Birding By Rowboat
At the outset of October, I rowed to a spot where I’ve always wanted to bird. A very small island in a salt pond. I wrote this after a trip back. I’ve been back a handful of times. Went the other morning, am writing about that—but this one’s been ready for a while.
Didn’t bring my camera on the first trip, just binoculars—which fit perfectly in the cupholders behind my truck’s center console. Never far when I need them. I’ve enjoyed explaining this to those who’ve noticed where I keep them.
I was kicking myself for leaving the camera the first time. That Snowy Egret! Those plovers! Oystercatchers free of shyness! Picturesque cormorants!
Long story short, I wanted to row back with my camera.
I don’t like to risk getting my camera wet. It’s weatherproofed and sealed, but why tempt fate? That camera brings me joy and a replacement would not be cheap. I’m a Nikon guy. I’d have a hard time convincing myself not to upgrade to a Z9.
My camera is a DSLR; DSLRs are being phased out. The Z9 is mirrorless. I’d say mirrorless is the future, but it’s kind of the present. DSLRs are the past. I love my D500. It’s helped me immortalize special moments, but as far as cameras and technology go it’s a dinosaur. Released in 2016.
Much as I don’t love the risk of bringing the camera in the rowboat, it’s sometimes a necessary one. I do love taking pictures of birds. How they’re so effortlessly picturesque, how they pose without any idea they’re creating exceptional moments. They do not care. This gentle indifference makes me like them.
I also love rowing that boat, crooning at the oars. I have go-to rowing songs. “Look at Miss Ohio” is a staple—largely for “Oh me oh my oh”—but I like to doctor the lyrics, make them about whatever’s on my mind. Ideas become clearer when I have to make them rhyme and fit within a couple beats. How writing a poem with form can feel better than free verse, which Robert Frost compared to tennis without a net.
It was nice out. Likely among the last good rowing days for a bit—but it was the first of a string of good rowing days. That said, it was windier than expected, windier than the first day. That’s on me for not checking my wind app to know how many knots and which direction it was blowing.
I’d describe the wind as pesky, shifting, a nuisance. Not gale force, but if I stopped rowing it wouldn’t take long to end up facing a new direction in a new spot. Not ideal when you have to stop rowing to take pictures.
One time I launched my rowboat at this spot and called it sooner than I liked, because of the wind. It pushed me in a direction I had no intention of going—the complete opposite direction, actually. Also had my fly rod. Two things not ideal for gusty days: an old tippy rowboat and a fly rod.
I nearly convinced myself to call it this time too, but didn’t. I’d row with the wind, then turn and row against it, ask myself: Will you want to do this in an hour? It would’ve been easy to convince myself no, but the prospect of nice captures on my XQD card made me think yes.
And it provided a good chance to sing Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” from the oars.
At first I wasn’t fully against the wind, nor was it with me. It kind of blew across the boat, slightly against me. Always better to be against the wind on the way out so it’s with you on the way back. When I exited the cove and made the requisite turn, the wind became fully with me. Enjoyed the resultant quiet of moving with it. On one hand: This is so nice! On the other: This will not be fun later!
Photography-wise, taking pictures from a rowboat on a windy day is not ideal. It’s difficult to steady the camera when you yourself aren’t steady because you’re moving with an unsteady boat, difficult to keep a bird in frame when you keep rocking up and down. The second you get a bird in focus, it goes out of focus—you end up with a clear picture of the water with a fragment of a blurry bird.
Luckily there was no shortage of birds. Plenty of opportunities. Mostly cormorants and gulls, but I love both. The birding was not as objectively good as the first outing, but to me, subjectively, birding is always good.
So much as my first trip to this spot was defined by other birds, this trip was defined by gulls. I love gulls. Most people sleep on how interesting a gull can be—and how pretty. A Herring Gull in flight, a Laughing Gull resting on shore. Any gull. With birding, there are birds you dream of seeing. For me that includes many gulls. Not limited to: Sabine’s Gull, Ivory Gull, Black-legged Kittiwake.
From the rowboat, I was lucky to watch gulls grab shellfish, fly up, drop them, fly down to get the meat. You don’t need to row to a little island to watch this—it happens in parking lots, on roads. I’ve seen a gull nearly drop a clam on the hood of a car. I’m unsure I’d even be mad if a gull dented my hood with a clam. I love my truck, but it’d be a dent with a story.
Few things make me so happy as watching gulls drop shellfish. I used to have a playlist specifically to listen to as I watched this happen. “The Blue Danube” was on it—which I still hear in my head when I observe this.
I recently wrote that birding isn’t so much about rare birds as birds in general, the ones you regularly see. I’ll guess that you regularly see gulls. Watching gulls is birding.
Doesn’t require that you can point out: That’s a Herring Gull, not that dark and notice the gonydeal spot; that one’s a Ring-billed for obvious reasons; that other one’s black bill and legs make me think Laughing Gull; that huge one must be a Great Black-backed.
It only requires you want to observe a gull go about its business.
I’ve spent time watching fascinating birds: A Prairie Warbler singing; a Fox Sparrow in a close tree; a Yellow-billed Cuckoo in passing; a trio of Cooper’s Hawks; a Blackpoll Warbler feeding; a Wood Duck flying low through trees; a Red-tailed Hawk pulling flesh from a squirrel; an unexpected Field Sparrow; an Osprey with a trout; far-off Harlequin Ducks; a Cape May Warbler posing.
Watching a run-of-the-mill Herring Gull crack open a shellfish still makes my heart race.
Let’s say I was invited on three coinciding birding trips. Had to pick one. One would yield a 15% chance of seeing an Acadian Flycatcher. Another offered a 50% chance of a Warbling Vireo, a 20% chance I’d get to clearly see it sing that lovely song. Another provided a 75% chance I’d spend an hour watching a gull drop shellfish just 50 feet away.
As much as I’d be thrilled to add an Acadian Flycatcher to my life list, as much as I love a Warbling Vireo’s song, it’d be a tough call.
One of the things I love about watching gulls drop shellfish is they have no other apparent concerns as they do it. Just the shellfish. Picking it up, dropping it, descending to wherever it is, getting the food to be had.
Across species lines, the best moments are often those of such singular focus. When you know what you must do, why you must do it, who you are doing it for—so do it well. Intently concentrated on accomplishing whatever it is.
It’s simple—a gull picks up a shellfish and drops it so it can eat. But it captures one of the most productive states of mind.
It’s also just plain fun to watch.