Today I drove by the wooden post where I saw a Barn Owl five years ago. I looked to see if the owl was still there.

When I was a kid we’d take family vacations to a state park, and one time as we drove in, we saw a man sleeping in the roadside weeds. My dad got out to make sure he was okay. In later years, when we passed that spot, we looked for the sleeping man.

In the parking area of Chicago’s Botanic Garden I saw an Orchard Oriole in the ‘90s. I remember the tree it was in. Every time I’ve visited since, I check it out. “Orchard Oriole tree.” A landmark.

Every time I drive through the intersection where a cop stopped me for speeding because I’d been following a Pileated Woodpecker, I think about the woodpecker. The cop had laughed: “Never heard that one before,” and let me off.

There’s a bridge on a forest trail. Once, I looked over its railing and saw a coiled snake below. Now, I always look for the snake when I’m on that bridge. If I were an old-time Native American, I might’ve named the bridge “Snake bridge.”

I, myself, might’ve been named, “Talks cop out of ticket because of woodpecker.” I’ve read that such sensible naming was tribal custom.

“Honey, I’ll meet you at the rock where Slobbering Cow Woman stepped in cougar crap.”

“No, babe, let’s meet where Little Big Nose swallowed a fly.”

I can’t walk in my usual wilderness without finding that I’ve privately named places based on birds and other interesting sightings.

There’s the tree where I saw a Yellow-breasted Chat. “Stupid name tree.” There’s the log that once had a Cooper’s Hawk on it. “Cooper’s log.”

There’s a field where a coyote met my eye, staring me down. A cool moment. A cool coyote. “Defiance field.”

I once saw a Northern Yellow-shafted Flicker on the ground at the trailhead where I park my car. Now, I always look for that bird when I pull into that spot.

It doesn’t need to be there. But it defines my parking space: The Northern Yellow-shafted Flicker memorial parking space. A landmark.

I’ve never seen a dead Red-tailed Hawk. This is okay. I don’t care much for the “circle of life.” I like to think these birds live forever.

I saw a healthy one circling over a field this morning. Its wings were huge, tail splayed. Its circling is what made me think about the “Circle of life,” I guess.

This is a song from “The Lion King” that curiously glorifies the transition between generations.

As I watched the big hawk I thought: it takes a lot of protein to fuel that mother. To build the bulk, the eyes, long feathers, sharp talons and beak. Protein was obtained, for sure.

This bird is living evidence of king-of-the-jungle action. It pounces, rips, and scarfs down squirrel, rabbit, skunk, snake, other birds; keep your cat indoors.

Once, I accidentally bumped into a Red-tail hidden in weeds as it pinned a pheasant to the ground. Both birds flushed, and flew in different directions. There was blood, but the pheasant got away.

I’ve seen Red-tailed Hawks in trees near freeways, holding a mouse in one claw and biting down. I’ve seen them dealing death, but never seen one dead.

This raises the tired question: “How come we never see dead birds, of any kind?” There are many birds, but few corpses.

Science geeks tell us that birds die privately in the wild, and are consumed by bugs and scavengers. Good. Who wants to wade around in a bunch of dead birds?

But what about Red-tailed Hawks? They’re common. I notice one per mile where I live. You’d think a dead one would be pretty hard to miss.

It would make a hell of a chalk outline. As large as my Springer Spaniel. When she died, we sure as hell noticed.

Whether or not we see dead hawks, they must be out there. I’m fine with never seeing one. I don’t like to think of them keeling over from old age, spoiled squirrel, gunshots from goons, disease or whatever.

I’d rather have them stay like the one I saw this morning: Circling around, with no end in sight.

TV news said, watch out, high winds are coming. “A dry hurricane,” one guy called it. We were told to batten down the lawn furniture, stay home, hide under the bed.

Gusts of 60 mph or more would pelt the Chicago area. We braced. (The random thought hit: if you’re a bird, you’re screwed. But we had our own problems).

What happened? We had a windy day. We’ve had such days before; we’ll have them again.

If media hadn’t warned that the sky was falling, we wouldn’t have paid much attention. Hell, it’s late October. You expect brisk weather.

Alarmists make people worried about everything. Wind today. Bedbugs yesterday, salmonella the day before.

I went looking for birds. Wanted to see if they’d be blown off trees, or if they could fly okay. They weigh nothing, while we’re hefty and anchored to the ground.

I saw some American Robins that were doing fine. These should be renamed “Yanks,” as mentioned previously. I saw flocks of Cedar Waxwings eating berries. Waxwings don’t look interesting from a distance, but when you get close, they are.

I saw American Crows in the sky and Dark-eyed Juncos on the ground. I saw a Cardinal, red against the gray trees.

I saw Red-tailed Hawks, Mourning Doves, White-throated Sparrows. And a big, streaked-up Fox Sparrow that I thought was a Wood Thrush at first.

These are not exotic sightings. If you wanted rare birds, sorry.

That’s not the point. The point is that birds don’t hear news bulletins, so on this killer-wind day, they went about their business. They managed fine. I watched.

The wind didn’t make it impossible for them to land on a branch. It didn’t blow them out of town. They didn’t expect a problem, and didn’t have one.

If you don’t hear that a catastrophe’s coming, it won’t. People who don’t read about bedbugs, don’t itch in bed. People who never hear about salmonella sandwiches won’t feel sick. Alarmist news is the sickness.

Birds don’t have that problem. They’re as indifferent to the elements as the elements are to them. They do what they want, every day, whether it’s nice or storming.

We’re not the two-fisted ones. They are.

Saw a pair of Canada Geese in front of my house this morning, and they got me thinking about sex appeal.

Why are these two together for life? She must’ve seen something in the guy.

Females look for things…

In my teens, I was in a softball game on a sandy field surrounded by woods. A lucky pitch came my way and I nailed it. The ball went over the trees and disappeared. People cheered.

After I rounded the bases, a cute blonde girl put her arm in mine. She said something about going for a walk, getting to know each other. I hadn’t noticed her before.

Something dawned in my teenage lizard brain then: “Hit ball good, get girl.”

Females are always out there, sizing up males. Ask the pretty Canada Goose on my lawn why she’s with her cranky mate. She’ll have a reason.

The good-at-baseball move might work for some, but there are interesting girls who look for other things.

Years later, in college I met a willowy, brown-haired girl. We went for a walk in the woods and I stopped to look at a bird. She asked me about it.

I said it was a Chestnut-sided Warbler, or maybe I was looking at a Great-crested Flycatcher, don’t remember. I’d seen a lot that day.

I told her about birds, and how I’d rather be in the woods instead of back on campus where college life could be corny. She said, “A Chestnut-sided what?”

There was a look in her eye that the blonde had after I’d knocked the crap out of a baseball. And a new thought dawned in the lizard brain: “Know cool stuff, get girl.”

This girl grew to enjoy wild places, and we walked in the woods a lot. I pointed out the birds by name. She liked that. A million years later, my wife still likes it.

Your trail starts in a dying long-grass prairie where White-throated Sparrows mix with White-crowned Sparrows, but you don’t stop to look.

The trail goes into woods, and you follow. It runs along a dirty-green river that’s carrying leaves downstream. Trees have fallen, and lay rotting into the ground. It’s colorful in the woods, even on this gray day. No surprise. It’s October.

Being on the trail, looking for birds as they play hard-to-get is fun. Actually, fun’s not the right word. The right word is probably something like: “reassuring.”

It’s reassuring to be in a place that never changes. A place of no time, no surprises. The man-made world is full of change. It makes you want a couple of beers. Or a deep vodka martini.

(Doesn’t matter if a martini’s dry, or shaken or stirred, or any of that James Bond bullshit; it should just be deep. And forget the olives, especially if they have bleu cheese in them. An olive doesn’t taste great to begin with, and stuffing it with rotten milk makes it worse).

Yeah, the forest is reassuring compared to human habitat, which can make you nuts because of its unpredictability. Businesses go belly up. Friends go belly up. You hear about accidents, you see people get sick, you see your parents get old.

There’s commotion in concrete-land. Angry factions, bus fumes, little surprises like parking tickets and computers that freeze. Why dwell on this stuff? Go for a walk in the woods.

They’re always the same.

Wait—you say that the woods change? Right now they’re turning color, losing leaves, seasonally adjusting. Yeah, of course. That’s no surprise. Just the opposite. It’s expected, and like we said, reassuring.

The bird population is seasonally adjusted, too. Orioles are disappearing. A few Eastern Bluebirds hang around—the tough ones—but most are scarce. Juncos with their white-sided tails are showing up. Robins are in flocks. You hear crows and see Blue Jays. It’s easier to see jays when leaves thin out.

If you’re lucky you see a Woodcock, and think, “Could it be a Snipe?” But you’ve never seen a Snipe, and are not sure they really exist.

This wild place is the place to be. Better than booze. Or almost. And that’s your “daily sighting:” the unsurprising woods in October.

As soon as you get off the trail, you’ll go home and raise a drink to the woods. Will it be a beer? A deep martini? Surprise yourself.

You see a woodpecker on the side of the tree. You want to see it better. But it slips around the trunk and disappears. It’s now on the other side.

This has happened before. These birds are smart little peckers. They know how to bug you. You know you’re not supposed to ascribe human motives to birds. So you push aside thoughts of his playing with you.

You move around to the other side of the tree. To do this you have to leave the trail, bushwhack through tick-infested brush. But you gotta see the name of this woodpecker. Is it a Downy, a Hairy, a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker? Or maybe a yellow-bellied coward.

Because as soon as you get in position to see him, he creeps quickly around the trunk again, returning to the side where you’d first seen him.

Okay, now this is on.

You wade through the weeds and spring back onto the trail. Just as you get there, you catch sight of the bird’s black and white butt as it disappears around the side of the tree, returning to the place you can’t see.

This reminds you of how we never see the dark side of the moon. It reminds you of trying to see a pretty girl on the street as you drive by, but there’s a post between you and her, and as you move it continuously blocks your view. This makes you mad at the post. An utterly irrational response.

Now you wonder, is this irritation with the unnamed woodpecker equally irrational? No. The bird is different. He knows exactly what you’re doing, and he knows what he’s doing.

He’s going to play this game until you tire and move on so he can have the forest to himself, the way he likes it. You give it one more shot. You crash through the brush and get behind that tree.

No woodpecker. He heard you coming and has hopped to the other side. This could go on forever.

I’m in the woods. I figured that’s where the wildest birds are. But, then I see American Robins. A White-breasted Nuthatch. More Robins. Some Kinglets. Same birds I see in my backyard. Except one.

The Hermit Thrush.

This shy bird with the rusty tail, eye rings and speckled breast likes deep woods. He’s private. I only see him when I go far from human habitat. A hermit. His name fits.

Bob Grump would approve of this name. But he’d like to change a bunch of others. Grump’s a guy who wrote a guest essay here August 24, “Let’s Change Stupid Bird Names.” Grump’s own name is dubious, but his ideas are okay. And they’ve stirred people up.

We’ve received several Grump-inspired suggestions for re-naming certain birds. Some appeared in the “comments” section under his essay. But others have quietly accumulated around here in an unpublished file.

If we get a few more, maybe we could print all of them for everyone to see. Readers could shoot down the bad ideas, cheer on the good ones. Have some fun. Send your name ideas in, if you got ‘em.

I’ll start things off: I think the “American Robin” is a wrong name. It’s based on a mistake. English settlers thought this new-world thrush was a Robin because it looked like the small European Robins in the old country.

We should call our Robins something really American instead. How about the “Yank?” Think about it. Yank means American. Also, this bird is often seen yanking worms out your lawn.

A flock of Yanks. Yank’s-egg blue. Works for me.

But then, there could be a slang meaning for this word that’s kind of raunchy. Maybe it won’t fly. Although the woods are full of Titmice and Woodcocks. In any case, we don’t have to use it. It’s just a suggestion to get the ball rolling. To start the conversation.

If enough people send in name changes, we’ll set up a page for them. We could pick the best one and award a prize. Maybe call it the “Grump Challenge.” If Bob Grump doesn’t like it, he can lump it. But I think he’d be on board.

Now it’s up to you.

His body is changing. Happens to all guys. For us, it happens first in the teens, then later on, when age knocks hair off some places and adds it to others. Damned embarrassing.

But this guy’s not embarrassed. He’s not turning red. Just the opposite. He’s turning un-red.

This is something I don’t much like. A Scarlet Tanager owns a pretty cool color. Why mess with a good thing? But, every Fall, these males get mottled with light green, then as they head down to Central America they become light green all over.

Change. Part of the season. You see a molting Scarlet Tanager, and figure: another year.

Just today, I saw six hawks circling overhead. These predators usually hang out alone. But change is in the air; they’re traveling to a different place. Blackbirds are massing near highways. A Caspian Tern spent hours fishing in a local pond. Not exactly the Caspian Sea, or any sea, but the pond had food that a migrating bird needs.

Today’s molting Scarlet Tanager reminded me of a story I meant to write, but probably never will. It’s about a depressed old millionaire who finds an exhausted Scarlet Tanager among fallen leaves.

The bird’s panting, too weak to fly south. The guy scoops it up and phones the airport. He tells them to rev up his jet; they’re going on a trip.

Six hours later the bewildered tanager is released in Costa Rica. Back at his beachfront hotel, our millionaire meets a hot tamale of a babe. They have a torrid affair. In the mornings they eat breakfast in the sun, and the guy’s got fire in his eye. There’s a tanager singing nearby. Is it the one he brought south?

Can’t be sure, but we like to think so.

There’s one other change that we’re dealing with around here. Nothing about birds or story-telling; more of an administrative thing, so bail out right now if you’re not interested. But in case you are:

We changed our email notification system. Those of you who subscribe to Two-Fisted Birdwatcher by clicking “Receive Updates” used to get a brief excerpt announcing every new post.

But glitch happens in the tech world. And some people didn’t get the notices. So we changed to a new system. That explains why your notification about this post looked different. Will it work better? Can’t be sure, but we like to think so.

Thanks for reading. Enjoy the changing season.

Rob and Jonah are going camping. Rob’s a rugged and sinewy guy in his late thirties and Jonah’s a tall ten year old with a right arm that’ll get him a job pitching for the Cubs someday. Or maybe for a good team, we’ll see.

They asked me to give them some bird names to look for on their trip to the wilds. I don’t figure a ten year old really cares much for bird watching. But I came up with an idea he might like. Bird baseball.

It’s simple. Like any baseball game, it’s all about scoring. Here’s how it works. See a Chickadee and it’s worth a single. Man on first. Only problem is that “Chickadee” is a damn silly name. Unworthy of baseball. You don’t hear any city calling its team the Chickadees. The Cleveland Chickadees. No. No way.

Still, this little white, gray and black bird is easy to spot when you’re camping, and what you gotta see if you want a single. If it had a better name, maybe you’d get extra bases.

Okay, next, Cardinal or Blue Jay—either one, is worth a double. These are good baseball birds. Both have major league teams named after them. Both are unmistakable. The Cardinal’s all red; the Blue Jay’s mostly blue. And both have pointed crests on their heads.

To get a triple, see a Turkey vulture. Big, black, with wide wings and a wild dinosaur kind of look. Keep your eyes on the sky; these giant birds fly in circles up there. Score a vulture sighting and you’ve got a man on third. Plus, if you’ve seen one of those other birds, a triple drives them home.

To get a home run, find yourselves a Bald Eagle. This isn’t easy, but in America, anything’s possible, and this is America’s bird. The home run bird. You can score it if you’re good and if you’re lucky.

That’s it. Keep your eyes open. Divide the game into innings, have hot dogs, and see how many runs you can rack up on your trip. Watch out for bears while you’re in the woods. But they’re in another league, and a whole different ball game.

Good luck, guys.

Somewhere in an office. A guy has his computer open. On it there’s a screen saver: the famous, moody painting, “Nighthawks,” by Edward Hopper. It shows grim people at an all-night diner, and it’s a two-fisted painting.

What does this have to do with bird watching? Hold on. First of all, consider the two-fisted Hopper. He didn’t pull punches, showed things in a tough, hard light.

But bird watching comes to mind—obviously—because of the title of this, his best (my opinion), painting. It made me think about Nighthawks. Specifically the Common Nighthawks that I used to see in early Fall around here. They used to come in droves.

But I don’t see them these days. I think the world is getting better and worse at the same time. And this is one way it’s worse. Friends are out of work, and the sky is out of Common Nighthawks. What the hell?

These fast-flying birds with their long, notched wings were once common and now they’re not. The geniuses who rename birds ought to have a big meeting and change the Common Nighthawk to the Uncommon Nighthawk.

Nighthawks used to remind me of small, dark Ospreys. Their wings have a similar shape. And I liked their buzzing, chirping atonal calls. More of a cicada sound than a bird sound.

Our Nighthawks would hang around overhead at sunset, not going anywhere, just making weird noises and flying hawk-like, or swallow-like, in circles.

I thought they were scooping up mosquitoes, but maybe they were just enjoying the fact that they could fly, fly and squawk and watch the sun disappear.

But now they’ve disappeared. Maybe they’re flying around the night sky over Edward Hopper’s diner in some alternative universe where paintings are real. They’d fit the style of the place. Bleak, serious, unforgiving. Appropriate for a bird that’s missing and presumed dead.

If you want to see Hopper’s “Nighthawks” click on this: http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/111628. Then click on the painting to enlarge it.

And if you want to see Nighthawks in real life, look up in early Fall, as night falls, and maybe you’ll get lucky. We haven’t, but maybe you will. Let us know.

The flock moved like a school of fish, swerving together, ruled by one collective brain. Interesting, but a sorry sight if you think individuality is a good thing.

They were blackbirds assembling for their annual migration. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Starlings and Grackles, Brown-headed Cowbirds and Red-winged Blackbirds. More uncommon types, too: Yellow-headed and Brewer’s Blackbirds.

Going south makes sense. But their conformity illustrates how individuals can let their group take over.

All birds are fun to watch. They can make every day interesting as hell. But you just can’t help liking some more than others. I like the ugly Turkey Vulture I saw today, more than I like the flocking birds.

He was hovering on big black wings over a river, and had the sky to himself. A solitary cowboy, riding alone through town, self-sufficient, impossible to influence.

By contrast, chattering blackbirds in the fall are born joiners. I’ve known people like that. I don’t want to get into a discussion about them. Mobs are people at their worst.

I also like the Great Horned Owl. He commands his own tree and nobody better come near. The incorrectly named but fierce-eyed Bald Eagle calls his own shots.

But when it comes to individuality, nobody beats the Great Blue Heron that hangs out near my house. He sees the mobbing blackbirds assembling in the trees.

He notices them as they rise in a giant blob of squawking, shitting and flapping. Like me, he doesn’t like them much.

Yet we both wonder: How do a thousand little birds agree to turn right instead of left at the same moment?

The heron wouldn’t know it, but scientists have studied such synchronized movements with computers, and they’re stymied. It’s not as simple as locating a leader that everyone follows. The group turns together as one, seemingly with no cue.

The scientists, and the heron, along with the rest of us have got to say: it’s a flocking mystery

Two birds crossed my path today. Both two-fisted hard-asses. I wondered who was tougher.

One was a Cooper’s Hawk and the other was a Belted Kingfisher.

The Cooper’s Hawk eats birds for a living so I figured it should be no contest. The Kingfisher’s a bird, therefore a meal. Something to dig into with a beak that’s sharp enough to shear metal.

Then I considered the Kingfisher. You ever look at this killer? It’s built like a linebacker. Its head is too big for its stocky body. Prickly feathers and a spear-like beak for catching fish and frogs.

If birds are modern dinosaurs, which is my view, the Kingfisher’s evidence. And it doesn’t look tasty.

It has a swagger on the wing. A prop-engine fighter from some old black-and-white World War Two movie. The bird’s mostly black and white.

The Cooper’s Hawk, though twice as big, is strangely delicate and flies silently. He hangs around bird feeders, back in the shadows, waiting for a seed eater, worm eater or fruit eater to get careless.

Then he snatches it out of the air. The hawk settles on a nearby branch, bird in hand, and scarfs it down.

This is right out of an old black-and-white monster movie. The beast that ate Tokyo. A Cooper’s Hawk, like the Kingfisher, is mostly black and white in tone.

Both are film noir birds. “Noir” birds. Shadow-colored and dangerous.

There’s a guy I know who asks things like “who’s tougher, a gorilla or a bear?” Or, “Could Rocky take Batman?” Things like that.

Today I found myself doing the same thing. In the morning when I went outside to get our newspaper, I saw the Cooper’s Hawk. Later, I saw the Belted Kingfisher as I drove near a muddy river. Two “noir” birds, and I wondered—who’d win?

I’d put my money on the Cooper’s Hawk. But it wouldn’t be easy. I don’t think he’d even try. Kingfishers look indestructible. And taste like sushi, considering their diet. No self-respecting Cooper’s Hawk likes sushi.

Especially when there are all those tastier birds coming to your feeder.

Sometimes you go to the birds. Sometimes the birds go to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a dead tree around here overlooking a swamp. In its upper branches, you see cormorants. Double-crested Cormorants, by name. Although they don’t have even a single, visible crest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But wait. Didn’t feathers evolve for flight?

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

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

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

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

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

I see dippers. The birds? Mainly, yeah. But other kinds, too. I’ll get to those in a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell, we can swim.

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

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

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

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

Until it goes under again.

This guy shows me a picture of an odd bird that he saw on the beach at South Haven, Michigan, near Chicago. Asks me to name it.

I go temporarily dumb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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