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.

It started in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. When we think about wild places, we think of Yellowstone, Glacier, the Everglades. The U.P. is underestimated. Big mistake.

The place is nearly all wilderness. Bears, wolf packs, moose. Eagles, Pileated Woodpeckers, porcupines. And quiet. The quiet you get when there are few roads. At night you see stars; all of them.

I went birding in the U.P.’s million-acre Ottawa National Forest. Got a trail map, put on bug spray, and headed out carrying only binoculars. No compass. The trail was marked by blue diamond-shaped symbols on trees. That should be enough, right?

Deer flies didn’t matter at first. But after a while the bug gunk stopped working. Bites bled. I’d read about Stanley’s march through the Congo. I didn’t care about bugs. Nobody gets malaria in the North Woods.

I went on, assuming the word “trail” meant a foot path. Yeah, the stupidity of the unprepared.

After a half-hour, the trail faded into undergrowth. Still, because of the shady canopy, undergrowth was walkable. And every so often there were blue diamonds on trees.

The diamonds were far enough apart so that when you reached one, you could just make out the next. After an hour, maybe two, it got difficult. I was past the point of no return. And wanted to return.

But when attempting to backtrack, the diamonds were impossible to find. You could get lost. I had no jacket, no water, no cell phone. Cell phone? Never carry one. Doubt if there was service anyway. So I didn’t go back; I kept going forward.

Couldn’t be much further until the trail ended at a road. An hour later, maybe two, I’m sweating and bug bit. Haven’t seen birds, animals, or the end of the trail.

This lack of wildlife is typical. Real nature is quiet. If you were in a 50-acre preserve outside Chicago you might see thirty species of birds, plus deer and fox. But in a million acres of wild you might see nothing.

There are bears, wolves and every kind of boreal bird. Probably wolverines and cougars. But I didn’t see them. Maybe they saw me. If they did, they saw a guy who was getting tired.

An hour further, maybe two, and I figure I’m near the road. I can sense an opening up there. And, yeah, there’s light through the trees. It’s the road for sure.

I pick up the pace. Gotta get out of the woods, out of these deer flies. I wanted to smell car exhaust. I wanted a roadhouse diner and a roadhouse dinner. A beer. Many beers.

I went through the trees, running the last few steps. And came out into the open. But I wasn’t on a road. I was on the side of a mountain. High up, on a narrow ledge.

To be continued…

Next time: The Birth of “Two Fisted” (Part Two)

Goose watching is not my thing. Around here, you watch your step rather than your geese. Geese are common, and they do what geese and bears do in the woods. Or not in the woods.

But this time of year, geese show that they live by a hard and fast rule of instinctive behavior. And that’s kind of interesting.

We’re near a small woodland lake. If you didn’t see the man-made stuff through the shoreline trees, you could be in the wild Midwest of Pere Marquette when this was a place worth exploring.

The lake’s got trout, snapping turtles, muskrats, Massasauga rattlers, tuba-playing frogs, herons, gulls, ducks and most noticeably in spring, geese.

Canada Geese. A handsome breed that has become as disliked as pigeons for reasons of overpopulation.

Around now, our geese show up. Usually eight pairs. They squawk for a month or two, build sloppy nests, have sex, have kids, then in mid summer they disappear. This is hard-wired, it seems.

Today the lake is frozen. You could ice skate. Coyotes and deer walk on it and leave prints in the snow. The coyotes look well fed. The deer look scrawny. Maybe there’s a connection.

But there are a few geese on the lake. Two here, two there. It’s March, another word for spring. Which is another word for mating. The geese are coming back. But the lake isn’t. It’s frozen fast.

Still, they’re pairing up out there, and you can feel their feisty territorial attitude. With their feet folded they look, in profile, like they’re on water. For them, the calendar means more than the thermometer.

But the thaw will happen. The lake will be choppy wavelets soon. And swimming will be easy. Meanwhile, the geese are following the hard and fast mandate of spring. Even though the lake is still hard and fast.

We recently hid a Steller’s Jay on our website. Part of a contest, but that’s a different story. It got us thinking: Where’d this cool black and blue bird get its name?

When my wife looks over my shoulder at me typing “Steller’s Jay” she asks if I’m spelling it right. Gotta admit, it looks wrong, like it should be Stellar.

But no. Steller’s Jays are named for, and by Georg Wilhelm Steller. (Georg looks wrong too. Shouldn’t it be spelled George? Answer: no). This guy was a naturalist who lived in the 1700s. In addition to the Jay, he discovered and named the Steller’s Sea Eagle, Steller’s Sea Lion, Steller’s Sea Cow and Steller’s Eider.

They say he was the first European to step foot in Alaska, although it wasn’t called Alaska at the time. There’s also a story, if you believe it, that he reported seeing a “sea ape” in the waters near Alaska.

Nobody could verify this. His description makes it sound like a kind of furry otter or seal. It’s interesting to think it was some crypto zoological oddity that was ape-like. If it had been discovered it would probably go on the Steller list: “Steller Sea Ape.”

Steller was shipwrecked on an island near Alaska. Most of the sailors with him died and their camp was bothered by Arctic Foxes. He kept busy over the winter by studying animals and plants on the island, later named Bering Island.

Maybe his interest in these things helped him survive. In any case, he got famous for his discoveries. Not sure if famous is the right word. But he did get to put his name on some species of wildlife, and we use it a lot, all these years later.

I used it here when talking about the Steller’s Jay. If you see this Jay, you’ll use it, too. Steller. Not stellar. But his two-fisted accomplishments make either word work okay.

They say Marilyn Monroe couldn’t do it. Paris Hilton can’t do it. Blondes can’t easily hide. Bright yellow heads turn heads.

When I went looking for a rumored Yellow-headed Blackbird in an out of the way swamp near Chicago I saw these birds from a distance. Didn’t even need binoculars.

They’re something to see, too, because they’re not common this far east. Their range just edges into the western part of Chicago’s sprawl.

Yellow heads are head turners. Maybe that’s why our “Hidden Bird” contest for February didn’t fool anybody.

We got a slew of people who found our hidden Yellow-headed Blackbird, starting from the first day of February. That’s when this bird slunk onto our site, but it couldn’t stay out of sight.

February’s just about over and so is the contest. We’re going to have a drawing soon and announce a winner. Details will be in our “Hidden Bird Contest” page.

But, hey, you’ve still got a day or so to find our Yellow-headed head-turner. Why not join the crowd? You could win something, but even if you don’t it’s fun to make the sighting.

And if you want to scope the real thing, there’s that swamp outside of Chicago. We like to protect our blondes’ privacy, so we can’t get too specific. But if you nose around, somebody’s bound to point you in the right direction.

It’s a gray day with snow patches. Figured I’d stay out of the woods. They’ve been quiet, with nothing much to reveal.

I had other things to do. Like go to a construction site for work-related reasons. I walk around where there are bulldozers. They’re cutting up land that was once a cornfield. No great loss. There are strip malls nearby.

The mud’s red and sludgy. My shoes’ll never be the same. Then I see something not work-related. A brownish bird, too big to be a sparrow, too narrow to be a female starling. It’s on the ground so it’s not a waxwing. Maybe a lady Cardinal? No, it’s neckless.

But forget its looks. The main thing is its wacky behavior: It flies into the sky, vertically, then circles and drops back. And does it again. Way up. Five or six hundred feet. Flits around, then dives back.

I saw something like this in a field guide and remembered. I went back to my car for binoculars, thinking, “You horny little bugger.”

Right I am. I knew what this bird was. It had horns, okay, just as I expected. A Horned Lark. You don’t always see the horns. They’re just pointy feathers. But they come out of a black pattern around the lark’s head, curving into horn-like tufts.

This is the only American lark. Don’t think our Meadowlarks are larks; they’re blackbirds. Why are they called larks? Hey, why are Robins called Robins when they’re not Robins but thrushes? Bird names can make you crazy.

I could see the Horned Lark’s horns when it landed. And through the binoculars I could see its yellow and brown pattern. Yeah, a Horned Lark. First one. I had the certainty that if I’d gone into the wild today, I’d have come up empty. But amid road graders and gravel trucks there was an unusual sighting.

The thing about birding is that this is not unusual. Birds are where they want to be, not where you think they should be.

The hard hats on the site were looking at me. I put the binoculars away and got on with the day. An ordinary wintry day. But I remembered it. I saw a Horned Lark.

Ducks aren’t birds. Sorry. They’re ducks. They float.

Birds are flying postage stamps from exotic places. You see them on land. In trees, fields or unexpected spots. They’re the so-called perching birds, or passerines technically. Or maybe birds of prey, the buteos and accipiters. They’re wild animals. Not sitting ducks.

This winter, this week, today, I’m talking about waxwings, longspurs, grosbeaks, titmice. And there’s hawk action right now. I saw a Harrier, Kestrel and countless Red-tails. And there are eagles, if you look.

Eagles, like coyotes, used to be associated only with back country. Today they’re all over. That’s wild.

Real birding means winter Blue Jays, Northern Shrikes, Ravens, Brown Creepers. A Red-bellied Woodpecker (maybe not a passerine, but close enough). And an Eastern Bluebird in a snowy bush, a shivering bluebird that stayed home in the cold; that’s cool.

In spring there are tanagers and the Yellow-breasted Chat. Bird names can kill you. A chat. You gotta laugh. But that’s birding.

I hate to say it, but to be honest I came across a thawing lake in late winter and there were ducks. Who cares, I figured. But then some were different from the usual Mallards and teals.

Okay, a Bufflehead’s out there. Can’t miss it. I gave it grudging interest. I saw a couple of well-named Wood Ducks in a nearby creek in the woods. They were colorful, worth a moment’s notice I guess.

But then, hold everything: I saw a chubby little Ruddy Duck on the lake. What a wrong name. This duck’s beak is bright blue. The bird namers should’ve called it the bluebill. But no. It’s a Ruddy Duck, even though ruddy means red, not blue. (Yeah, yeah, some people call Scaups bluebills, but that’s a slang name.)

I guess there’s dark redness on this bird’s body, but the beak is its amazing feature. It looks artificial. It looks like it was dunked in a can of bright blue paint. It should be the bluebill. When you see it, you don’t think about anything else. Or maybe it should be called the Odd Duck. It looks odd and doesn’t always show up where it’s expected.

Whatever it’s called or not called, this bird is interesting. I admit it. Ducks don’t count, at least not in my book. Most of the time. But a blue-billed Ruddy Duck, that’s a sighting.

A guy named Greg said to take a look at a real “two-fisted adventure” that just got posted on the web. Greg’s a jungle explorer and all-around Indiana Jones type. So I checked.

He was right.

The story’s hard to believe. But there are pictures: A Golden Eagle tries to rip the back out of an adult White-tailed Deer that’s running for its life. Talons scrape deerhide. The deer’s eyes bulge in terror. A zig-zag maneuver saves its life. And there’s more. With close-ups.

I’ve said that the movie Avatar was about birds. The shots captured in this story might remind you of Avatar’s dive-bombing dragons.

Get out of here and check it out: “Golden Eagle attacks White-tailed Deer at Nachusa Grasslands.” The text and photos are by Eric Walters. It appeared on Illinois Birders’ Forum, a superior website that you’ll like whether you’re from Illinois or not.

Here’s the link to the Eric Walters story and photos: http://www.ilbirds.com/index.php?topic=32809.0

After a while in the wilderness, he wanted get back to his wife and son. He’d been wandering along the Mississippi valley in southern Illinois. About a hundred and sixty-five miles from his home in Henderson, Kentucky. For this guy, that was walking distance.

He set out at his usual steady pace, cutting diagonally across the state through forests, fields and swamps. There were bears, snakes and maybe some dangerous people. He had a gun and knew his way around rough country. But he hadn’t expected so much water. It was ankle deep much of the time.

He said later that his shoes kept slipping off, and this slowed him. Still, he was a tireless walker, doing 45 miles in a twelve-hour day. On dry roads he could walk for stretches at about 8 miles per hour, a running speed for the rest of us.

If you hadn’t known this, you might’ve pegged him for a foppish French dude. He had those manners. And the accent. Yet he was tough.

He slept in the open, and by day kept up the steady pace, making notes about wildlife and birds as he went. He was interested in the pinnated grouse, or Greater Prairie Chicken. And once described a bird he’d seen as a “carbonated warbler,” whatever that might be.

He reached the Ohio, found a ferry to take him across, then walked home. Three and a half days and a hundred and sixty-five miles later, he was in the arms of his wife and son.

The next day, he got up and went for a walk in the country. Why not? He was a hard guy. A two-fisted birdwatcher. They hadn’t heard that phrase yet, back in 1811. They hadn’t heard of this guy either, at the time. But they would eventually know his name: Audubon.

This account is more or less true, based on information in Chapter 6 of “John James Audubon,” by Richard Rhodes. The biography’s long, with details about details. But every once in a while there’s a glimpse into the ruggedness of this character and his times.

In a wild place near the Des Plaines River, way north of Chicago, a hawk flew past like a fighter plane. It was only in sight for a second, but I knew what it was. It had an insignia.

The hawk was smaller than a buteo and had the long lines of an accipiter. But hawk plumage varies, making IDs hard. This one was dark and light. Maybe spots, maybe streaks. Too fast to tell. Didn’t matter anyway.

What mattered was its white rump, its insignia.

It was a Northern Harrier. No doubt about it. But why did I want to call it a Marsh Hawk? Maybe it’s because, until 1982, that’s what this hawk was called. Marsh Hawk. The name I’d learned a long time ago.

But griping about name changing has been done and overdone; let’s not do it. It’s old. Just like the bird books you had as a kid. Marsh Hawks are now Northern Harriers. The change is based on ornithological reasons determined by ornithologists. Case closed.

But first…

There’s a guy in Florida who pointed out that his tropical Marsh Hawks are now called Northern Harriers. Northern?

And the word “harry” is frankly a bit archaic. Exactly the kind of thing that makes some bird names sound dweeby. In fairness, it means to continuously attack. That’s a hawk thing, I guess. Overworked people say they’re harried. The name is sort of reasonable.

But still, people just don’t say “harrier.” It sounds like “hairier.” As in: “Bob, your girlfriend’s face is hairier than yours.” I guess you could call the hawk a “northern hurryer;” that would make sense. These hawks are usually in a hurry when you see them.

But no, they’re Northern Harriers. Even in southern Florida. The old name, Marsh Hawk, is retired. No matter that it described a hawk often found near marshes. Okay, point made. And making it is pointless. Let’s just say this:

A hawk tore over the ground today, reminding me of a fighter plane, locked and loaded. It was drab but had a white marking on its lower back. So I knew exactly what it was called. And what it had been called. And it was good to see it.

The reading’s 102. I take the thermometer out of my mouth. Damn. Looks like the two-fisted birdwatcher’s not going into the snowy woods today.

Been wanting to see a Northern Shrike all winter. Wanted to report on something unusual. More than Chickadees, Downy Woodpeckers, Crows and freezing winter Robins.

But the only thing these two fists are going to be holding today is a mug of chicken soup. I raise the shade on the kitchen window, and settle in. Maybe the birds’ll come here if I can’t go to them.

The window pays off. Not big time, but small time. With a small sighting that can bring a smile to a guy when he’s sick. It was the small, terrifically named “Brown Creeper.” He was on the big tree outside the big kitchen window. He was brown and he was creeping.

Every time I looked he was there. Curved beak. Tireless routine. Upside down. Rightside up. Inching up, inching down. Bark-colored and blending in. If he didn’t move you wouldn’t see him.

The day’s freezing and the tree’s iron-hard. Tough to imagine the Creeper’s getting bugs or any stuff in the crevices. Maybe that’s why he’s working constantly. But he seems happy. Bright eyed and full of action.

The same tree reveals a Red-breasted Nuthatch which is not unusual but took my mind off feeling crappy. There were Cardinals from time to time, but you know all about them. They’re outside your kitchen window, too. I think there were waxwings in a faraway tree, but like I say, they were faraway so don’t count.

Later, my temperature creeped down toward normal. The chicken soup worked. Time and Tylenol worked. Doing nothing worked. But it’s not right to say “doing nothing.” There was a Brown Creeper. I watched it.