Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Bam!

The ascending, metallic spiralling voice of a Swainson’s Thrush slowly tugged me into consciousness.  I looked about the strange room, bewildered at my new surroundings.  I had fallen asleep eleven hours earlier and lay in a Greyhound-induced coma until now.  The thrush continued to sing his eager tune, "thiiiis is myyyyy treeeee... Aaanyone waaaaant to maaaate with me?" (Waaaaaake uuup Jeeeennn!)  I pulled the covers up to my face and stared at the ceiling, cursing the optimism of the energetic songster outside my bedroom window.  My head was plagued with random memories of the last two days...  the last three months and two days.  I didn't feel like moving.

I was now in Tofino, British Columbia; a small town on the western shores of Vancouver Island. The trees were tall, the skies were grey, and the air was damp and full of all the anxiety that comes with change. 

Float planes continuously hovered over Clayoquot Sound, either landing or taking off (the constant hum of their sputtering engines had become somewhat of a comforting white-noise).  Wave after wave of locals and tourists flooded the small streets. Both could be seen toting surfboards around, but it was easy to distinguish between those who knew how to use one and those who didn't.  The streets were lined with shops of all kinds - coffee shops, surf shops, outdoor clothing shops, second-hand shops, health food shops, souvenir and gift shops.  Restaurants, like barnacles, clustered in between the myriad stores, and squished between those were the surf schools and whale-watching businesses (all quietly battling for tourist attention).

Snow-capped mountains loomed far off in the distance, pushing their noses into the clouds.  Every now and then when the fog lifted I could steal a momentary glance. Tofino was not only plagued by warring businesses, but rain as well - and it was absolutely full of life!  Epiphytic ferns and mosses gobbed in the crooks of trees, even the houses had natural gardens dripping from their cedar-panelled siding. The grey skies provided a constant backdrop and nourished my sad-spot, but they were also the reason for the poisonous green life that covered the rooftops and mountain-sides, and caused the trees to tower at dizzying heights. I was simultaneously grateful to them and enraged at their persistence.  I missed the hot Arizona sun, and I missed my expired desert life. It was tough to grasp the reality of being back in Canada.
 
Have you ever read a really good book?  So good that as you approached the end you read faster and faster until finally you found yourself on the last page, eyes scrolling at warp speed over the final words making up the last paragraph, heart pounding, hands sweating.  The last. Few. Words. Then – BAM!

The end.


Well, Bam. Here I am in Tofino. Now what?  My desert story had come to an end - and with such rude finality. Bam! How could it be over so soon?  It's incredible how quickly life changes.  One minute you're chasing birds through the riparian cottonwood-willow plantations of the lower Colorado River valley and the next you're confronted with the unblinking face of the Canadian Rockies.  The life, the love, the family - all just a distant memory now.

This new place had me at arm’s length. It's exquisite beauty was overshadowed by a peculiar energy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps it was a slight case of claustrophobia (induced by too much time on buses), or maybe it was just my inability to keep up with the change I had initiated. The whole purpose of the Greyhound pilgrimage was to exit my desert life slowly, romantically. I wanted to reflect graciously and say goodbye.  But instead I was kicking and screaming (metaphorically, of course), heels dug into the desert scrub.  It was just all-so-sudden. My head was a mess and I felt full and hollow all at once - full of memories and absent of any inclination as to what the future held. It was hard to swallow.

I listened to the Swainson's Thrush a little while longer then decided it was time to face the day.  I teased myself from the tangled sheets and wandered out to join the rest of the world, leaving my gob of memories behind in the gnarled bedding.  I made a small breakfast and ate it outside on the lichen-encrusted concrete steps of my friend's duplex.  I spooned into the humble bowl of oatmeal and watched  as a Bald Eagle circled overhead, vying for an acceptable spot to land.  He eventually decided on a limb in a cluster of large cedar trees growing alongside the parking lot across the street.  After perching triumphantly his head swiveled around and he stared down at me with cynical yellow eyes.  I answered his glare with a whole-grain smile.  I may have been lost out here in the Pacific Northwest, but at least the birds were familiar.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Bird-ucation!

So far every bird-job I've had has been an educational experience. Whether I'm managing the population of an endangered species, combing the forest for their nests, observing their behaviour, or identifying them based on song and field markings - the birds never fail to teach me something new.  And I know my latest endeavour will be no exception. 

I was finally able to make a decision regarding which job to take (and which job not-to-wait-for).  Sure, I'll be living like a pauper for the next four months, but I'll be getting a superb education as the new Songbird Station Intern at the Coastal Virginia Wildlife Observatory (CVWO)! 

As the assistant to the bander-in-charge I'll be busy running net lanes, extracting birds from the mist nets, determining their age and sex, and of course banding them.  I'll also be largely responsible for providing information about migrating passerines (songbirds) to public visitors and school groups - something I've been wanting to get experience with for a long time.   

I'll be living it up in a small trailer situated in Kiptopeke State Park - a stones-throw away from the Atlantic Ocean.  In the afternoons there will be opportunities to help out at the hawk watch station as well as banding raptors (hawks, falcons, etc.).  In September I'll be sharing my humble abode with the Monarch  Butterfly intern - and probably learn a thing or two about scaley-winged migration as well.

All in all, CVWO was the best decision I could have made.  I'll always wonder about the direction my life could have taken were I to have chosen another opportunity, but someone once told me that when you make a decision you need to stick with it - go forward full-force, and never look back.  And that's what I intend to do.  The next four months will come with new opportunities, challenges and unforgetable experiences.  I'll be wrist-deep in feathers (and at times kicking myself for choosing to help run a banding station) but I'm going to give it my all and learn as much as I can.  Cheers to that!

Friday, July 23, 2010

Decisions, decisions.


I made a strong gin and tonic with crushed ice and a splash of lime juice.  I sat on my bed and sipped the mind-numbing (and tension-relieving) beverage as I scrolled through old photos from field seasons past.  My heart warmed at seeing images of the Pink Pigeons I had grown to love in Mauritius, the cheeky fairy wrens I chased around Australia and the White-winged Doves so characteristic of the southwestern United States.  I couldn't help but wonder where in the world I would end up next. 

I was nearing the end of my five-week-long (and agonizing) job application process and thus nearly free of all the stress that came with it.  I could finally stop worrying that I would be a jobless hobo come the fall and lose my direction in life, among other things.  I had sent out about twenty-two applications with scarcely a response in weeks.  But as the saying goes, "when it rains it pours". 

A few days earlier my cell phone began to ring, and without notice.  I had completed three interviews in three days and now had decisions to make.  A job in Virginia was all mine if I wanted it, but I had my sights set on a hawk watch position in Pennsylvania.  Another job in south Texas was also interested in my abilities.  But all of these potential opportunities came with their own sets of pros and cons. 

In VA I could work as a banding assistant and teach the public about migrating songbirds, try my hand at banding raptors and learn about Monarch Butterfly migration.  But the pay was lousy and I would have very few days off.  In Pennsylvania I could count hawks that flew within range of a wind energy facility, although I would spend most of my days alone at the top of a hill talking to myself.  And in Texas I could count the number of bats and birds taken from the sky by the enormous blades of a windmill, but it was much too far away from where my heart longed to be. 

By 1 AM I had exhausted all of the possible scenarios of which road would lead where.  There was just no way to know which opportunity was the "right" choice.  So I slurped back the last of the gin that had since grown warm, letting it work its alcoholic magic and sooth my confused soul.  Besides, I could always worry again tomorrow.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

For the Love of Birds

There are hard truths to accept when you live a nomadic life chasing birds.  I've been doing this for four years now and it doesn't get any easier saying good-bye.  You meet good people and make friends.  They touch your life and inspire you.  Soon a family is born and you wonder how it is you ever lived without them. 

Camping in cars, girl-talk, pee-in-your-pants-hilarious jokes, jumping-upanddown-concerts, big spaghetti dinners, raging week-end parties, followed by large, greasy breakfasts, the occasional hangover.  And birds.  Always the birds.  They are the glue that holds us together.  They are the reason we are all here. 

The field season quickly draws to it's inevitable end and I can almost hear the prickling tear of Velcro as we all go our separate ways, in search of new opportunities, to distant corners of the globe.  The established routine of work and play is disturbed and I wake once more in my old room, in my old house, in my hometown.  It is quiet.  I never have to wonder what that tightness is inside my chest.  I know the feeling all too well.  It is loss.  But the days they pass, slowly.  You fall into a new routine and continue.  There is nothing else to do but continue.  Apply for new jobs, consider grad school, alter your path or perhaps try your hand at something new. 

In the meantime I grab my binoculars and sling them around my neck.  I head out the door, wondering what birds I'll see today...
Photo: F.Rowland

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Life is what happens while you wait for an oil change

May 17, 2010

I met a woman this afternoon while waiting to have my Jeep's oil changed. She sat across from me in the waiting room. Her bleached blonde hair was teased and piled high atop her head, her bangs framed a round and weathered face, her tired eyes were traced with thick, black liner. In a loud, confident and booming voice she said hello. I asked her if she'd like a magazine and she declined with an air of disdain. She wasn't the sort of person to sit quietly reading while there were other people around.

"This is the place to get your oil changed around here," she said enthusiastically. I asked if there was anywhere else to go. She looked thoughtful for a moment and replied, "I don't know". She then asked me if I had ever been married. I stifled a grin and simply said, "No. I travel for work and it's hard to meet people." She mentioned her single son in Arkansas. I smiled. She proceeded to tell me about her late husband, a Marine for many years and she planned to write a book about him. "He was a truly great man." She talked eagerly about him the entire time we waited in the small, hot room.  I saw that she was lonely and my heart broke for her. Her rough exterior disguised a woman afraid of growing old without her friend.

Society in general fills me with impatience, displeasure, and a general sense of hopelessness. But every once in a while someone stands out. I realize that everyone has a story. About life. About love. And no matter what, we are here.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Wet Abyss

September 2009

We took a break and went outside to share a cigarette. He drew-in and then exhaled.  Smoke had never smelled so good coming out of a person. It was raining and the road was oily black and the streetlamps splashed golden light into the puddles. I stared at them and thought, "This is life. This is what life is all about... these brief moments of utter pleasure and pain and happiness".  The sound of music drifted from the bar down the street, muffled by the sound of falling raindrops. We sat there in silence, my hand in his. He stared into the soaking black night, and I stared into the abyss of an impossible future.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

In Search of Wrens

October 2009

A Sulphur-crested Cockatoo screamed its hideous song as it took off from a perch high above my head.  I heaved a sigh as my heart began to beat again and kept moving. I cautiously picked my way through the tall, dry grass of the Queensland outback, avoiding the taipans and brown snakes that lurked within. So far I’d only heard a few of the slithering beasts as they made their way through the forest scrub, and always away from me. Yet I feared them all the same, knowing they were potentially very dangerous. One small bite meant big trouble, especially if you were an hour away from the nearest hospital, which I was.

I'd been hiking for over an hour and still I hadn’t come across the group of Red-backed Fairy Wrens I sought. I was hired by the Cornell University Laboratory of Ornithology to monitor these black and red songbirds and keep track of breeding behaviour.  But the breeding season had not fully commenced so rather than sticking to defended territories, the birds were travelling around in lose foraging groups.  In the meantime myself and four other field technicians recorded their daily rituals and banded rogue birds.

I had arrived at the Moomin field site at sunrise and it was now half past seven. My stomach pleaded to be fed so I modified my search and looked for a place to dine instead. I found a large fallen eucalyptus and climbed up to sit and eat the rest of a peanut butter and banana panini I had grilled earlier that morning. The peanut butter had since hardened and now stuck to the bottom of the plastic container. I slowly picked at the sandwich and ate it piece by piece, savouring it for as long as possible. As I ate I observed an army of black ants, abdomens poised, marching along the bark.  They avoided my leather boot and followed one another down a narrow stick towards the ground. I harrassed the small soldiers and prodded at them with a twig to see how they reacted. Ants usually fled with great haste, but the individuals of this species turned on the twig and attacked.

I grew bored and slid off the tree. I dug-out the bright green Nalgene from my field pack, unscrewed the lid and swallowed half my water supply before continuing.  I had become familiar with the lay of my field site over the last few weeks and searched several promising spots. Unfortunately, my birds were not cooperating today and I was growing frustrated.  I made it to the end of my territory and turned around.  I revisted a few spots in vain. 

I paused on a large boulder and scanned the meadow before me.  A flock of Rainbow Lorikeets descended into a tall Casuarina pine and foraged on its small cones noisily.  Bits of cone, now robbed of their seeds, landed in my hair as I watched the colourful parrots high in the canopy.  Several friarbirds, treecreepers, robins, and cuckoo shrikes also made their presence known, but the fairy wrens were still nowhere to be found.  

Just as I was about to admit defeat, I heard a familiar high-pitched descending trill.  I stood perfectly still and listened, trying to determine the general direction of the song. I inched a few feet further then stopped dead in my tracks as the bird sang again, not too far away.  I silently made my way towards the sound through a patch of tall ferns, my eyes wide and my ears pricked. I stood quietly behind the trunk of a giant gum tree and waited. Suddenly a shape flitted up and then down again. I carefully drew my binoculars up and focused on the patch of grass where I had seen the parabolic movement. Nothing happened for a few moments as I scanned the general area.  My attention was drawn to a thicket of Lantana. Another bird flew up and then down. My heart was pounding with excitement as I stood and watched as four fairy wrens hawked for insects.

I focused on the individuals as they eagerly chased their prey. It took about ten minutes before I was able to identify them all. It was the pair HGY and HYG, and their helpers -Z- and ZLZ. The fairy wrens were all banded with colour- and numbered identification rings. The colours had letter codes and I remembered each individiual by creating names with the letters. This group in particular (Huggy Bear, Hyena G., Zebra and Zulu) was notorious for fighting with the pair GZZ and WRW (Giselle and Woodrow) but today they were foraging intently, moving from one Lantana bush to the next.
There was no significant breeding behaviour to note, but I watched the voracious little birds for a long time before setting off to search for the next group...