Chapter 21 The Wood Thrush #2
I dig into my bag and take out my constant companion.
Flipping to the first page I read aloud, “When it was discovered the ivory-billed woodpecker may have been spotted in Arkansas after years of thinking them extinct, my first response was not to jump into my car and start driving all night as I’ve done for countless other rare-bird sightings.
Instead, it was to sit with the idea of an ivory-bill still living in this world.
And that is just what I did for several days, savoring the idea that I may be living in a world that such a wonderful creature still inhabits.
That is all I needed. To know the bird lives in the same world as I.
” I pause and continue, “That’s from the foreword by David Marshall.
He must be a fellow birder like John Foster, right? ”
Jake chuckles and throws his arm around me companionably. I’m thankful he doesn’t react as he normally does when I go off spouting John Foster, as I don’t want anything to mar the wondrous mood I’m in.
I’m up and out of the apartment every morning to walk to Columbia, where I spend a fascinating four hours logging in data about the breeding and nesting habits of the wood thrush, a lovely little brown spotted bird I’ve heard and seen in the woods of Central Park.
Professor Montgomery shares the details and the focus of the project, and I learn that the wood thrush population has been declining since 1970, and this study is trying to determine at what age and in which type of forest the birds have the highest success rate for reproducing.
It’s tracking over one hundred nests during this past nesting season.
Professor Montgomery thinks the issue may not be so much the nesting and breeding habitat, although climate change is messing up every habitat for so many species.
He thinks the issue may lie in their wintering habitat down in South America.
Those countries are struggling with deforestation and overdevelopment that is eliminating the woodlands these birds count on to survive.
Soaking it all in, I imagine I’m the one trudging through the woods of Pennsylvania, counting eggs and reporting nest destruction or successes.
I feel the pain as I complete the spreadsheet for a particular nest with zero successful fledglings.
So many things can go wrong and seem to go wrong.
I now hate the brown-headed cowbird. These birds have the audacity to lay their extra-large egg in a thrush’s nest, and the mother thrush sits on all the eggs, but when the cowbird baby hatches, it is so much bigger than the thrush babies, it ends up taking all the food and the thrush babies wither and die.
Each time this happens, my heart breaks for those poor, starving little babies that end up weak and trampled.
And that is only one of the possible problems. Snakes, raccoons, wind, rain, heat, or cold all wreak havoc on the delicate nesting process.
Today, around noon, Professor Montgomery sighs heavily. “I can’t look at another spreadsheet today.” Leaning back in his chair, he says amicably, “I don’t imagine your bird guide includes anything about the Gunnison sage-grouse?”
I shake my head.
“Well now, that bird has the fanciest mating dance I’ve ever witnessed.
Of course, it’s in an impossible place to get to.
One must tramp through the mud and cold of Colorado before dawn to see it.
But I tell you, it’s truly amazing. You must stay until the last grouse leaves the dance floor, so as not to disturb the birds from their all-important mating ritual. ”
I give a soft hoot. “Really? That sounds crazy.”
“The grouse have these special areas called a lek they use year after year, every spring, to strut their stuff,” he says, growing more animated. “The males will inflate their yellowish air sacs, making a special popping sound to attract a female.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Amazing.”
After a pause, Professor Montgomery queries, “What made you interested in birds? Was it just the myth of Halcyon?”
Smiling at the memory that jumps into my head, I shake my head.
“It was even before that. I was in fourth grade in Bridgeport, Connecticut. My teacher was Mrs. King. She loved birds and had real nests and ceramic birds sprinkled throughout her classroom. I loved Mrs. King. The spring of the school year, she took the entire class out to a bird box attached to a metal pole at the edge of the playground. I had never noticed it before, as it was near the woods that surrounded the back of our school. Each of us got to climb up a little stepladder and peek through the plastic side of the box. Inside were four of the tiniest bluebird babies, they were little pink wrinkled sacs with bug eyes that weren’t even open yet.
Their little beaks covered their whole heads, and their necks were so weak and wobbly, I couldn’t believe they could hold that huge beak up for more than a second.
Staring at them, I felt something open in my chest. I thought, What a miracle that these things will one day fly. ”
I hesitate, I’ve never shared this with anyone before. The professor gives me an encouraging nod, so I take a deep breath and keep going.
“When we got back to class, Mrs. King had us all draw a picture of the nest and the babies. She explained that there are three species of bluebirds in the USA, and these were eastern bluebirds. She gave us all the most beautiful blue crayons to draw the parents. We only once in a while got so see the brilliant flash of blue.”
The professor smiles. “There are birders everywhere. Sounds like your Mrs. King knew her stuff.”
“We got to do this every other day for two weeks, and I watched those birds grow and grow, morphing from pink sacs into beautiful birds with sleek feathers and heads that matched their bodies. Then one day when we went out, they were gone. All that was left was some matted grass that had been their little nest. I looked for those birds everywhere, hoping to see my little bluebird family, but I never did. I saw other birds, but no bluebirds.” I feel a small lump in my throat, remembering how desperately I missed those little birds when they were gone.
“Ever since then, I’ve felt a kinship to birds and quite simply fell in love with them.
I was part of something bigger and better than I had ever thought possible.
That year was special and unforgettable.
Toward the end of the year, because I continued to draw pictures of birds and write stories, Mrs. King suggested that when I get to seventh grade English to make sure I select the story of Halcyon and Ceyx for my myth and that is exactly what I did. ”
Professor Montgomery chuckles. “We all have our spark story that led us to birding. Someday I will tell you mine . . . but enough chitchat for now, back to work.”
My world is slowly becoming what I always dreamed of—normal.
And that it is a true miracle. I go to work each day and catalog birds, I come home to a lovely, bright apartment.
Sometimes I squeeze in a hot yoga class.
I say hi to a few of the regulars and often, we stop and chat.
On my way home, I grab a few things to make dinner.
Jake comes back from his class at 6:00 p.m., and we eat together, sharing news from our day.
He tells me the progress he is making on his thesis.
And then the best part of the day happens: I curl up to sleep with Jake every night.
Sometimes we have the most wonderful sex, sometimes we just chat and fall asleep.
He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him and I’m happier than I ever have been, just a typical girl doing typical things.
On weekends, Jake indulges me, and we walk through Central Park with our bins—Jake taught me to call our binoculars that—searching for birds.
For someone with little or no interest in birds, Jake is really good at spotting and identifying them.
Because of him, I’ve added some great finds to my life list, including the ring-necked duck and golden-crowned kinglet.