The Delightful Horror of Family Birding. Eli J. Knapp

the bird’s burial cloak, Indigo looked up at me. “Are you going to bury it, Daddy?”

      “Yes,” I replied.

      “Good,” she said, apparently satisfied with this proper course of action.

      I cradled the bird with two hands, stepped down off the deck, and went around to the back of the house. I couldn’t resist stealing a glance back at my daughter. She remained rooted, statuesque, watching me. Her stillness, so rare in her busybody stage of life, spoke volumes. This was a small and sacred moment. While its meaning was unclear, I knew that it mattered.

      I grabbed a shovel from the garage, dug a hole, and gently lay the flicker inside. I filled in the hole and patted down the dirt. Then I did something unusual. Despite having buried dozens of animals in my life, this anonymous grave required something more—a marker. Spying an odd shard of splintered fiberglass under the shed, I drove one end into the grave. An inch or so showed above the ground. This wouldn’t mean anything to anybody. Except me.

      As much as we’d like—and regardless of our nurturing—we parents can’t peer into the future. I don’t know what decisions Indigo will make. Or what kind of person she’ll become. Perhaps she’ll cherish birds; perhaps she won’t. I’m not sure I’d wish my bird interest—which borders on pathology—on anybody, for that matter. But if my daughter ends up noticing the little things, like an unfurling fern frond or the intricate patterns on a woodpecker’s ruffled feathers, I’ll be overjoyed indeed. I may even wander out back to this avian gravesite to remember the bird interred within. In addition to increasing Indigo’s empathy, the unfortunate window collision may one day spark her interest, too. And from this interest, an enhanced life may burn—steadily and brightly—much more than merely a flicker.

      Peregrine falcon

      Falco peregrinus

      5 • BIRDERS CAN’T RIDE SHOTGUN

      The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail life it grew and grew. Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and control.

      —Jack London, The Call of the Wild

      “So Ezra, when do you think we should—”

      “White ibis!” Ezra shouted, pointing out my mother’s window in Florida. I leaned forward on the couch and peered out. Sure enough, Ezra, then five years old, had found two pearly white ibis strolling through a neighbor’s yard. As a fledgling parent, I was both annoyed and thrilled. Should I admonish him for interrupting my question, which I could no longer remember? Or should I congratulate him for both finding and correctly naming one of Florida’s most dazzling species? Before I could decide, his grandmother walked in and joined us at the window.

      “I’ve been meaning to ask you what those white birds are.” She sat down slowly to avoid spilling her coffee.

      “They’re actually white ibis, Grandmom!” Ezra peppered much of his speech with the word “actually.” And he usually used it with a slightly know-it-all tone. Oh boy. So not only was my son interruptive, he was also pedantic. If any kid was going to get beat up at school, it was the know-it-all pedant with an overt fondness for “actually.” Then again, I was partly proud, as Ezra’s grandmother had a vexing habit of calling every egret, stork, and ibis a “white bird” regardless of their innumerable differences. It drove me—and now Ezra—nuts.

      While I would have loved to blame my wife’s DNA for Ezra’s behavior, I knew that mine was the more likely culprit. Through my daily behavior, I had shown Ezra that a man regularly interrupts a conversation to point out a bird, always corrects a wrongly named bird, and often slams on the brakes when a rare bird is spotted (many of these allegedly rare species have a pernicious habit of transforming into common ones upon closer inspection). Normally I do most of the driving. That way, when I see a “rare” bird, I can pull over. But when a rare bird shows up while Linda’s at the wheel, I have modeled for Ezra that an otherwise sane man pounds on the dashboard and pleads to pull over. For safety and sanity, my urgent requests have been habitually ignored. When I can think straight, I credit Linda for her better judgment. And her tolerance. But when a rare bird is potentially afield, it’s impossible to think straight. Muscles tense up. Neurons misfire. And odd and often puerile antics result.

      This is why birders can’t ride shotgun.

      The problem may lie in a profound misunderstanding between birders and nonbirders. Nonbirders assume that birders go birding. They don’t. Birders are birding. Always. Some of us—the less diehard—occasionally pause to sleep. As soon as we awaken, even before our eyes have opened, we’re birding. Windows don’t open merely for a breeze. Windows open for the dawn chorus. As soon as I’m fifty-one percent cognizant, I’m birding. Even though it may look to nonbirders like I’m cleaning the garage or staining the deck, I’m actually birding. And since I’m always birding, the opportunities to interrupt, correct, and annoy are omnipresent and endless.

      I’ve periodically learned to temper my knack for noticing everything avian. I forced it inside during my high school years when I feared my hobby wouldn’t be deemed cool enough for my soccer-playing comrades. Several girlfriends were likewise none the wiser to my dual love interests. And the stress of grad school squashed it for a while. But with my diploma in hand and a job that includes teaching ornithology each year, the out-workings of my birdy brain have oozed back to the surface like an oil seep.

      My decorum was tested again during a recent trip to the Everglades in Florida with my obliging parents. Wanting to get a sense for the sinuous rivers of grass, we departed for a two-hour boat tour from Flamingo Point. Since it was off-season and an odd midday hour, I shared the boat with about seven other folks, all of whom seemed normal enough. Although antsy to see great birds, I was resolved to appear as balanced and well-mannered as those around me. The tour started wonderfully. I kept my binoculars mostly lowered, made small talk with others, and laughed when the tour guide made unmemorable jokes about mangroves.

      But then my façade fell away. Out of the corner of my eye, about thirty yards away, I saw an abnormal-looking mourning dove. Wait, that was no mourning dove; it was a white-crested pigeon! Knowing these birds were restricted to Florida’s southern tip, I desperately wanted a better look at the bird that had now alighted atop a mangrove. I needed to be sure of my ID. More importantly, I needed to slow this darn boat down. My dilemma resurfaced. Should I try to stop the boat? Was it appropriate to hijack a general tour for a bird? Not just a bird, a pigeon. A pigeon! These pleasant-looking people would surely get mad. At least one would want me tossed to the gators.

      Despite my resolve, my zeal exploded like fireworks. “White-crested pigeon!” I yelled, pointing off the starboard side. But the roaring engine reigned supreme. The skipper neither saw nor heard me. Or, more likely, he pretended not to. I’ll never know. His large, dark sunglasses revealed nothing more than the requisite stoicism that comes with leading the same tour untold times a day for untold years. The other passengers heard me though. As did my parents. I sensed their normal parental pride dissipate as quickly as the pigeon did in my binoculars. Kindly, most of the others feigned interest with a curious nod or a sympathetic smile.

      We finally slowed down next to a dense stand of trees that all looked like they were walking in the water. The skipper slowly unhooked the boat’s microphone and in a remarkable monotone, taught us how to differentiate black and red mangroves. I felt cheated. He had passed over one of America’s most geographically restricted birds—the white-crested pigeon—to robotically instruct us about adventitious roots?! Granted, mangroves were cool. But they registered far below birds on my biophilia meter. Next time, I vowed, this barge would brake for birds. I’d make sure of it.

      Next time came just twenty minutes later. While speeding into a large lagoon, I saw a bird that was indisputably cool. He or she was perched high on a snag and looked downright debonair. A peregrine falcon. While not extremely rare, peregrines are always a treat to see. Especially this one, that appeared utterly apathetic