 Empire of the Churn Last weekend marked the annual overnight bird trip to Churn Creek. Although this was not the latest in the year we’ve ever gone, it was close. Late or not, it always amazes me that year after year we muster a group of birders and take to the roads to capture the Churn Creek experience. This year, as in years gone by, a number of youngsters came along on the journey. It wasn’t until the trip was over I realized that kids accounted for almost half of our contingent. There were seven adults and six kids. (I use the term “kids” loosely because a few were teenagers.) All six have become mainstays of the Churn Creek trip. The oldest is fifteen. He was about two years old when the Churn Creek tradition began and though he wasn’t along at two, he and his brother became regulars shortly thereafter. Their sister also joined in following years. Two other girls, both stalwart Churn Creek campers in their own right, were joined by their newest sister who is somewhere in the neighbourhood of 6 months old. And like her sisters, traveled the Churn creek trial while still babes in arms. The oldest of the three sisters is now about eight. If someone told me of a weekend bird trip involving six youngsters and seven adults, my first mental picture would be a chorus of youthful voices all chiming “I’m bored!” This did not happen. And it continued to not happen all weekend long! How is this possible? All credit goes to the parents and youngsters. Due to the character of all involved instead of demonstrations of boredom there was enthusiasm, energy, curiosity, camaraderie, and participation. I was amazed. Even as my energy levels sagged from hours on the road, the kids waved arms excitedly out the caravan windows and comments poured in. “Did you see the Nighthawks?” And the incredulous, “you guys didn’t see the Bobolink?” What a dull trip and a small group it might have been without the youth along. This year we drove north to Williams Lake (birding all along the way of course) and then headed west along Dog Creek Road. Even before reaching Churn Creek, our traditional overnight camping spot, we debated going up the Empire Valley Road to a campsite near the top of the Fraser River bench land. One look at the Churn Creek mouth told us this was a good idea. The flood waters of the Fraser lapped at the gravel bar where we usually camped and a pickup truck on the opposite side of the Churn Creek mouth was stranded, having been cut off from the road by rising waters. Getting to the Empire Valley Road campsite added another 40 minutes to the trip but it was all through scenic Fraser River bench land and no one minded the drive. When we reached the campsite we found several other campers already ensconced, tents pitched under a covered area, a hay barn of sorts. One couple was English. They were camped there so they could hike the surrounding sage hills. The other people were involved in an official bird count and were slated to arise at 4 AM to go off to their tasks. We didn’t mind camping in the open. The rain that had fallen all day on and off had stopped and camping in the open was something we had done in all kinds of weather on the Churn trip. Soon a blazing fire was crackling and all manner of wild game was being roasted. A check of our various bird tallies showed that several of us had our best day yet. I tallied 121 which was the best one-day count for me. As dark drew nigh, a Nighthawk called and bats danced about in the air. Talk turned to ancient times and lost knowledge and finally the last few of us crept off to our tents, leaving the stars to jitter in the dark blue sky above. It took me some time to remember how to fall asleep and no sooner had I done so when the elusive Poorwill called once - “poor-will-ip” - then again, and again. I heard murmuring voices. Was that Mike fooling around outside pretending to be a Common Poorwill? I fell asleep again and not long after some Robins began singing, though it seemed like the middle of the night. Their chorus grew and grew and soon every bird on the hill chimed in. I heard a car pull out of the enclosure and assumed it was the bird counters on their way. That meant it was 4 AM. One of my favourite parts of the Churn creek trip has always been the Sunday morning stroll and perhaps if I got up early enough a sighting of the Poorwill might be possible. I crawled out of the tent and quietly headed for the road. Some distance along I headed off into the grasslands then dropped down into a steep gorge. A coyote, not visible to my eyes but one that I’m sure was watching me, howled. Another replied from the direction of the campsite. I spent some time wandering through the sage and then plotted the easiest trek back to camp. The path took me up through a stand of fir trees and finally to the corral edge where I stopped in my tracks. An Allen Brooks painting sprang to life just ahead. The subject was a Clay-coloured Sparrow in full song. It’s perch was the bleached white branches of a willow, glowing pink in the first rays of sun, against the green morning sky. The blue hills formed the backdrop. This was but one nugget from the Churn Creek trip – the reason we do it year after year. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
