Loving the Lifers
I earned my first “ Lifer” today. For the uninitiated, a lifer is a bird that you spot and identify for the very first time. You may even have seen the same bird before, but it doesn’t count if you can’t give it a name.
On my very first guided bird hike in a nearby nature preserve, I was thrilled to chalk up not one, but three lifers. The first was an indigo bunting, whose iridescent blue body soared and then dipped just above the tallest branch of a willow tree. I fell in love with the name bunting- soft as a baby’s wrap. The second was a bronzed cowbird, who darted to the feeders after the greedier red-winged blackbirds had their fill. Finally, a catbird, with its black cap and mewing song, flew overhead. And if nests count- I spotted an oriole’s home, which resembled a fuzzy brown tennis ball dangling from an oak tree.
A rambling red structure, dating from the 1840s and once home to a family of dairy farmers, served as the Sagawu Nature Center’s offices. A pleasant middle-aged woman named Leslie was our guide, her wide brimmed canvas hat gave her the look of authority. She never failed to interrupt our march on the grassy trail with excited calls to gaze skyward. A red-tailed hawk soaring, an oriole swooping to build a nest. A downy woodpecker knocking on a tree trunk.
A pair of binoculars strung around her neck like a string of pearls, our guide lived and breathed birds. She even marked milestone events by lifers. Leslie remembers that she first spotted a rosy-breasted grosbeck on the same day she met her future husband.
Leslie knew her bird calls, whipping out her phone to mimic bird sounds with an app. She recognized the songs of the scarlet tanager and red vireo. We searched the leafy canopies in vain for these brilliant birds, but they were too skilled at camouflaging. Still I learned to recognize the sweet thrill of a chickadee calling to her mate.
Leslie poked open a wooden bird box to show me five bluebird eggs. She gave names not only to birds, but plants. There was cow parsnip, with tall flowering stalks that offer nectar banquets for bees; cup plants morphed into swimming pools for birds; and clumps of the white star of Bethlehem planted when the nature center was a Girl Scout camp.
At the end of our hike, we stopped on a wooden bridge to watch a lone robin dip its beak in a stream. Its yellow beak was flecked with mud, not an uncommon condition for these birds constantly on the prowl for worms.
I asked Leslie if she keeps a tally of bird sightings, or at least makes a notation in a Peterson guide. Most birders do. But not Leslie. She files her rich catalogue of sightings in her memory.
“If I were the kind of birder that kept track of sighitngs, she said, “ I wouldn’t spend five minutes just staring at a robin dig in the mud.”
I recognized the wisdom in her words. But for the moment, I knew this was also true- I had my first lifer.