Scarlet Tanager. How can that be; it’s only April.

But my woods are bleak. There’s a visitor’s cabin near the parking area, and the rangers who work there have feeders out back. Seeds, suet, fruit. There must be birds there. But, damnit, I’m not going near the place.

I have this thing about feeders. They’re one step above going to a zoo. Why not visit the bird house and get excited about Flamingos? No way. The feeder’s unsatisfying, a kind of cheating.

So I stay away. As I walk the empty trail, I wonder why I’m here. Two reasons: One, after a day in an office it’s good to get into the wild. Two, I try to put some “daily sightings” on this website. I’m here for both of us. You, me. If I strike out, I’m sorry.

Near an open field, I see something eye-catching in the weeds. Man-made, small, flat, greenish. Money? It’s a five dollar bill, I think.

Then I get closer and discover it’s not the real deal, just an old coupon for a pizza restaurant, a piece of paper shaped and patterned like a fiver. I put it in my pocket to throw away later, and head out of the woods.

As I walk, I’m imagining that every bird in the county must be at the feeder behind the cabin. They must be in the trees above it and on the ground around it. All species, sizes and colors. Common and rare.

I’ve seen no birds on the trail where I walked, and have no five bucks, either. But the air was good to breathe, the feel of the office is now gone, and I’m ready to hike back to the car, back to whatever’s next.

I never went near the feeder. A moral victory of sorts. I don’t care for zoos and don’t count on feeders. When I tell you about a bird, I’d rather that it not be eating out of human hands. I’d rather it be a sighting in the wild, the real deal.

What could be better than a Cubs game in April at Wrigley Field. You need two fists just to hold the hot dogs and beers.

You like the outdoors? There’s nothing like the view that hits you when you enter Wrigley. The green infield and outfield. The vines. The sky. The charge in the air.

Wait, isn’t this supposed to be about birds?

Well, sometimes you get Baltimore Orioles and Toronto Blue Jays. But sometimes, you settle for Houston Astros. Which isn’t bad when they lose.

So there you are: a two-fisted bird watcher at Wrigley, enjoying the sun, the wild crowd, John Cusack singing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch. This is so corny it’s cool.

While you’re watching the game, and eating nachos, and while Mike Fontenot is getting walked because he’s dangerous, and while big Derrek Lee (D. Lee as he’s called around here), is coming up, while all this is going on…you see a gull over the field.

Hmmm. What kind? Wait, no. Who cares.

You care what kind of pitch Lee’s going to get. You care about not spilling nachos when everybody stands. You don’t care about no stinkin’ gull.

But you gotta wonder: the gull’s wings are unusually wide. And skinny. Like those of an Albatross. You think, hey, Albatross. Not a bad symbol for this place. The Cubs have a curse because they haven’t won a world series in like a hundred years. So Albatross might fit. It’s a curse bird, right out of the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” a two-fisted poem.

Enough. Albatrosses aren’t in Chicago. If they are, notify Illinois Birders’ Forum right away. And poems aren’t mentioned at Cubs games. Let’s move on.

But then you remember that the Albatross is known as the “Gooney Bird,” a great name. And appropriate at the moment, because there are gooney birds behind you, rooting for the Astros.

Suddenly……none of this matters!

The musings about the gull, the albatross, the gooney guys behind you, the nachos that will fall, none of it, because Lee connects on a low & outside slider with a sound that means homer. The ball goes out of the park, onto Waveland Avenue. A Wrigley moment, a game winner, a 3-run blast. And that’s all that matters.

But as you shuffle out of Wrigley after the game while 40,000 people are singing “Go Cubs Go,” you think: It was a Herring Gull. Could’ve been a Ring-billed Gull. But no, too big, it was a Herring Gull.

And you figure that just thinking this thought at this moment makes you kind of a gooney bird yourself. But who cares. Cubs win!

My sighting of the day is a bird that made my dad laugh. I mean its name made him laugh. At least when I said it. I was just a kid.

I saw this bird again today on a small lake near my house. If my dad were still around, he’d have called it a duck. And he’d have had a famous proverb to back him up: “If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck!”

This dubious wisdom is attributed to a guy named James Whitcomb Riley. Funny how poets have fancy middle names. Would he have been famous if he were known as Jim Riley? If a guy named Jim Riley said, “If it walks like a duck…” would anybody listen?

But Riley was wrong about the duck thing. The bird I saw swam like a duck but it was no duck. It was….okay, here’s the part where my dad would laugh if he were around…..it was a Pied-billed Grebe.

You can’t blame my dad for laughing at the name. And for being surprised at me. Why would a little boy call a duck a “Pied-billed Grebe?” Could that kid grow up to be a two-fisted guy?

Well, yeah.

I liked seeing the grebe today, as I do every year around this time. I like watching its disappearing act. Every few seconds it drops under the surface, then pops up a few yards away.

Other than that, it looks like a duck. But it’s a grebe. And the markings on its beak are “pied.” Pied means mottled. At least it did back when bird-namers used words like “pied.”

So, today I saw a Pied-billed Grebe. It’s got a funny name. And I’m still an odd duck for knowing it. This made me think of my dad and I laughed, just like he did.

I pull into the parking lot of a forest preserve. Kill the motor, grab binoculars from the back seat and get ready to leave the car.

Nearby, a car is backing out of a space that’s marked with diagonal lines. An illegal space. Illegal, because it’s in front of a garbage can.

As the car pulls out, a guy with a digi-scope walks past. A serious birder. He notices that the space wasn’t legal and glowers at the driver. Then, looking down, shakes his head.

The guy in the car stops backing up. Suddenly. Through his open window, he says to digi-scope, “Got a problem, sport?” Digi-scope shakes his head again, as though to say, “what a jerk.”

The driver leaves his car now. Digi-scope turns and says, “Unless you want this scope up your ass, keep moving. And learn where to park.”

There was a bit more muttering, but digi-scope kept walking and the guy in the car drove away. That was a scene more suited to a barroom than a forest preserve. Since when do bird watchers behave like this?

Then a thought hit: Could it be the “two-fisted” image? Could it be the stuff we write about here? Could it be our attitude? Are we changing the way birders behave?

Ah, get real. Those guys probably never heard of the website. I left the parking lot, went into the woods and saw birds, but I always see birds. My real sighting of the day was a couple of bozos with fists ready to fly.

Later, on the trail I walked past digi-scope and we nodded. I thought I saw a two-fisted birdwatcher logo on the guy’s T-shirt, peeking out from under his vest. But maybe it was my imagination.

I’m on a trail. Far into the forest. It’s isolated. Nothing but trees, deadfall, undergrowth, mud, gravel, dead leaves. The trees don’t care I’m there. Their indifference is welcome. They expect nothing.

Then I see a guy walking up the trail toward me. I see him when he’s far away, and as he gets closer we look at each other. When we’re close enough to speak, he expects something. He expects me to say “hi,” and of course I do. And he says “hi,” this stranger.

Such greetings are built into the culture of the trail.

But it got me thinking: When we’re out of the woods, out in the man-made world, on the streets of the city, in the malls, in the halls of office buildings, guys are passing by, all the time. And of course we never nod and say hi.

It’s the culture of the cultured world to keep our own company and pretty much ignore those we don’t know. But in the woods, we say “hi.” It’s unthinkable not to.

I wondered about that today as I walked in the woods and passed that stranger. I have no answer for why this is the way it is. It feels right, though. I’m not going to think about it any more.

In addition to the guy, who was unremarkable, I saw a Hairy Woodpecker with a long beak and red on his head, very bright in the sun. I saw a Brown Creeper and a Swainson’s Thrush. I saw other birds, too, but my time in the woods wasn’t really about birding.

It was about being in the woods, being absorbed into the cold wildness, being somewhere that wasn’t man-made for an hour or so. I guess I didn’t really mind running into a guy and nodding and saying “hi,” but I’d have liked it just as well if he hadn’t come along.

You’re in the gravel parking area where the trail starts. It’s cloudy, threatening. You hike toward the river, a mile away. No others in sight. You’ve got the woods to yourself.

Then it starts to rain. Turn back? Hell no. This is where you want to be. So what if it’s wet. So what if you’re wet.

You see a Rufous-sided Towhee on the ground. This bird is now called the Eastern Towhee. You dislike name-changing. But in fairness you grudgingly admit that it always felt dweeby to say “rufous-sided.”

Then you see a bird you didn’t expect. An American Redstart, actually a couple: the orange and black male and his yellow and brown female. You move on. Heading to the river.

Down there you see a Northern Waterthrush, or maybe it’s a Louisiana Waterthrush. They look alike. You’ll figure it out later with a birdbook. But you think it’s a Louisiana Waterthrush, and you’ll be right.

Then you see an Ovenbird. No doubt. Stripes and color on the head. It lets you look. There are Palm Warblers all over. And a Wilson’s Warbler that’s there and gone. You stand near the river. The leaves act like an umbrella.

You see a Green Heron along the far bank. Orange legs, red-brown body. Maybe some green on the back, but not much. You wonder why they named him a Green Heron. You try to think of a better name, but a beaver waddles across the trail.

You forget about heron names. This dark brown animal is big, the size of a chocolate lab. But round. You’ve been seeing gashes in trees along the river, bare white wood where these animals chewed. Chips on the ground.

The beaver slips into the river. Its wake reminds you of a submarine. This was a first: everyone notices beaver sign but nobody sees a beaver. They’re shy. Maybe on this rainy day he counted on privacy.

You hear woodpeckers but don’t see them. Another thing you don’t see is people. Maybe that’s why the day’s interesting. Wildlife lays low if people are around.

The redstarts are thinking: what’s wrong with that guy…doesn’t he have the sense to get out of the rain? They might have a point. You leave the woods. But not because you have sense. You stayed because you had sense. And you saw a beaver.

Two seconds. That’s all it takes. At the trailhead you get a feel for what’s in the woods, what you’re going to see. You know it’s going to be active. Or quiet.

Today was warm. I figured there’d be a lot of birds in the trees. Early migrants. Excited residents. Activity.

The trees were dead. No sound. No movement. Nothing. If I walked for an hour it would be the same story. I walked anyway. It’s good to be in the woods.

And I thought, it’s funny how you know right away. Like when you size up a person. You like the guy or trust the girl. Your first impression is right. There’s a book about this called “Blink” by Malcom Gladwell. But we’re not here to talk about books.

We’re here to share a simple idea: Maybe birds come in schools.

Like fish. When snorkeling in the ocean you see areas of blank water, then clusters of fish. Schools. Maybe it’s like that with birds.

Maybe a school drops into my patch of woodland. Or it doesn’t. On days when it does, I see birds. All kinds. On days when the school passes by, the woods are quiet.

An unusual thought. Unscientific maybe. So what. It’s just a wild idea. But it works. Sometimes there’s nothing much to see, and sometimes there is.

As an aside, on this warm day of no activity I did see one unexpected, out-of-place bird. A Double-crested Cormorant, flying fast with jerky wings. It didn’t belong around here. Yeah, there’s a river not far, but cormorants are rare.

Even on slow days, there’s usually something to see. Like this odd duck. This odd cormorant. Cutting class, maybe. Because school was clearly not in session.

People ask me for tips about bird watching. I’m no expert. But I’ve seen birds in a few places. And I write about them. So I get these questions.

Today, out in wild country near my home, a place of old forest, meadow and more forest, I got a simple idea.

I realized that there’s a tip I could give people about bird watching. I know a place where I always see more birds than any other place.

It’s the edge. The edge of the forest. Or the edge of the meadow. Depending on how you look at it.

This is the spot where the woods butt up against a clearing. It’s a pretty clear-cut line. On one side, there’s shady forest. And on the other, there’s sunny open area, a place with groundhogs, snakes and dragonflies; short grass, long grass.

The birds that hang out in the deep, cool woods come to the edge to get a glimpse of what’s going on in the sun, I guess. There are new bugs to eat there, fresh air to breathe, a little creek with water to drink. Birds of the forest are not as likely to be seen deep in the forest as they are on its edges.

And birds of the open areas, sparrows, kingbirds, goldfinches, swallows, species that like meadows and prairies are also drawn to the edge. There’s a whole other selection of bugs there, the kind that seek shade, like mosquitoes and black flies.

At the edge, you’ll get to see both forest birds and field birds. Go stand there. Just wait. They’ll come around. That’s my advice. You want the best chance to see some birds? Remember what I said. It’ll give you an edge.

I walk in the woods when I can. They’re different from other places in my world. They’re old, rough, wild, natural. I used to think they were timeless. But I was wrong about that. They’re not timeless at all. How do I know? A little bird told me.

A Ruby-crowned Kinglet. The trees were full of these very small birds today. Might’ve been Golden-crowned Kinglets mixed in. I see them around this time of year, every year. Late March. Early April. Kinglet season. You can set your watch by it.

And the woods have Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers now. Some live around here, but many travel through, and we see them in early April.

The woods are not timeless. They’re a giant timepiece. Wildflowers are coming through dead leaves and patches of snow now. I don’t know their names, but they show up on cue.

And there’s that thrush, a Swainson’s Thrush. Every time I see one, and I see them this time of year, I figure I’d rather see a Wood Thrush, with its rust color and bolder spots. But we get Swainson’s Thrushes like clockwork.

In a few weeks warblers come through. The earliest can be seen any time now: Myrtle Warblers. I know their name’s been changed to something else (Yellow-rumped), but I like to resist the movement of time and the changing of names that goes with it.

In a few weeks we get the colorful birds, orioles, tanagers, buntings, grosbeaks. We’ll hear them, we’ll see them, we’ll stop wearing sweaters. We’ll be another year older.

That’s okay. It’s all okay. Older is wiser. But it wasn’t wise to think that the woods are a place where time would stand still. What a joke. They’re a big, breathing calendar and they rub your face in the passage of time. Might as well enjoy it.

Okay, we all know that computer art programs can alter reality. We’ve seen Avatar. Anything’s possible.

So we’d like to think we’re cool enough to resist the reaction we had when our friend Pandy sent us these photos. But the reaction we couldn’t stop was to say: What the hell!

These shots and others like them are floating around the internet, and we make no claim to originality here. But in case you haven’t seen them, we thought you’d want to take a look.

They’ve been created by a website called “Worth 1000,” and there are lots of manipulated photos there. Check it out if you’re interested.

Meanwhile, what kind of birds would you call these? Fox Cardinal? Jayhound? Warbling Retriever? Got better ideas?

The Chicago Sun Times reported yesterday that cougars are moving into the Chicago area. This could make bird watching a bit more exciting. It could make the places that we’ve been calling wilderness into something better: Real wilderness.

Modern day mountain man and author Doug Peacock is said to have said, “It ain’t wilderness unless there’s something in it that can eat you.”

Well, if we get cougars, our wilderness gets more interesting. And I know the feeling. I hiked mountain trails in Colorado and saw warning signs about mountain lions. The signs were confusing. They said contradictory things like, “don’t threaten,” and at the same time, “wave your arms and look big.”

No matter. I was glad the signs were there. I was glad the mountain lions were there. It made the hike exciting. There was a little buzz at the back of my neck. I felt I was being watched. I felt I was in the wild.

And I saw a Clark’s Nutcracker, Gray Jays, Black-billed Magpies, a Golden Eagle far above it all; a Western Tanager that posed for a pretty good picture, Mountain Bluebirds. And others. The birding was good. And there was that buzz throughout. Two-fisted bird watching.

So if cougars are spreading  into our area, I say, okay. And I’m not surprised. A year or so ago, there was a big male cougar sighted by awe-struck citizens as he worked his way toward us from Wisconsin, then through Chicago’s north suburbs, and finally to the north side near Cubs Park in a busy neighborhood where cops gunned him down. You can see this on You Tube.

My theory is that the lion was heading to Lincoln Park Zoo, which isn’t far from where he was shot. This in-city zoo has open-air lion cages, and maybe the scent carried. Only a lion would know for sure.

So if cougars are coming in significant numbers to our area, well, let ‘em come. We’ve got enough deer to go around. And it’ll make bird watching in the forests and fields around here have a bit more of a buzz to it.

Just remember, wave your arms. No, that wasn’t it, look small. No that wasn’t it, look big. Ah, forget it. You’ll probably never see a cougar. But don’t let that stop you from looking for a Pileated Woodpecker, Bald Eagle or Summer Tanager. You really could see one of those.

Long ago in a forgotten bookstore I found a book about European birds. There were birds I’d never seen, names I’d never heard. I felt stupid for not realizing this alternate universe was there.

I read that book like a novel. On trips to Europe I found myself looking at jackdaws and tits. I looked for chaffinches and a real Robin, not the American knock-off. I hoped to see Green Woodpeckers but didn’t. Woodpeckers that are green?

That European bird book has been gone for years. When I’m in a book store, I check around, hoping to replace it. So it was good to receive an email from Princeton University Publishing asking if I’d comment on their new field guide, “Birds of Europe, Second Edition.”

That’s like asking a fan of Da Bears if he’d comment on Chicago pizza.

One reason for their “Second Edition” is that the wacky world of taxonomy keeps changing. And it’ll change again. In their intro, authors Lars Svensson, Killian Mullarney and Dan Zetterstrom address next-wave organization in a way that is unintentionally hilarious:

“…in future editions…the oldest families would begin with shrikes and orioles, then…together tits, warblers, bulbuls, larks, reedlings and swallows; thrushes and flycatchers would come close together while pipits & wagtails would be fitted in between sparrows and finches. Well, let us not cross that bridge until we come to it!”

Reedlings?

The drawings are smaller than I would have liked, and the text takes up lots of space. But the book is portable. In it, you get 772 species, 32 introduced or variants and 118 visitors. 3,500 color drawings. And lots of captions. Major captions.

The DuPont’s Lark has captions saying: “often stretches neck,” or “long” (pointing to the beak), or “beware confusion with Crested Lark molting its crest.” When you’re in Central Spain these things might come in handy.

There’s a color map for every species. And here’s something smart that not all bird books realize: maps and birds are together. You don’t have to flip around.

Okay, we’re not normally in the business of reviewing. But in our two-fisted opinion, this book gets two fists, way up.

We don’t associate drinking with birding. Why not? Both can be an escape. Both can make you act nutty. Both can be addictive.

But forget all that. We’re not going to talk about birding and drinking. It’s been done already, and done well, by the well-done blog, “10,000 Birds.” They covered the subject earlier this week.

Reading their post got us thinking: The real problem isn’t drinking and birding. It’s drinking and WRITING ABOUT birding.

Or, drinking and writing about anything.

Writing when buzzed can be an occupational hazard. Creativity’s juiced and inhibitions float away. You crank out stuff that reads like Hemingway. Until next morning when it reads like crap.

They oughta add another warning to booze bottles and beer cans: “Don’t operate machinery, be pregnant, drive vehicles, watch birds, or write anything while using this product.”

There ought to be a term for drinking and writing, equivalent to DUI (Driving Under the Influence). This could be: “WUI,” (Writing Under the Influence).

And there’s a related crime: “EUI.” (E-mailing Under the Influence).

Once you hit the send key your tipsy email zooms like a Peregrine Falcon into the world of permanent things. You can’t take back a word.

The two-fisted poet, Omar Khayyam, wrote: “…the moving finger writes and having writ moves on, nor all your piety nor wit can lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”

Sobering words. We know them all too well after we’ve pressed the send key when “EUI.”

The whole thing’s a downer. Thinking about it makes you want a shot of Jack or one of those Australian beers that come in two-fisted cans. Just don’t write anything afterward.

Or if you do, and you will, don’t hit send.

Owls don’t just hoot. They are a hoot. Some look like little space creatures that waddled off a flying saucer. And when you see one, it might not be where you expect.

I was in an office in the big city. The neighborhood is mostly concrete, glass and traffic. There’s a lone tree in front of the building. Every year it grows a few anemic leaves. City beautification. But an oasis for birds that get caught downtown.

From the 4th-floor window we can look into its branches.

I’ve seen Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, Downy Woodpeckers and Flickers; Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Brown-headed Cowbirds. Tanagers and Indigo Buntings. Not all at once. But the whole Midwest bird book has paid visits to that city tree.

One morning there was an owl. Our sharp-eyed V.P. pointed it out. She doesn’t miss things. She knew I’d be interested. ‘We have an owl,” she said.

I looked and came away empty. I was expecting something owl-like. Once, miles from the city, I shined a flashlight on a Great Horned owl. It was hawk-big, with ear-like tufts and huge eyes. So I had expectations. But there was nothing like that in our tree.

Then I saw it. Huddled against the trunk, sat a little…thing. Could it be an owl? It looked like a baby Ewok. Half the size of a loaf of bread. No ear tufts. And its eyes, normally an owl field mark, were closed. Well, it worked nights; this was time to sleep.

“Saw Whet,” I said.

“Saw what?” the V.P. said.

“Saw Whet.” I said.

“Say what?”

“A Saw Whet owl.”

This is the only breed of small owl in our part of the country. Screech Owls, Barred Owls, Barn Owls, Short-eared,  Long-eared and Great Horned Owls are way bigger.

It sat nine-to-five, eyes shut. Before we left that night, we looked again. Its eyes opened. It looked back. The following day it was gone. Every time we walked past that window, for the next few weeks, we glanced at the spot where it had been.

It never showed. Although we had to look hard, because it was good at blending. It’s wise to blend in if you’re going to spend the day outdoors with your eyes closed. But being wise came as no surprise. It may not have looked like an owl, but it was.

The testosterone in the room is so thick you can cut it with a machete. These guys are tough tamales. Their uniform isn’t jungle or desert camo, although at one time it might have been.

Today, the uniform is suits. Guys in ties. Hard guys in ties. Meeting in a corporate conference room. Numbers are being discussed and they’re not funny these days.

One guy used to play hockey and now coaches it on the side. One guy used to take a bruiser from the construction department with him on customer complaints. When I’d heard this I asked him if he needed the protection. He calmly replied that the big guy was there to hold him back in case he lost his temper. He’d been a barroom brawler. I made a note not to get in this guy’s face.

One guy was a black belt in one martial art after another, until he ran through them all. Now he boxes. A simpler sport, and more direct. One guy’s a fiftyish hot blonde woman who looks thirtyish and can shut off any argument with a stare that freezes blood.

And the beat goes on. There were a few more of these characters. All doing okay in a world that wasn’t.

A break in the action, and small talk becomes required. Somebody says to me, “And what are you doing for fun, these days?”

By the way, did I say that I belonged in that group? I did. I was a walking declaration of independence. I’d gone head to head with every person in that room and come out ahead.

But back to the question. I say, “bird watching.” No response. Then I say, “I put together a website. Check it out, if you want: “Two-fisted Birdwatcher.”

Nods all around. There’s a vibe in the room and it’s saying: “that’s cool.” This has nothing to do with me and what I’m doing. It has to do with you and what you’re doing. You, who are reading this.

Bird watching is cool. If you don’t think so, that’s tough. Just like the guys in this room. Just like the bird watchers who are out in the woods today, or taking pictures of an eagle over a dead cornfield. Or holding binoculars on the shore when the wind is polar but there are rare ducks in the water.

And every one of the guys in that room asked for your web address, two-fisted birdwatchers.

I don’t like traveling. I like having traveled. There’s a difference. My writer friends tell me they don’t like writing; they like having written. I understand.

But back to traveling. One thing that makes traveling okay is that you get to see a different class of birds.

Not that I arrive with binoculars in hand. I don’t think about birds at first when visiting somewhere new. I start out interested in the place. The architecture, people, cars.

Different regional vegetation stands out, too. After leaving Chicago, the foliage you see in the south, west or mountain states can remind you of the planet where they filmed Avatar.

(As a quick aside, did you know they have palm trees in Ireland? Nobody believes me. I’ve seen them. It may be cold and wet, but it stays above freezing and that’s what the palms need.)

Back to birds. Back to America, either the bottom half or the mountain part. Was that a Black-billed Magpie? We don’t get them in Chicago. Or any other kind of magpies.

On a trip to Colorado I saw a Red Crossbill. I’d only been there an hour and I noticed a fat reddish bird with a screwy beak in a pine tree. I said, “That’s a first.”

The bird replied, “Welcome to Colorado, guy. I’m Red Crossbill. Good to make your acquaintance.” Or so I imagined.

I hadn’t gone to the Rockies to see birds. I had business. But without trying, I saw a few more magpies that day and a rust-colored Rufous Hummingbird, another first. One day there was a Golden Eagle overhead. I got a photo of a Clark’s Nutcracker. But that’s not the point.

The point is that birds make travel interesting. They’re like an outdoor mini-bar. The mini-bar in your room is fun. You don’t have those little booze bottles and cans of nuts when you’re home.

And outside the hotel, you can see birds that you don’t have back home either.

….I was on a ledge. On the side of a mountain.

Below me the U.P. went to the horizon. A big drop-off at my feet. The forest down there lay far away, solid and dark green. There was a mountain range in the distance.

A hawk with wide wings hung in the air below me. Pretty strange, looking down at a hawk from above. It was a Red-shouldered Hawk, not that identification mattered much just then.

But I looked. Had to aim the binoculars past my feet, past the ledge’s rim. The sun was shining on me, and on the hawk’s back, highlighting its red-brown wing patterns. Interesting.

But where was I? I lowered the binoculars. The hawk twisted its tail and banked away. I looked at my hands. They were gripping the binoculars, hard. Like fists. I was pissed.

I had walked out of the woods, but now I was on an escarpment. I checked the map and it was there. Hadn’t paid attention before; didn’t know what the wavy line meant.

I looked along the ledge in both directions, realizing it had to be part of the trail. There was a blue diamond on a rock near some trees. I could barely make it out.

I looked at my two fists again. Side-by-side on the binoculars, bunched and beat-up. The phrase hit: “two-fisted.” I knew what it meant. I figured, c’mon, guy, get your ass in gear. Move out.

I went to the blue diamond, then the next, following them back into the trees. Two-fisted hiking. No choice. And things weren’t bad. It had been good to see the hawk below the ledge. A rare perspective. Me, higher than a hawk.

And I liked the insight about two-fistedness, with the binoculars being a focal point for the way two fists get a grip. I walked.

An hour later, maybe two, maybe three, as it was getting dark, I found a gap in the trees. I went through it and there was the road. A logging truck came grinding along. The friendly driver let me hop on back. We drove out.

I was sitting against logs that smelled of sap. I was scratched, bug-bit and sweaty. I turned my hat around and let the wind blow in my face. I felt great. I was no Stanley in the Congo. Just a guy who went bird watching and got stupid about it.

But I’d been higher than a hawk out there. That was something. And I’d had the thought about two fists on binoculars. That was a first. I figured that having a two-fisted attitude was the way to get out. More than that, it was the way to be.