Chapter 31 The Field
Standing awkwardly in the baggage-claim area in Little Rock, I glance around, and panic rises in my chest. I’ve made a terrible mistake. What was I thinking?
Then my eyes alight on a rugged-looking young man and spot my name on the sign he is holding.
Get a grip, there is no turning back. Channeling Vee’s confident stride, I head in his direction and reach out a hand—but my huge duffel bag swings off my shoulder when I do this, and I stumble as it hits the floor with a thump.
The young man lets out a contagious howl and I suddenly feel lighter than I have in weeks. I let out a little giggle.
The young man clasps my hand, “Hey, Emma. I’m Evan. Are you all set there?”
Nodding, I struggle to get my duffel bag settled back in place. Evan slips it off my shoulder without a word, flips it over his shoulder, and heads toward the large exit door.
We get into a dirty F-150 pickup and start driving.
Evan is pleasant, but taciturn. I watch out the window as the highway narrows into a two-lane road and the signs indicate we are on I 40.
I don’t see many houses and only occasionally, we pass through a town.
One is called Fargo, and another is Cotton Plant.
I’m not in Kansas anymore, I think wryly.
On the outskirts of a town called McCrory, Evan pulls into a long winding driveway with a peeling, weatherworn sign for the Pine Knot Motel.
“This is our good old base camp. We’re right on the edge of Cache River National Wildlife Refuge,” he says.
Evan shows me to my room and introduces me to my roommate, Jenny, a fresh-faced girl a few years younger than me, with dark hair plaited into two braids. I test the small bed with a few gentle bounces. There is a small fridge, a desk, and a small table in the room.
“Most of the volunteers are kids right out of high school who are trying to make a little money or just get out of their parents’ house, or both,” Jenny explains. “Today’s my break day. Normally, ten to twelve people go out into the field each day.”
Hearing the roar of a truck, I quickly finish putting my clothes away into my two assigned drawers.
Poking my head out our open door; I see two pickups returning from the field.
Out tumble ten people who look dirty and hungry.
Most of them hurry off to their rooms, but a tall, thin man with curly blonde hair who appears a little older than the rest pauses in front of me.
“Emma?”
I nod.
“Glad you’re here. I’m Trevor.” He sticks out a hand, then looks down at the grime covering it and snatches it back. He wipes both his hands on his pants. “Sorry about that; I’m still dirty from the field. Handshakes can wait for later. You want to come and help with dinner?”
“Sure.”
I follow him to his room, where two people—Sally and Nick, they introduce themselves—are already in his room and working in a little kitchenette.
“Is this your first field study?” Sally asks.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’ve only ever done the organizing of the bird information back in the office. I’m kinda nervous. What’s it like?”
Nick responds with a chuckle, “Oh, it’s great if you enjoy wandering around a forest from dawn ’til dusk and then cooking dinner for fourteen.”
Trevor sticks his head out of his bedroom and retorts, “Don’t listen to him. We rotate the cooking. Teams do it once a week, even less if I decide to spring for pizza.”
“Yeah, Nick’s my partner and he can’t boil eggs, so he hates his rotation because he gets a lot of grief.” Sally laughs. “I’m glad you agreed to lend a hand. Can you cook?”
Remembering Vee describing her cooking skills in relation to boiling eggs, smiling I respond, “I can make a few things. Can we make anything we want?”
“Pretty much,” Nick says. “I mean, you can’t say you’re going to cook filet mignon each time as we have a weekly budget, but it’s not bad. Because of my handicap in the kitchen, we pretty much stick to spaghetti and meatballs, right, Sally?”
“Affirmative. I can’t be too creative.” Sally grins.
“Umm, I could probably turn it into a nice pasta Bolognese if you want,” I suggest. “It’s pretty easy, and we should have all the ingredients, or most of them.”
Sally perks up, sounding impressed. “Super. Sounds great.”
I immediately feel comfortable, as the kitchen reminds me of my parents’ kitchen in its functional austerity.
I give Nick the job of getting the pot filled with water for the pasta, and Sally nods approvingly.
Sally and I dice onions, and I find a few carrots to include, as well as plenty of garlic and spices.
We throw in the hamburger meat and let everything simmer.
Trevor walks into the kitchen with his hair still wet, wearing clean clothes.
He pauses, inhaling. “What smells so good?”
Sally pipes up, “Looks like you may have gotten more than you bargained for. Emma is a gourmet chef.”
My cheeks flush, “Definitely not. I can make a few dishes, most of them are Polish. Nothing special, just simple stuff.”
Trevor straddles a chair and says, “Shopping day is in two days. Put together a list. My grandmother is Polish, and I loved her pierogis. If you can make something even close to hers, you won’t need to go into the field at all.”
I laugh. “But that is what I came down to do. I really want to go out.”
“You may change your mind once you’ve experienced it!” Trevor winks at me. “Just keep it as an option.”
A warmth spreads through my body; I feel part of this group already. Have I ever felt a part of a group before? Certainly not at school. Sally watches the sauce, and I put the spaghetti in to cook. Trevor tells Nick to get the plates ready and then calls in the troops.
We are putting the finishing touches on the sauce by sprinkling it with parmesan cheese out of a can—I smile remembering the freshly grated fanfare of Vee’s presentation; that must not be within the budget here—as the group of newly washed and dressed folks make their way into the room.
We have rolls, pasta, and sauce. Everyone is pushing in the line and exclaiming how good everything smells.
They introduce themselves to me as they funnel past. All of them are smiling and friendly.
Once they’ve filled their plates, most of the folks go outside and sit in chairs and eat on a tiny patch of lawn. Trevor, Sally, Jenny and I stay inside around the little kitchen table.
“Six pairs of field teams go out each day,” Trevor says through a mouthful of pasta.
“The other two people stay back to do laundry and other chores, but there’s time to do whatever they want.
The entire team has Sunday off, and that is when we do the shopping.
So, everyone does fieldwork five days a week and cooks one day. ”
“So, what will I do tomorrow?” I ask.
“Tomorrow, I’ll give you a crash course on the ivory-bill so you know what you’re looking for,” Trevor says.
“We will assign you to one of the senior teams for the first couple of days. When you’re comfortable, you’ll get your own tract to search, and you’re on your own.
We all head in the same exact direction following our compass for a couple of miles.
One leader marks the spot where we turn around.
You’ll have a walkie talkie that is for if you spot the bird.
” He pauses dramatically, “Or, more often when it’s time to mark and turn around.
You’ll get the hang of it. You’re just listening and searching for signs of the ivory-bill.
Of course, if you find a good bird, you can call it through the walkie talkie and see who wants to come take a look at it, we all want to add a few good birds to our life lists while we’re here. Are you good with birds?”
I shrug. “I’m pretty good with birds in Central Park but not anywhere else. I don’t think I’ll be calling in any rare birds.”
Trevor laughs, “Okay, great, another Central Park expert.”
I wonder what he means by that, but he’s already getting up to start cleaning. I decide to save my questions for later.
The next morning, Trevor stays back with me while most of the group pile into two pickup trucks and head out into the woods.
When the last rumble of the pickup trucks’ motors fade, he announces enthusiastically, “Okay, let’s get started.
Here are the best pictures we have of the bird.
Study them. You see the splash of white along the back when they have their wings closed; that is the best way to make sure you don’t sound the alarm over a pileated woodpecker.
But don’t worry, even the best birders can mix up those two from afar. ”
I drink in the pictures. Those yellow eyes touch something deep within me.
Trevor points to the red cap, pointing backwards from the bird’s head, “The male. The female has a black crest that points forward. Weird right?”
He passes more pictures, showing the majestic bird clinging comfortably to an old, dead tree. I squint at one grainy picture that looks like a black arrow flying through a dense forest.
“It is supposed to be amazing to see one fly.” His eyes gleam with excitement.
“Straight and true like an arrow. This is a picture taken by the Cornell team in 1934 in Florida of a nesting pair. Isn’t it gorgeous?
They call them Lord God Birds in some places.
I think that’s the right name for them.”
“I read that book called The Race to Save the Lord God Bird.”
“Cool. That is a good one.”
We both sit quietly, passing the pictures back and forth until Trevor jumps up.
“Okay, those are the visuals, but most of the time, you hear it and only after that may spot its roosting hole or nesting cavity. Of course, this is how James Tanner explained it happened back in the 1930s. Who really knows today? But let’s listen to what the bird sounds like.”
He takes out a small recorder from his bag and presses a button. Static fills the room, then a clear toot toot, like a toy horn, is audible. There is more static and then the loud reverberations of a da-BAM.