As a young teenager I found and read a book about tracking animals. The idea that creatures leave prints, signs or some clue to their having been present in a place was—and still is—mystically alluring to me. Those old western movies we watched as kids probably started it. It seemed like all the scout had to do was look down at the dust and he'd instantly know how many guys they were after and how long ago they passed along with other relevant information. It was heady stuff.
The count was 0- 2; I was deep in the hole. I had just swung wildly at the second pitch and come up empty. I stepped out of the batter's box, adjusted my helmet and batting glove, dug into my stance and stared down the pitcher. At least that's what it felt like last week in southeast Arizona where I went looking for a life bird.
There are Mexican jays and American crows so why can't our neighbors to the north be in possession of a goose? Instead, the possessive form of the proper adjective is nowhere in sight and its name is "Canada goose." Same for its warbler; it's not Canadian, it's a Canada warbler. No one has yet explained this seemingly illogical grammatical imbalance to me.
KEARNEY, Neb.—They approached the sanctuary headquarters two hours before sunrise. Somewhere out there in the darkness, toward the river, a few distant calls could be heard—faintly—above the crunch of gravel under their feet. This would not be like last night; a front had passed bringing a brisk chilly wind, collars were turned up, shoulders hunched against it.
In my capacity as a professional aviator I end up flying to places all over. This fits quite well with my love of travel. There's also a huge side benefit to this wandering about: it allows me to occasionally visit some of the more amazing birding sites America has to offer. I've spent some of this column space speaking of these.
The fact that red squirrels are major predators of songbirds in the eastern U.S. makes some people anthropomorphically uncomfortable. Those fun frolicky tree climbers seem—to the uninformed—so innocent and charming. And about those cute little songsters popping in and out of your birdhouse, the house wrens, yeah, they've got a rather unkind habit of being pugnacious and rude neighbors to the point of entering nearby nests and destroying eggs.
A funny thing happened on New Year's Day. Oh sure, a lot of people woke up with foggy heads after a long night of end-of-year revelry to see several inches of new snow on the ground. That's pretty normal given the date and time of year. No, it's what took place on eBird that I find curious.
Like it or not, the digital media cloth has been inextricably woven into our cultural fabric. These days, anyone who is anyone has a Facebook page, a Twitter account, Instagram and Snapchat, and communicates nearly exclusively via text or the "old" way: Email. Oh, how things have changed.
I can only imagine the thoughts bouncing around in Mr. Chapman's mind as the holidays drew nearer every year during the latter part of the 19th century. The sights and sounds must have been a source of building anxiety, all those piles of fur and feathers, that continuous distant gunfire. He must have reached a point where he'd had enough.
Twice in the last 10 days I've heard from friends telling me of their encounters with owls in the dark. Neither one actually saw the animals, but both definitively heard calls from the nocturnal creatures. One went so far as to describe her brief experience as "creepy," a common description fixed upon this group of birds and one felt by humankind for thousands of years.