December 2:
Some days the birding gods smile upon you. This was one of those days.
There were activities I’d been advised not to do for a few weeks—ones that add to my life. And there was a regimen of not-very-fun things I had been advised to do. Thankfully I was not advised against birding. Was encouraged to go for walks.
So I birded. For starters, I got to see Northern Pintail.
I saw a bunch of duck silhouettes in the morning light. Mallard, Mallard, Black Duck, Mallard. I was in a Gadwall mood, so was sure to pay attention. Too easy to overlook a Gadwall, a special duck. Easy to confuse Gadwall with Mallard, but there are things to pay attention for to differentiate them.
As I paid attention, I saw a duck that made me stop. Pintail? Yes. Not uncommon but always special. I was gifted the presence of maybe my favorite duck. Emphasis maybe. I love Ring-necked Duck, either Scaup, Surf Scoter.
I saw Northern Pintail. Not the “prettiest” duck—that word makes me think of Wood Duck or Harlequin—but maybe stateliest or noblest. As is often the case with ducks, it’s easy to overlook the beauty of a hen in comparison to a drake, but I really came to appreciate the comeliness of a Pintail hen on this day. With Pintail in view, I couldn’t help but auspiciously feel the day was starting on the right foot.
Then, driving in a way to keep an eye on a Northern Harrier cruising to my west, I noticed a large bird descend to the road then fly up into a tree. The great redtail. I hurriedly threw it in park in the middle of the road. Not the most considerate move but not uncommon where I was birding, though I usually pull over. Got out with my camera, got some shots.
Lines from Robinson Jeffers’ “Hurt Hawks” repeated in my head. I love that poem. It’s come to mean a lot; I remember the first time it was read to me in a college course—which lines were focused on. A certain line often brings me to tears. Tears aside, it’s too easy to not get excited about the great redtail, but I still get excited.
From there, I went to a spot to look for waterfowl. Another birder asked: Have you seen the Cooper’s Hawk? No, I said. Waterfowl on the brain, I hadn’t. She pointed it out—there’s two white signs, it’s on the rightmost sign, she kindly told me. Then she left me with the bird after we exchanged enjoy the days and good lucks.
I took hundreds of pictures. Overkill, but as I got closer I took more and more. I got closer than I’ll admit. Crowding a bird makes me feel guilty and I was toeing the line. Even had to zoom out, which rarely happens taking pictures of birds. The bird didn’t leave, so neither did I. I love Cooper’s Hawks. It was nice to get so close to one.
As I left, I ran into other birders. Per usual, we swapped tales of what we’d seen or were looking for. Apparently there was a Northern Shoveler about(!) I was sure to say there was a cooperative Cooper’s right nearby.
I changed my frame of mind to look for birds other than raptors and waterfowl. Had a certain sparrow in mind, but no luck. It seems the birding gods had a day of raptors and waterfowl in mind for me. That’s far from a complaint.
Ended up seeing a Northern Harrier and excitedly holding my shutter down for some not-bad-but-not-great photos. When I began Rock & Hawk years ago, I wrote about the difficulties of photographing harriers. They remain difficult.
I figured I’d try another spot for harriers so went to a location I’ve taken pictures of them, where I also had an incredible encounter with a Short-eared Owl years ago—before I had a big lens and before I knew anything about taking photos of birds.
I got sidetracked by Bufflehead. They put on a show. More so than usual. I’d often curse under my breath as one dove right as I got it in the viewfinder. So it goes with Bufflehead.
My title here is “What a Day” because I kept saying that to myself—aside from expletives after an elusive Bufflehead.
What a day. First Pintail, the great redtail, a Cooper’s Hawk, some scaup. Then serving as a grateful audience for Bufflehead. I walked out to a spot where I’ve seen a King Eider—only hoped to see and get pictures of Common Eider, but got to bird by ear for a Common Loon. Heard it, asked myself if it was what I thought it was. Heard it again, confirmation, then saw it—quite far-off by a buoy. Again, what a day.
Leaving the refuge, there was a hawk on a telephone wire just outside the exit. Wishful thinking took over. I’ve seen an American Kestrel behaving similarly not far from where I was, but it wasn’t a Kestrel. They had a stranglehold on my mind, so I embarrassingly mistook a Mourning Dove on a wire for an American Kestrel. At least I have some nice pictures of a Mourning Dove now. After that Cooper’s Hawk, I also had a brief exchange with another birder about how she was in pursuit of a Rough-legged Hawk, so I crossed my fingers that’s what this hawk was.
Nope. Great redtail again. I traipsed out into the marsh to look at the bird head on, get close to it. Closer than I deserved. A kind gift of proximity from a largely indifferent hawk. As with the Cooper’s Hawk, I had to zoom out. My boots weren’t happy, but this is what boots are for—even if I occasionally try to dress this pair up.
The bird and I locked eyes. What’s it thinking when it sees me? Probably something along the lines of: Why the hell is this moron standing there in the mud, pointing that thing at me? Leave me alone. But I wanted pictures and got them.
Again, it’s too easy not to find redtails exciting, but I think it’s healthy to be excited by them—to remember you don’t have to bend over backwards or see a rare bird to feel invigorated by your existence. You get to exist in the same world as a Red-tailed Hawk. Maybe a hawk lets you get close to it. Be happy with that, with less. It feels wrong to have “less” be somewhat of a synonym for “the great redtail” here, but be happy with a bird or with anything that isn’t unexpected or unfamiliar. Be happy with the expected, the familiar—the great redtail. Often just in the I-95 median.
It can be invigorating merely to come to know something well. This invigoration is earned, doesn’t rely on novelty. The great redtail perhaps isn’t novel, but doesn’t lack in invigoration-inspiring tendencies. Nor does a Bufflehead, or anything you come to know well.
Knowing a place or a thing well is its own form of invigoration. I’ve birded this place plenty of times. Thus it is special to me. It’s too easy to think: You should bird somewhere new—see different birds! I do like to bird other places, am not opposed to birding trips, but that doesn’t make a familiar place or a Red-tailed Hawk less special. The more time you invest into either of those things, place or bird, the more special they become. Acquaint yourself with a place and with whatever else is acquainted with it. It becomes special in a different way. Not as flashy, but it’s meaningful.
Somewhat of a digression to end with, about a bird that is expected but meaningful—and not the great redtail: On this outing, walking where I’ve seen a Northern Mockingbird many times before, I saw one again. I’ll always love them. I have great memories associated with these birds—however common, not flashy, however unremarkable some might consider them.
Made my way through tall grass to get close and take pictures, share space with the bird. A Northern Mockingbird. To illustrate the point, I was tempted to say “just a Northern Mockingbird” there, but try not to use that word with birds.
I was invigorated by it. It’s familiar, known. That comes at the cost of some shiny newness, some flashiness and thrill, but something else is gained. In my mind, that something else is worth more than it gets credit for, is substantial. Mockingbird-induced happiness is still happiness—can be quite a deep happiness.
What a day indeed! Really amazing sightings and series of photos. Those are some great close ups of that Cooper's Hawk.