Learning to See

The New River Birding and Nature Festival was truly a transformative experience for us. We got to meet a whole bunch of fine folks we had previously only known over the intertubes and another whole bunch whom we hadn't known existed until we crossed the threshold of Opossum Creek. Kelly found a new passion, and source of lists.

I learned how to see.

I'm not exactly sure what I expected going in. I assumed we'd trip up and down country roads, trails, and fields looking for bright flashes of warbler in the deep green of West Virginia. Guides would point things out to us and then we'd all swivel our heads, lock our binoculars, and the lucky among us would get to make a tick mark on our lists.


Guides Paul, Jeff, and Julie. Walk softly and carry a big scope.

It turned out to be a little more sophisticated --and democratic-- than that. Our guides would stand along the side of our path, ears cocked. "There's a black and white. Common yellowthroat. Hear that? That's an ovenbird ... teacher! teacher! teacher! Whoa! There's a black-throated green."

Whoa! is right. A black-throated green is a new one for me, and I'd like to see it please. And so it begins. Out comes the guide's ipod, of all things, and the black-throated green's song is played until the bird comes out to the edge of the road to protect his territory. He flits back and forth between trees, over top of us, down into a thicket, up again to the perfect backlit spot where he can see us but we can't find him. All the while singing fiercely.

Jeff gets us to train our binoculars in the general direction of the sunspot. Much oohing and ahhing from the happy crowd. Julie works to set up the spotting scope so we can get a close, sharp look but we won't have any luck with it on this fast-moving bird.

Jeff setting up the scope a little later in the morning.

"Everyone got him? Shall we move on? Don't want to go until everyone's got him." I hesitate. "Not quite." Julie's at my back, describing the bird's location. I see him with my bare eyes but I can't get the bins on him. "Bring your bins down, down." I start squatting lower and lower. "No, no -- just take them away from your eyes ... find the bird ... don't shift your eyes but move the bins back up."

Oh God. I am back in grade four math, doing geometry. Everyone else is ready to move on and I'm holding them all up. Is this trip going to turn out to be like one enormous math class? Just wait until we hit algebra. I don't even want to think about trigonometry! I can feel my throat begin to close up. I want to say "let's move on" but I'm afraid my voice will crack, like it did in grade 4, and I don't quite trust myself. Julie places her hand gently on my back, encouraging me to lower and raise the binoculars again. "We're not going to leave until you get it." I'm about to burst into tears of frustration, sure that everyone else is bored senseless in this little vale. But the good teacher keeps at it and I manage an undistinguished glance at the warbler's back as he finally decides we are no kind of threat, and flies off.


The good teacher, tired at the end of the day.

The secret is never moving your eyes once you've found the bird. I start practicing on immovable objects like stop signs. We continue along. The birding isn't fabulous this day; some of the more experienced birders later pronounce it "dead" but with my newly developing ability, I got around 20 species, 10 of them lifers. I'm pretty stoked, but I don't count the back of the black-throated green.

The next day we begin in a hayfield that's a known nesting spot for the bobolink. A trip out earlier in the week showed nothing but we are rewarded with an astounding flyover. Bobolinks look like they have their colours on inside out --black on the bottom, white on top-- and sport what looks like an outrageously bad peroxide bleach job on top of their heads. I would have been quite happy to stay in that field with the bobolinks, but Bill sees a few new migrants "dropping in" and hustles us out to another site where they're known to hang out.

Bill setting us up in golden-winged territory.

Our first quarry? The golden winged warbler. We (well, they) hear him right away and he leads us up a path to where a recent clear-cut is giving way to some low growth deciduous. We do our best to keep quiet as Jeff tries to call the bird in, and Bill readies the scope. All of a sudden, the golden-winged zooms by in almost a repeat performance of the black-throated green.

Except. Except this time we're in a little more open area. Except this time I know how to see. And see him I do, with his perfect yellow wings and cap, and his black and white mask. And then the hooded warbler, with his little executioner's hood.

And what's this? Why, it's a black-throated green, and just look at his fat, streaky little belly, shaggy black beard (ever see a guy who lets his beard grow down on his neck as well as his chin? That's the idea, only it's a whole lot cuter in a bird), yellow eyemask and olive green head. Add to that a black-throated blue, a chestnut sided warbler, and a blue-winged warbler (all lifers), plus a Northern parula, common yellowthroat, black-and-white, and yellow-throated and it was the warbliest day I've ever had in my life.

And we needn't mention the Swainson's Warbler that showed up, singing for us, in a brief final outing before we left the New River Gorge the next morning.

You may have noticed a serious lack of bird photos. The whole trip I had my camera strapped to my side. It's funny, but once we got going I didn't even think about taking it out for the birds. Now that I could see, I didn't need to. That blue-throated green is etched in my mind, and the Swainson's is still there, caught in mid-song.