Happiness is a Rare Bird

by Gene Walz

As we chatted, the finch returned and alighted on their bird feeder, less than three feet away through the kitchen window.

  Slightly bigger than a sparrow with a yellow beak, a pink wash to its plumage, black legs, and surprisingly long talons, this particular bird, on closer inspection, proved to be the “interior” variety of Gray-crowned Rosy-Finches: Leucosticte tephrocotis.

  A truculent bird, it not only chased all the House Sparrows away from the feeder, it jumped right into the seeds and started gorging itself.

  More than satisfied with this spectacularly close observation, we headed home. An exhausting eight-and-a-half hour day just to see a very rare life-bird and Manitoba first. I guess I’ve done crazier things. (We did spot another seventeen birds during the day, par for a winter’s drive in Manitoba, but I didn’t keep a daily trip list.)

  Two weeks later, another Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch showed up a mere ten minutes from my house. AARRRGH! Why couldn’t I have waited? I chased after it anyway. This one was a “coastal” variant: a Hepburn’s or Gray-cheeked Rosy-Finch: Leucosticte tephrocotis littoralis. Similarly pushy at a feeder, it has more grey on the head, specifically on the “cheeks.”

  A couple of days later, a third Rosy-Finch showed up in the province, this one another “interior” bird. It was clear that something had forced these birds out of their native habitat. From fifteen appearances in Manitoba in 120 years to three sightings in one year—something’s going on. In Northwestern Ontario, north of Lake Superior, several other Rosy-Finches were spotted that winter—a perfect eruption!

  I didn’t chase this third finch—or the ones in Ontario. I was happy with the two I’d gotten, one lifer and one possible future lifer—if the American Birding Association, the authority on naming and categorizing birds, someday decides to split the species in two.

  I’m really looking forward to that. DNA tests by bird scientists have recently determined that some species are not that closely related; they are really two or three separate species. Expanded or altered lists are published almost every year. That’s how you can add rare species to your life lists or provincial lists from the comfort of your own living room. It’s far better than driving to the other side of the province and standing in the brutal cold.

  Mississippi Kites

  Alien Visitors

  At 6:01 pm, a tradesman walked out of a huge, unfinished mansion being built on the ritzy, river side of Wellington Crescent. Five of us were standing in the median, regularly raising our binoculars, and sharing small talk. As he crossed the boulevard at the intersection of Montrose Street, toting a plastic lunch cooler and sweaty from a full day’s work, he stopped to question us.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “All day long, every time I looked out the windows, I’ve seen people standing out here with binoculars. Whattya lookin’ for?”

  The devil in me tempted me to say, mischievously, “Aliens!” But I bit my tongue.

  “Mississippi Kites,” I said. “Grey, hawk-like birds that shouldn’t be anywhere near here. About the size of a crow.”

  Just then one of the other watchers yelled, “There it is!”

  We all swung our binoculars up and caught a glimpse of a sleek, grey raptor south of Wellington and flying west. It kept disappearing and reappearing behind the elm and spruce trees, but its shape, colour, and flight behaviour were distinctive.

  “Yes!” someone yelled, perhaps me. “That’s it. That’s the kite.”

  It was too soon gone. But we’d all seen enough to be enthused.

  Even the tradesman saw it. He immediately thanked us and headed for his van. “Interesting hobby,” he said—without a touch of irony or condescension.

  Mississippi Kites, as the forename implies, shouldn’t be in Manitoba. They’re Dixie birds, usually confining themselves to the deep southern US. Finding one in Manitoba, where they’ve never been seen before, is cause for a celebration.

  At first glance they can be mistaken for Peregrine Falcons, raptors that have nested successfully in downtown Winnipeg for the past thirty years. That’s what Michael Loyd avid photographer and birder, assumed when he first saw a raptor on his daily jog through this neighbourhood. Kites are the same size and profile as Peregrines. But once he took photos, he knew he was onto something.

  He reported his findings to the local Yahoo! Group called Manitobabirds. That was on Sunday evening, July 27. Long-time birder, and birding friend of mine, Andy Courcelles was at his computer when the message arrived. He dropped everything and rushed out to see if he could find the bird before dusk. He did. Back home, he quickly confirmed Mike’s wonderful discovery.

  The next morning, members of Winnipeg’s birding community descended en masse on the Wellington/Montrose intersection. In mid-afternoon, John Weier, one of Manitoba’s keenest birders, and others realized that not one but two kites were flying overhead at the same time. As the day wore on, more and more birders confirmed the news: there was a pair of kites in the area.

  My sighting of one bird at 6:05 pm was satisfying enough that I could enter it into my life list and my provincial rare bird list. The first time I’d ever seen the bird, and of course, the first time I’d seen it in Manitoba. But I was not contented enough to leave the scene. Just “ticking” the bird, checking it off your list, was not enough. I like to observe the bird’s behaviour, get the bird’s markings and flight patterns firmly planted in my mind so that I can recognize it at a glance if or when I see it again. I stuck around to share the experience with the other birders. If there were two, I needed to see both birds.

  As we waited, we all wondered how and why Mississippi Kites would venture so far from their usual haunts. It was as if Martians or other space aliens had shown up in Manitoba. The reason for their appearance is something we’ll never really know. That’s part of the thrill of their discovery. The mystery of it.

  Then, as if by telepathy, a kite appeared magically to our west. It sailed slowly on the winds just above the treetops, directly overhead. It was so close we could see it catching dragonflies on the wing.

  Kites do not have the direct, powerful, high-speed flight of Peregrines. They are graceful and almost gymnastic, with very maneuverable tails that allow them to soar and swoop and change direction suddenly. As if in response to our wishes, it adjusted its tail, banked upward into the sun, and showed the subtlety of its colours.

  The kite’s body and head were light grey; the under-wings were also grey but with some darker colour on the trailing part and near the tips; the upper wings had dull white patches; the tail was black. Everything showed up crystal clear in the sunlight. The bird was so close we could even see its red eyes. Red as small beacons. Then a second bird sailed into view behind it. “Oh, wow,” someone said (not me), perhaps in imitation of the owner of a rare painting priced at fifty grand on the Antiques Roadshow. “Double wow!” In my binoculars I saw the first kite dip and catch a dragonfly on the wing. “Triple wow!”

  It was the kind of exceptional viewing experience that every birder lusts after. I was totally chuffed, as the Brits say.

  Whether they were intrepid explorers, blown here by a storm, or the victims of faulty, inbred GPS systems now became the question among us. That question was soon answered, or at least partially.

  Not satisfied with just seeing the birds, members of the birding community set out to find a nest. It seemed like a long shot. That would mean that the birds had been here for at least several weeks without being noticed. However, there is a reason they are sometimes called the “stealth raptors,” and why luck plays a part in all rare bird sightings.

  By Thursday a nest was found. In it was a baby kite. The kites were a successful breeding pair. Since breeding pairs often return to successful nest-sites, and young birds can return to the place of their birth, we believed that this could be the start of something unique in all of Canada. Perhaps they wouldn’t be such rare birds in the future.
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  Like savvy actors, the kites had appeared dramatically at just the right time. A Manitoba Breeding Bird Atlas, a heroic attempt to pinpoint the total number of all birds breeding throughout the province, was in the final weeks of a five-year investigation. The kites were the culminating discovery of the work of thousands of volunteers, work that had already changed the distribution maps of many other species. This would definitely be the highlight of the Manitoba Breeding Bird Atlas.

  Unfortunuately, almost a month after its birth, the fledgling kite fell out of its nest. A group of concerned birders scooped it up and returned it to the nest. But the parents, likely first-year birds, were not prepared to take it back. They abandoned the nest. The baby kite, in surprisingly good health, was rescued and turned over to an avian rescue center. Sadly, it will never be able to be released into the wild again. It now serves as a demonstration bird, a kite teacher. While one adult kite was observed briefly the following year, the birding community will have to content itself with the demonstration kite, a captive and therefore un-list-able, but a beautiful bird to keep memories alive.

  Northern Cardinal

  Rare Bird, Alert

  Before he moved back to southern Ontario to be closer to his family, George Holland patrolled the river’s edge at Assiniboine Park like a scrupulous government accountant inspecting a billionaire’s tax forms. Especially during spring migration (around tax time), he was meticulous about checking every bush and tree and leaf-littered hollow to see what new birds had arrived. Nothing went unseen or unheard.

  When a rare bird showed up in the park—one that wouldn’t normally be found in Manitoba—George would inform other interested birders of its whereabouts. He’d make the first call on the Rare Bird Alert phone chain. The phone chain of fifteen to twenty birders was the way bird news circulated before the internet. The bird discoverer would phone someone who would phone the next in line on the list who would phone someone else, etc., until the circuit was completed.

  George would be at Assiniboine Park’s eastern edge at dawn on virtually every non-stormy day in the month of May—the peak time of the northward migration season. I’d join him whenever I could since he was not only a great birder but a boon companion. Our morning greetings hardly ever varied. They were almost as ritualistic as a Trappist monk’s Matins.

  “Gene, good to see ya, me lad.”

  “Always good to see you, George.”

  “How the hell are ya?”

  “If I felt any better, George, I’d have to be twins.”

  “The world ain’t big enough for two of ya!”

  If we were alone, he’d regale me with funny stories about his time in the military. And I’d try to match his stories with yarns about university life. He was a great tutor. I miss those days.

  One May I was able to get to the park much more often than usual. That spring, with George’s help, I saw almost every warbler and vireo and sparrow and flycatcher that a Manitoban could possibly see. Some of them were “lifers,” first time sightings, like Canada Warblers with their brilliant yellow undersides and black necklaces and the well-named Black-throated Green Warblers. Others were more run-of-the-mill. Unremarkable vireos— Warbling, Red-eyed, and Blue-headed—told one from another mainly by their songs. Drab, grey flycatchers. And some brilliantly coloured warblers, usually seen in good numbers every spring.

  But what stands out for me that spring was the arrival of a male Northern Cardinal. I’d seen them often as a kid, back east where they are common even in the winter. But they are rare enough in Manitoba that they need to be phoned around on the Rare Bird Alert. Cardinals have a distinctive, loud whistle—almost like a wolf-whistle. The first day we heard him, the bird was singing in full-throated, spring-time urgency. We heard him from maybe a quarter of a mile away and found him easily. He was at the top of a budding tree along the river, hundreds of miles north of his normal range. His red crest was cocked forward and his tail pointed down, perched there more vertically erect than a Mountie at attention. After a while, he moved across the river and then back into the park but across the meadow.

  For weeks, he was somewhere in Assiniboine Park every day that I was there. You couldn’t miss him calling insistently, hoping that a female cardinal would respond to his rapturous pleas. (Female cardinals, almost uniquely, can whistle like males.)

  George and I often wondered outloud about the bird. What ill-wind or foolish sense of adventure brought him here? What landmarks had he overflown? Was he lonely, bewildered, frustrated? It’s difficult to keep from anthropomorphizing birds, especially if, like George and I, you are a migrant like him.

  We also worried about this rare bird, alert to the empty silences between his calls but inattentive to the potential dangers of this new place. The Cooper’s Hawks that have nested in the park south of the pedestrian bridge for years must have taken notice of his self-advertising. Their diet includes songbirds of all types, especially noisy, unwary ones.

  One foggy morning, after two weeks or so, George and I got to the park and immediately noticed the absence of the cardinal’s piercing whistle. Had he simply flown on—who knows where—when he’d gotten no response to his mating calls? Or had one of the hungry, unsympathetic Cooper’s Hawks feasted on his flesh? (We never did find a pile of fire engine red feathers that would have signaled he’d been caught and devoured.) Can birds die of unrealized expectations or broken hearts?

  The park was emptier than usual that morning. Migration season was coming to an end. The missing cardinal’s whistle made it seem far too quiet. I told George that this was perhaps the melancholy feeling we’d have every migrating season if Rachel Carson’s predictions in Silent Spring came true. Carson noted the devastating effects of DDT on bird populations and predicted that there’d be fewer and fewer birds returning each spring to help us feel a sense of vitality and renewal. DDT was outlawed, but we still live in an over-chemicalized world and habitat destruction continues unabated. Even optimists can sense disappointment on the horizon.

  Indigo Bunting or Lazuli

  What the Heck Is It?

  [What follows is an approximation. All profanity has been excised or bowdlerized; it is now suitable for all ages—including my grandsons.]

  In order to get better, seasoned birders will tell you that you must go birding often and on your own if necessary. That’s a given! Birding is no different than any other pursuit. To be proficient you’ve got to put in the hours—according to some, 10,000 hours.

  So, one fine May day, you decide to go out birding on your own. You’ve got your bird book and don’t think twice about bringing along a smartphone; you don’t own one. You don’t even carry your picture-taking dumb-phone or your camera or your iPad. You’re all by your lonesome, ill-equipped, along a bark-covered path among the trees in St. Vital Park when you catch a glimpse of something that you’re not quite sure of. You look again. It’s gone.

  You scratch your head. Was that what you think it was? A Bluebird? What is a Bluebird doing here in this habitat? Bluebirds prefer open terrain where they can sit on hydrolines and fences and catch bugs. You don’t think a Bluebird has ever been here before. Something ain’t right. Gull dang it!

  It’s a beautiful spring day. You soldier on, half-hoping you’ll catch sight of the bird again, half-hoping you won’t. Well, I’ll be horn-grebed! you say to yourself. There it is again! Odd song for a Bluebird. More like an Indigo Bunting’s. Can’t be an Indigo Bunting; an Indigo is all blue.

  Le’me check my battered but trustworthy bird book (National Geographic Field Guide to the Birds of North America). Hmmm. Blue back, white belly, and pinkish breast. Not a Blue Grosbeak, an exotic from the southwest. Could it possibly be a Lazuli Bunting? If that’s what it is, and you’re not totally sure, you’ll have to let other birders know. That’s a rare bird around here. Better get a good, long look.

  You raise your binoculars, and the gad-walloped b
ird has disappeared again. Dog-nab it! Back to the book. You go through it page by page, hoping to eliminate everything it can’t be. Hmmm. Maybe it is a Lazuli Bunting. Then again, maybe not. It’s not quite an exact replica of the book’s Lazuli. Not to worry. Drawings in bird guides are generalities. Individual anomalies happen.

  But it’s just gotta be a Lazuli Bunting. What else could it be? An oddball Indigo Bunting with a rouge-stained breast? Not really.

  What if it’s not a Lazuli? Better double-check again. Still not sure. Better triple- or quadruple-check. Hoar frost on a damp pippit! You wish you’d brought something to get a photo of the bird!

  You remember the time you thought you saw a Northern Mockingbird. It was late winter, the ground still covered with snow. The sun shining brightly. You were without your binoculars or bird book. The bird was high in a tree, flitting around. You had to squint to see it.

  A slender grey bird with a longish tail, robin-sized, white underneath with wing bars. It’s a, um, a Northern Mockingbird. Finally! You’d been chasing this bird for years.

  You’re so pumped, you throw all caution to the wind and rush home to notify other birders. They’ll certainly want to see it if it’s absent from their Manitoba lists. Northern Mockingbirds are notoriously tough to see in Manitoba.

  Two hours later you get a phone call. That wasn’t a Northern Mockingbird; it was a Townsend’s Solitaire. You never even thought of that possibility. It too is a somewhat rare bird here. You’ve seen it a couple of times. It’s long and slender too, with wing patches. A duller grey, this bird looked white underneath like a mockingbird because of the reflection off the snow.

  You remember the embarrassment of that misidentification. But you also remember the elation of correctly identifying a rare Gull-billed Tern in Bermuda. You found it on an inland pond in the north of the island. You checked and double-checked. Tern-like in size and colour. Short, thick bill. Long, black legs. You fretted and cursed. Then you phoned the rare bird hotline and reported it. Hours later, your sighting was confirmed. First sighting of the bird in a long time. You cracked it. Fantastic! Fabulous feeling! A move up to the A-listers.