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September 28, 2006  Half of What You See On the last few mornings I have welcomed the fog as it blankets the surrounding landscape. Usually I sit outside in the yard for my first coffee of the day but the presence of fog seems to ask for a little more participation. So now I go out into the pasture with a plastic chair, a carafe of coffee, a mug, and the accoutrements to meld with the haze and watch whatever passes by. The dogs, slightly mystified by the unusual preparations, follow me through the gate into the adjoining field. Dogs, I have learned, are inveterate watchers. For them, sitting and gazing comes naturally especially on a high bit of ground. And that is my intention as I set up the chair and settle in. Normally, when bright daylight illuminates our moves, I imagine our arrival to be disturbing, like arriving in the middle of a movie. But in the fog we are just another group of muffled and mysterious shapes. There is something truly magical about a fog and though the eyes strain to resolve dim figures, sounds take centre stage. A Yellow-rumped Warbler calls. A Goose lost somewhere above, honks. A Robin flying low over the field lets go a string of profanities as it suddenly sees us. We are all on an equal footing in fog time. This morning the fog came again and our group set out for the pasture. We were well settled in when I heard a snapping sound coming from the direction of the neighbours. It sounded like a thick branch breaking. It wasn’t cattle - they had not yet begun moving from the forest covering where they spend the night. I was thrown back to my days as a hunter. It was fall, probably open season on something, and I was sitting in the open shrouded in a cloying mist. Were we being stalked? Could our combined shapes be mistaken for that Boone and Crocket muley with the big rack? Would ‘buck fever’ make us someone’s trophies? Minutes went by and all was quiet. Obviously we weren’t in anyone’s gunsights; nevertheless the incident made me think about a recent birding event and what spells the eyes and brain can cast even when they try to play nicely together. It was a sunny Sunday. Guy and Jean phoned to ask if the Long-billed Dowitcher still hung around the east pasture pond, and could they come over to see it. As luck would have it the bird was there so Guy and Jean were soon on their way. With the scope over my shoulder and two pairs of binoculars draped about my person we set off for the nearby pond, three people and three dogs. One might question the wisdom of bringing dogs on a quest for a lifer but I knew our quarry wouldn’t be very skittish, and any ducks at the pond would be assuaged by seeing canids on the shore. (This is another thing I’ve leaned about dogs; their movement mesmerizes ducks.) Before we reached the pond I set up the scope and quickly spied the Dowitcher sleeping knee-deep in water. We continued our approach stopping frequently to assess the situation. Suddenly, one of the dogs ran directly at the Dowitcher so it took flight and landed just across the pond. Once there, it immediately went back to a sleeping posture with bill tucked under its back feathers. I thought this behaviour was odd, but I also saw something unusual when it flew - it had a down-curved bill. Dowitchers have long straight bills! We had to get a closer look. We circled the pond and all three of us stared intently through binoculars, exchanging details as we crept forward. It did indeed have a down-curved bill. It flew again, and again went back to a sleeping posture. We decided to retreat and consult a bird book. Who knew we needed one since we were going out to look at a Long-billed Dowitcher? Back at the house we poured over the thick tomes and settled on several possibilities . . . Curlew Sandpiper being the most exotic. As we worked ourselves into a growing frenzy we decided we needed a good camera and lens before we went back so Guy went back to his house and procured a big lens. Thus armed we went back to the pond. The first thing we saw was a Long-billed Dowitcher probing the mud furiously. We approached cautiously even though I did not doubt it was the Dowitcher we had originally gone to see. Further scans of the pond revealed no other long-legged wading birds. Further scrutiny of the Dowitcher revealed that it had an uncharacteristically down-turned upper mandible that looked like the bird had sustained an injury. Was this our Curlew Sandpiper? Had our eyes conspired with our brains to bring us a whole new species constructed from the parts of a slightly atypical familiar bird? It seemed possible. We trudged back to the house, mumbling occasionally and reviewing what had just transpired. The heat of the sun now made the scope seem heavier than when I carried it to the pond. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
