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.

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.