Sunday, early. Bushwhacking through woods and fields. You see the first waves of fall migrants. Warblers, thrushes, hawks in groups. It’s a whole new ball game as the season changes.

But you can’t stay.

You gotta get home to watch the Bears kickoff. During the game, a familiar idea comes to mind: Stereotype busting.

(It’s the reason behind this website. You know: birders are rugged, not stereotypical geeks. We’ve said this before.)

How did the Bears kick a stereotype right out of the stadium? Here’s how:

Today’s new coach is a thin guy in glasses, and they say he’s got a law degree. Not exactly the old-time image of “Da Bears.”

Never underestimate anybody.

He was a college quarterback, then a big-time winner in cold Canadian pro football. A stereotype buster.

You liked watching the birds change with the season as you slogged through the wilds in the morning. And later that day you liked seeing an intellect in glasses have his team kick ass.

The only bird in the quiet woods was a Great Crested Flycatcher. It’s not unusual, normally. But normal isn’t always normal any more.

You hadn’t seen one for a while and it triggered the thought of a Ferruginous Hawk. Why? It didn’t look anything like a hawk. But there was a link somewhere in your mind.

You think of a story written years ago, buried now in the “Stories” section of this website. “The Ferruginous Hawk.”

The link between this story and the sighting of a single flycatcher in an empty woodland is there, maybe—but you’d have to read the story again to know for sure.

And you could do that. Because of a link. You could click the last word in this post, and be taken there.

It’s just a piece of short fiction, written for the hell of it. But some stories get under your skin. They surprise you by coming to the surface when you don’t expect it.

Like when you see a lone Great Crested Flycatcher. A bird that’s no Ferruginous Hawk. But still, there’s a link.

Today, a neighbor said we’ve got beavers. No smartass reply welcome. The guy was serious. Some trees were gnawed, and might fall.

We live near water. Nice to sit at the end of the day and look at this water with trees reflected in it.

In one of the trees an American Bittern stares down at you. This wading bird should be in reeds, but it’s up a tree. Birds do what they want.

There are orioles and tanagers in these shoreline woods. Phoebes, too. They like to hunt over the water and return to a hanging branch. You see Belted Kingfishers sometimes.

And Red-winged Blackbirds very often. You might think these are so common they’re boring. But they never get boring. None of this stuff gets boring.

The neighbor said the powers that be in this community are thinking of hiring a beaver removal service. “Humane relocation” guaranteed. A claim that makes your BS detector go off.

But if more trees get chewed, it could come to that. Leave it to the beavers. Let’s hope they relocate on their own.

When you’re out in the deep woods, you might focus on a woodpecker, and discover there’s a porcupine on the next branch.

Or you look at vultures picking at something in a clearing, and notice that a coyote is looking back at you from the tree line.

It’s good to get out where the birds are. More than good. It’s wild.

While birding, you might see muskrat, beaver, mink, snapping turtles, alligators. You’ll come across deer, a sure thing.

Could be you’ll see snakes, moose, elk, fox, antelope, javelinas, armadillos, wild sheep, maybe a bear.

You might spot a Pine Marten, if you’re lucky.

Marten sounds like a bird’s name. When you talk about it later, people think you’re talking about a Purple Martin, something like that.

But it’s no bird. It’s a predatory mammal, all fur, teeth and claws. It hunts in trees, and is rarely seen.

“Pine Marten” is also the name of a fiction piece in our Stories section.

Well, we call it fiction. But, like everything mentioned here, it comes from real life.

Stereotype breaking took an audible twist today.

We already know that the whole point of this website is to break the stereotype that bird watchers are dweeby.

They’re wildlife explorers of all kinds and can’t be pigeon holed. This is made clear on our home page, and in the short essay about our name.

But back to the audible twist.

A guy you met today, no dweeb, says, “Damnit, I’m not seeing the birds I’m hearing!”

He chugs the rest of his beer, crushes the can like a paper cup, then goes on.

“I heard a Black-capped Chickadee, Cardinal, Northern Oriole, Hermit Thrush…”

And he names some others.

Then says, “I didn’t have binoculars, wasn’t near feeders, and the trees are too thick. All I could do was hear ‘em.”

It was a complaint. But you took it as a testament to this guy’s ears and his knowledge of birdcalls.

You think to yourself, hey, a new twist in stereotype breaking: the Two-Fisted Bird Listener.

A while back, you were in a Chicago bar. Through an alley window you saw a fairly uncommon Eastern Towhee.

There were some city weeds among the cracked pavement there. Still, you wouldn’t go in that alley to see birds. Maybe you’d go to see rats.

But when it comes to birds, you gotta expect the unexpected. Birds are found where you find them.

Same thing goes for finding two-fisted birdwatchers.

You know a guy, six-one, two-twenty, mostly muscle. Played starting center years ago in high school. He’s been known to scare bouncers in night clubs.

These days he’s into the wife and kids, pizza, workouts, real estate deals. Not exactly the old-school image of a birder.

(We don’t like the old-school image of birders. That’s what this website is all about).

Today you got an email from this guy with some excitement in it. He wrote: “Hey, just saw a Ruby-throated Hummingbird out my bedroom window!”

Little bird. Big guy. Is it surprising that he cared? Hell, no. Two-fisted birdwatchers, like birds themselves, are found where you find them.

Saturday April 27. Dateline: the couch. There’s a sprained back in the picture, but you’re too busy to care about it.

Because you’re doing two kinds of bird watching.

One: you’re looking out the window. There’s been floodwater out there recently, so you’re seeing an uncommon Caspian Tern circling. He’s lost or nuts. You’re not on the Caspian Sea.

Two: you’re watching a rare bird named Robinson make history in the Bulls playoff against the Nets.

This guy is a five-nine, one-man show in a world of giants. He’s turning the tide in a game that was going downhill. It takes Robinson and his two-fisted teammates three overtimes to win, but they do, with historic stats.

Nate Robinson proves that little is big. Impossible is possible. Man can fly.

But what about the Caspian Tern? You saw it through your window, a sighting appreciated in Illinois. But it wasn’t the rarest of the day. Not with Nate Robin…son making a kind of rare bird life-list this season.

Search Caspian Terns on the net for your birdwatching fix. Then search Nate Robinson’s game-four performance in the Bulls-Nets playoff game for your two-fisted fix.

Take your kids to Disney World over the years, and they change like time-lapse photography.

This place makes you notice time passing. You also notice birds. Including a favorite, which I’ll get to in a minute.

First, quick impressions: A Mockingbird on an umbrella table. A pair of Ospreys hunting over Bay Lake. They don’t care if the lake’s manmade. Its fish are real.

Anhingas and Double-crested Cormorants are on the shoreline. White Ibises walk among crowds. Long-legged tropical birds acting like pigeons. Goofy.

Black Vultures and Turkey Vultures watch. Maybe a goofy Ibis is dead. Or a feral pig rots in the palmettos. There’s a lot to eat at Disney World.

A Wild Turkey walks the golf course. Boat-tailed Grackles are common. American Coots float in Fantasy Land. A Bald Eagle circles above it all.

Then there’s an all-time favorite bird. He was around when you were a kid and still is. Things change, but not him.

Dave Brubeck died a few weeks ago. Saw this while working at my computer. Hell. Brubeck.

Well, the guy lives on in a jazzy, smoky, boozy, sexy, moody and rhythmic corner of your mind.

What’s the connection between Brubeck and going hiking? Why mention him on a birdwatching website?

There’s not much smoky, boozy, jazzy stuff happening in the woods.

At least Charlie Parker, also a jazz great, was named “Bird.” But wait.

When I heard Brubeck split the scene, I decided to take a break and walk in the wild for a while. I left work, left my computer with its news of the day, and got into the day.

Brubeck’s quartet made “Take Five” immortal. Even better, it was on an album called “Time Out.” These escapist titles send a clear message.

Maybe they’re the connection. Or maybe it just feels right to put a few words down about a guy whose wild talent will never stop being appreciated.

In any case, I took five.

 ~  ~  ~ 

A moody poet. Not a two-fisted subject.

Edgar Allan Poe

A hard-hitting NFL team—beer, blood, touchdowns, tailgating, cheerleaders. That’s a two-fisted subject.

There’s a connection. Just wait.

But, why would someone who’s interested in birds care?

Okay: A while back the Cleveland Browns left Cleveland, pissing off their fans, and moving to Baltimore.

The team got a new name.

It was inspired by a long-dead, long-haired poet. Edgar Allan Poe, a Baltimore boy. His famous poem is “The Raven.”

Baltimore named their team: The Ravens.

They’ve been fun to watch from the start. They even won a Super Bowl in January, 2001, defeating the Giants 34 to 7. And they’re off to a great start this season.

The Ravens are a ravenous, bone-crunching, smart and fast team. Two-fisted birdwatchers like it.

Poetry, football and birds. Three very different things, all meeting on the same playing field. What a kick.

Double-crested Cormorants look like danger. They ride low in the water, unlike other swimming birds.

You see one. Then it submerges, and you lose sight of it. Keep watching. It’ll surface somewhere else.

But, you won’t see much body; just a long, skinny neck.

Like a periscope.

Today, I watched a Double-crested Cormorant on a forest pond, diving for fish.

A fascinating, two-fisted hardass. It reminded me of a comic book cover from another generation.

I’ve written about these comics before.

Their name caught my eye for obvious reasons.

And speaking of names, this diving, hunting bird needs a better one.

Forget the double crests. They’re usually not visible.

And what does “cormorant” mean, anyway?

No, this bird should be called “The Submarine Bird.”

A guy emails that he saw a blue Cardinal. What gives?

A Steller’s Jay comes to mind. But those birds live three thousand miles west of the guy’s town in Maine. Can’t be.

Still, birds don’t always play by the rules.

What if a Steller’s Jay took a nap in the back of an 18-wheeler at a Utah rest stop? The trucker drives off and four days later the bird flies out in Maine.

Or… Maybe a guy in Maine is spray painting his garage blue. A Cardinal flies through the spray. Unthinkable?

Ed Abbey said, “The unthinkable is always thinkable.”

Okay. Two theories so far. Maybe the bird’s a hitchhiking Steller’s Jay. Or it’s a red Cardinal that got painted by a spray gun.

You have a better idea?

FOOTNOTE (May, 2017): The above post was written in June of 2012, and seemed interesting at the time. How could a Steller’s Jay be so far out of its range?

The “leave a comment” option is currently turned off on all posts. But prior to that, we heard from a surprising number of readers who honestly reported “blue Cardinals.”

We have no idea what’s going on. Are these all Steller’s Jays? Are they really blue Cardinals?

This is a question for experts. If an expert should happen to stumble across this post, and see the comments below, perhaps that person will shed some light on the subject by contacting one of the active birding websites. There are plenty of such sites out there. But the real question is, are there plenty of blue Cardinals out there?

Meanwhile, thanks for your observations.

My woods are a living clock. And the clock’s broken.

You usually know the time of year by the fullness of trees and the height of weeds. But, not always.

Right now, the overgrown, over-green woods are saying August, and it’s only early June. We’re experiencing premature summer.

The migration came early and it’s long gone. Everything’s quiet. Even the common birds are rare. But I saw one by luck this morning, unmoving on a fat tree.

It was a Blue Jay, the best of jays. I’ve seen Scrub Jays, Gray Jays, Steller’s Jays, almost all the jays. (In Europe, they even have a jay called a “Jay.” Not worth writing home about.)

There’s nothing as cool as a Blue Jay. Hot and cold blues, big and small stripes, a neck band, a crazy crest, a tail dipped in white.

Hadn’t seen one in a while.

I rarely see one in August, because that’s when birds sit more quietly. And in my June woods, like I say, it’s pretty much August. The clock’s out of whack, running fast.

Two interesting sightings: A woodland that’s lost its sense of timing. And a Blue Jay. I liked seeing the Blue Jay.

On the nature channel there’s a flock of Snow Geese. I switch to the NBA playoffs. The geese can wait.

But when I get to the game, something’s a little too similar.

Fans filling the seats remind me of the geese milling on the tundra. Not cool.

Today’s conformist crowds dress alike. In a recent Oklahoma Thunder game, everyone wore white shirts.

Earlier in the season, another team’s fans all wore yellow. Or all blue. In Miami, the shirts are all white.

Reminds you of the Star Wars movie, “Attack of the Clones.” Legions of sameness. How can American basketball fans sit there looking like clones?

This all came up because Snow Geese like to collect by the thousands and get filmed.

We don’t know what bird-brained ideology they follow. But it’s not followed by wise owls or other self-respecting birds, including the Scarlet Tanager that made my day last week.

If you’re going to a playoff, lose the conformity. It might be okay in flocking birds. But not in a flockin’ sports fan.

I park on a dirt road in the wild. I change into mud-crusted boots, and head out. I’ve got a pebble in my boot, but screw it.

I pause to look at a Song Sparrow on a nearby bush. Almost not worth stopping for this ordinary bird.

Through the binoculars, something tiny in the far distance catches my eye.

I shift focus, looking past the bush.

An Indigo Bunting sits in the open, and in the sun.

Not a rare bird, but colorful. Like a runway light at O’Hare.

Wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t focused first on the brown sparrow.

On the trail again. Lots to see. Eastern Kingbirds and Bluebirds. Tree Swallows near trees. Barn Swallows near a farm.

A pair of dragon flies, tangled and mating. Good; we can use more in a summer of mosquitoes.

And a Northern Flicker flew over, contradicting something I’d written about this bird being largely unseen around here.

But the best view of the day was the small Indigo Bunting. A bird that was only noticed because I looked past a different one.

All would have been better, though, if it hadn’t been for that damn pebble.

Yesterday, I spooked some deer in my woods and saw their white tails flip as they ran.

This reminded me of a favorite bird I have not been seeing recently. The Northern Flicker. An un-sighting can be as noteworthy as a sighting.

What does a deer’s rump have to do with big tan woodpeckers that have black specks, yellow under their wings, and bluish heads with red spots?

Like deer, Flickers flash white at you as they take off.

There’s a big, bright patch on their lower back.

I don’t know why it’s there.

Girls have been highlighting their lower backs with tattoos for years. An attention-getting decoration. Maybe a Flicker’s white rump is also designed to grab attention.

Who’s to say? But, more important: who’s to see?

There are damn few Flickers around. Even the ornithologists call it a “decline.” I didn’t realize I hadn’t been seeing these birds until the deer’s white tails reminded me.

Flickers are among my favorites. That they’re largely unseen these days is disturbing. If you made a film called “Unseen,” people would think it was a scary movie.

FOOTNOTE:

The above post ran in May of 2012. Since then, it’s received a lot of comments, more than 100 at last count. One just recently came in, almost four years later. It’s good news that people are seeing Flickers, and when they Google them, they often wind up viewing this page. Thanks to everyone who commented, and told us that Flickers are alive and well.

I saw a Western Kingbird where Eastern Kingbirds live. A new bird for my life list.

This list is just a bunch of checks in my field guide. When I see a new bird, I find its picture and check it off.

There are many checks.

Even Alaskan, Caribbean and pelagic birds.

Along with vagrants like the Western Kingbird.

I like the term vagrant.

But, I’m starting to dislike the checklist.

Counting new things seems, at first, to be counting up. But up is the wrong direction. It’s really counting down.

When I bought a new car, I noticed the odometer counting up. But as I drove away, my car was going down in value, down in history.

A countdown.

When I put a check next to the Western Kingbird, I thought, okay, another new bird added.

Then, I thought: no, another bird subtracted from the future.

A bleak thought. But there’s a cure for bleak thoughts. Sit by a river in the woods, away from everything. And forget about counting.

I saw surprisingly few birds today, even though I was in the woods for hours. But I did have an observation.

Something on the birdless trails tweaked a memory of the last Bulls game. Might be the feel of a letdown, but that wasn’t all. There was a smell.

When I watched the Bulls I’d been eating onion pizza. Today, I smelled onion in the green woods. It was pretty strong, and got stronger when I stepped in the undergrowth.

A dimly remembered fact came to mind. This area has been known since pre-Columbian times for wild onions.

Some people call them leeks. Whatever, they have a distinctive smell. And they were growing strong where I was hiking.

The word “Chicago” is from a Native American language, and means “wild onion,” as you might have heard.

That’s a pretty sensible name. Unlike New York’s “big apple,” whose origin is murky.

There’s no redeeming bird-watching story to share after today’s hike. All I came out of the woods with was a great onion smell in my nose.

It made me look forward to lunch. And to my next visit to this place. The birding has got to be better tomorrow. And, besides, I like onions.

You came for the wild. You wanted to see birds in deep woods, not at feeders. You wanted the rugged, wild-ass ones, far from anything man-made.

The woods are bloated with green. But birds are strangely scarce. Instead, deer caught your eye. This happens sometimes.

Bird watching isn’t always about birds. It’s always about watching.

You watched the deer grazing in knee-deep foliage, and they watched you. You got into staring contests. Big animals, defiant, standing their ground. They chew, and your mind takes a hike of its own, on a weird trail…

You think about how these deer live in a place where everything’s edible. The whole world is food.

What would it feel like? You imagine hiking through woods where there are cheeseburgers on trees. Nachos and Oreos under foot, spaghetti on bushes. Streams of beer.

For deer, at this time of year, that’s their payoff after a freezing, hungry winter in this place.

Okay, you didn’t see birds today. You could go to the feeders near the lodge at the trailhead. There will be towhees, hummers, orioles, cardinals, cowbirds.

But you’re not in the mood. Today, you wanted birds that would say: “We don’t need your stinkin’ seeds.” You wanted wild ones.

So you stay with the deer in their edible world, and think wild thoughts.

Sparrows generally aren’t interesting. They’re drab, small, not much different from each other, and common.

Today I went to a wild field and saw a little brown bird. Sparrow. No need to define it further. But I looked through binoculars.

Wait. Not a Song Sparrow, which is what my guess was, since they hang out around here. Not a White-throated, White-crowned, Fox or House Sparrow.

Who cares? Just a sparrow. Then I noticed it had a strangely colored beak. Sort of pink. Bird books call that a field mark.

When I got home I leafed through my field guide’s sparrow section. Yeah, they had a sparrow with a pinkish beak. The rest of its field marks matched those I’d seen, too.

The field guide had identified my sparrow by pointing out its field mark, and I admit I found the moment interesting.

I got the buzz I used to get when I first started noticing that birds you see out in the world can be matched up to those in a book.

It was interesting, also, that the name of this bird with the distinctive field mark is: Field Sparrow.