Onwards, ever onwards!
— FAST EDDY PHIBBS
THE INNOCENT JOY OF SEEING three hundred birds does not last as long as I expected.
“Sure hope they don’t lump Thayer’s Gull with Iceland,” says Carley darkly after I mention getting my three hundredth.
I suddenly realize that just as easily as the powers that be had given me a bird — Trumpeter Swan — they could take one or two away. I had remembered splitting, but forgotten lumping. In police and underworld jargon, lumping and splitting, I’m led to believe, is used when a criminal whacks someone over the head and then flees the scene of the crime. Lumping, though perhaps not splitting, I would submit, is a crime in the birding world. I’d like to get my hands on the guy who is going around claiming all white-headed gulls are really the same species. We could all lose a pile there. These damn bird committees have too much power. I lost Cassin’s Vireo on my Ontario life list two years ago because of a committee — in this case the OBRC — not that I am bitter or anything. It becomes clear to me that I need a cushion of at least one and perhaps two birds to make sure my three hundred will stand. Oh, dear. And here for five whole days I had been trying to have a life again. Now it’s back into the breach, dear friends.
Hugh still needs some birds to make three hundred. He is substantially behind because of his four weeks in Peru. We decide to head to Niagara on December 10 with five target birds in mind: Hawk Owl, King Eider, Black-headed Gull, Purple Sandpiper, and Little Gull. He does not need Hawk Owl, but I do, having missed the Port Weller bird. I don’t need Purple Sandpiper, but Hugh does. Things start brilliantly, at least from my point of view. We get the Northern Hawk Owl (301) easily at Stoney Creek, right on the telephone wires beside the road. Even at this early stage, the bird is already being harassed by idiots who have not yet discovered digiscoping. Ironically, it later turns out that this is the very bird Margaret and I missed at Port Weller, which has moved on to better voling country.
We should have gone straight home after this little victory.
Photo by Mark Peck.
Northern Hawk Owl. Welcome. In my opinion this is our fiercest-looking owl.
We hit the Burlington lakefront, but spot no King Eider, male or female. “Batting fifty-fifty,” says Hugh. “That’s not too bad. Let’s head straight to Fort Erie and knock off the Black-headed Gull. Then we can pick up Purple Sand at the Falls and probably Little Gull, as well, though if we miss it there we can always get it at Adam Beck or Queenston. Could get a Black-headed Gull there, too, you know.” Why Jeremiah has suddenly become such an optimist, I don’t know. But I have noticed that the farther away we are from any bird, the more certain Hugh is we will see it. It is only as we approach the area that he begins to realize that the chances of success are nugatory.
When we reach Fort Erie, the Black-headed Gull is, of course, nowhere to be found, though, as always, we meet people who had it right under their feet yesterday and the day before that. One guy keeps saying this is a hard bird to miss. I do not suggest that he shut his cakehole before I do it for him. Fortunately, I am unarmed. This is the second time I have missed this bird. I do not know that I shall miss it again with Margaret and yet again with Hugh. They were “garbage birds” in England when I was there in January.
Daunted, but not yet completely broken, Hugh says, “Okay, let’s go for Purple Sand.” I see the beginning of dark depression hovering in the wings.
To pick up his spirits, I suggest we hit Tim Hortons at Chippewa to get the sandwich and soup combo, a doughnut, and coffee. The Reisefuehrer’s countenance brightens instantly. I know the soup and sandwich combo is his favourite lunch in the whole world. I learned that once when I proposed dropping into an exquisite little bakery café with lovely sandwiches and espresso coffee.
Hugh was mystified. “But there’s a Tim Hortons just up ahead,” he said in disbelief.
“Oh, well, say no more,” I replied.
In post-Hortonic euphoria, sadly destined to be short-lived, Hugh says, “Let’s go get that Purple. I know right where it’s going to be on the rocks.” The double Boston cream sometimes does this to him. You know, and I know, the bird is not going to be there, but you have to go and look.
It’s not there. Nor do we find Little Gull. The Reisefuehrer is devastated. He feels betrayed, especially by the Little Gull. When it comes to optimism, the distance between the apogee and the nadir is scant with Hugh. “If we miss Little at Queenston, we’ll have to do the flyby,” he says sadly.
“No problem,” I say.
We miss Little Gull at Queenston. It is cold and wet and late when we arrive at Niagara-on-the-Lake for the flyby. Significantly, there is no one else there and we tough it out till dark. Not even very many Bonaparte’s go by. “The word must have got out we were coming,” says Hugh bitterly. I have to take him into another Tim Hortons on the way home or I won’t feel right leaving him alone later. Hugh does not get a single new bird today. “That’s it for my three hundred,” he says sadly. I feel guilty about the Hawk Owl and play it down. Just a lousy old Hawk Owl, even if it was 301.
Almost two weeks later I am still at 301. It is harder to motivate myself and little of interest is turning up on Ontbirds, except, of course, that damn Black-headed Gull. Then the King Eiders begin to show up again and Hugh and I are off. It’s Mr. Toad all over again. Hugh thinks we have a pretty good chance of finally connecting with the gull and maybe even the eider. Or at least he does until Burlington. As we draw near Gray Road, he says, “Not much chance, really. The wind’s wrong, the light’s no good, and there are no other birders around.” We try and fail.
We go to Sayers Park in a pathetic display of false optimism. Hugh doesn’t even have a scope. It’s in California being fixed after he dropped it hard on the pavement for the hundredth time. I’d love to be there when they open it. It reminds me of the Tilley hat that went through the elephant. Kowa should pick up on this and feature Hugh and his scope in their ads. They would have to be without sound; when his scope hits the pavement he sometimes says very ungentlemanly things. I have never been able to see anything out of it when I look. Anyway, we get out at Sayers and as I’m setting up my scope, Hugh says, “I’ve got a not bad candidate for eider.” I look where he’s pointing, swing my scope around, and bingo! — a pair of female King Eiders (302). Another brilliant beginning.
Unfortunately, we do not pay heed to Pope’s Corollary Number 1 to Beadle’s First Law: If you score a brilliant success right at the beginning, expect to pay dearly for that tiny bit of fun the whole rest of the day. Instead of going home, we rush around vainly searching for Black-headed Gull and Little Gull. Neither of us can believe we can’t get Little Gull. It’s the first year in ages that either of us has missed it. I should have chased it at McLaughlin Bay in May with Margaret when there were a few birds there, flying around in disbelief and despair that their wonderful adjacent habitat had been ruined. They have improved Oshawa Second Marsh to the point that there are hardly any Little Gulls at all — no mean feat of management as you could see 150 there three years ago and it was the best place in all of North America to find this gull. The bird is now best sought on Lake Erie, which is a bit far for me to go often. Richard Joos kindly offers to take me out to distant secret Little Gull haunts on Christmas morning, but I am otherwise occupied. I don’t even run it by Felicity for a response. I sense this makes a negative impression on Richard, who had up to this point struggled to believe I was a real birder. This bird eludes me in 2007.
But it’s still 302 seen, 304 including heard-onlys. I don’t have to horse trade on New Year’s Eve.