The Who, What, Where, When, and Why.

We all ask the same question:  What are we doing here? 

Pondering the meaning of life is what makes us human.  We rationalize everything, so the very fact that we exist must mean something.  I think, therefore, I am.  We know we're here, that's easy.  But now that we've figured that out, we feel the need to understand why.  The majority of the world attributes our immaculate existence to the hand of a higher power. The rest of the world quietly believes otherwise.  The problem with the former belief is that an "afterlife" makes it easy to put the important things off another day.  The latter belief makes it easy not to care at all.  Nonetheless, we are here and we should make the most of the time we have. 

As I sit in my beige tin trailer at the edge of Chesapeake Bay, I sometimes wonder what I'm doing here.  Not on Earth, but in Virginia.  I have to remind myself that I came here to get experience banding birds and teaching people about avian migration, and conservation.  Another stepping stone.  But to what?  What am I reaching for?  Ultimately I'd like to coordinate my own conservation project somewhere in the world, and in the meantime I'm slowly accumulating the skills required to achieve this goal.  The more books and journal articles I read on the subject of conservation increases the prominence of the idea that accelerated species extinctions are inevitable in this world gone to the humans. 

So why bother trying to save a population of Pink Pigeons?  Of Maui Parrotbills?  Of assessing the invasion rate of an exotic species of beetle?  Why spend thousands of my hard-earned dollars on a flight to Australia to volunteer my time chasing birds through a forest?  For the same reason humans do anything at all. Because it makes me happy.  We're all going to die some day.  Everything dies.  But why not preserve what we can, while we can?  If I can improve my quality of life by improving the quality of life of my avian neighbours, then I'm just going to keep doing it and stop asking why I'm doing it. 

Despite the fact that my life is an exercise in futility, I'll continue to travel the world discovering new species, working with people of diverse culutral backgrounds, enjoying new food, and delaying the extinction of a population of endangered birds for one more day.  This is life.  The why is not important.  The how, the when, the where - that's what truly counts. 

"Fee" - Pink Pigeon (Columba mayeri), Mauritius

Dreamworld

I lay there in the dark, not quite asleep and not quite dreaming.  I lay there in the same bed I imagined months ago.  The same, but different.  What I had imagined was in fact a mirror image of this place.  The Virginia of my mind was an entirely different world from the Virginia in which I spent my waking, and working, hours.  I listened to the rain splattering across my window.  The wind threatened to lift the tin roof, revealing me like a sardine.  It was difficult to find sleep in this swirling Atlantic weather.  I wondered whether I would have to work in the morning.  It always seemed to be the way the weather worked here.  The clouds spat rain and the wind tossed it loudly against the tin of the trailer, keeping me awake for most of the night.  Yet as the new day approached the clouds always retreated to the north, leaving me to take-on the morning, weary. 

A few months back I imagined a sandy soiled forest, rich with the scent of a salty ocean.  I imagined a quaint trailer, tucked away amongst the pines.  I saw the ocean from my window.  I suppose my daydream was not so far off.  The trailer did back onto a stand of Loblolly Pines, and the beach was less than a half mile down the road.  But there was no magic here.  I was surrounded by noisy campers, and offensively large motorhomes crowded in a sterile and treeless campground. 

But still this did not bother me so much.  I was generally unhappy in this place I had built up in my mind and it had nothing to do with the position of the trailer, or the distance to the beach, or even the fact that I could look out my window and see into the windows of a Bounder.  Instead, there was a flavour in the mouths of many of the locals that I would never grow to tolerate, or even appreciate. 

Virginia, I came to learn, is a very conservative state.  There are activities that are celebrated (or at least tolerated) in the rest of North America, that are discouraged here.  This includes sharing your home with a significant other out of wedlock. 

I learned how serious an offense this was a few nights ago when one of the local park police officers came banging on my front door in the middle of the night.  My boyfriend had just arrived not five minutes earlier, and the tent we were told he had to sleep in, was not yet errected.  I was threatened with a fine and his prohibition from the park.  But in addition to the poisonous words that flew from the mouth of the officer was a look of intense judgement.  It was a look I had never seen before.  Not even from my mother when I was caught skipping school in the eleventh grade.  I was being made to feel shame. 

He left abrubtly after stating an official warning, and all I could do was stare blankly at the floor.  I tried to process the information and tried to make sense of his words in my head.  Law.  Illegal.  Fine.  Prohibited.  But still I could not understand how this 18th century rule could be pressed upon a 27 year-old woman.  Not now, not in this day and age, where gay couples were allowed to express their love through legal marriage in Canada (as well as six of the United States), and America was being led by a black president. 

But Virginia was no dreamworld.  I could scoff at this ridiculous law all I wanted but I couldn't deny the fact that it is written, and there are people who seriously go about punishing those who break it.  I felt oppressed.  I have a new appreciation for the silent (and not so silent) wars fought (and still being fought) by every non-white minority, by women, by homosexuals.  We all want to be accepted, and we do not want to made to feel shame.  I feel silly saying all of this. I'm a fortunate white female, brought up in a middle-class family.  I have a good education, and I was encouraged to voice my opinions, and to believe in what I wanted to believe. 

But not here. 

I'm sure it will all be different one day.  But for the next two months I will be forced to follow a Christian-inspired law... or else.

To the Cape!

I sat in silence listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioner, a splendid luxury in this small trailer I now called home.  It was 90 degrees outside, a temperature I could usually handle after spending so much time in the deserts of Arizona and California.  But this heat was worse than any desert-heat.  The eastern heat is laced with sticky humidity, something that doesn't exist in the southwest.  I heaved a sigh and made a weird noise, just to fill the new space with another sound besides the mechanical chattering of the A/C unit.  I was in Virginia, adjusting once again.

I arrived here the previous afternoon after 14 hours on the road.  I had left my home in Kingston with palpable excitement which soon gave way to nervous anxiety as I rumbled along the congested Pennsylvania Turnpike in my black Oldsmobile Alero.  It rained and rained, and traffic piled up at each on-ramp.  My wipers swished furiously and I wondered if I'd ever make it to my final destination.  Another bird-job awaited me five hundred miles down the road.  As I drove, my overactive imagination spun story after story and whipped-up every possible scenario of what life would be like along the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, and I made myself nervous. 

I took advantage of my position in the slow-moving lanes and peered into the other cars.  People picked their teeth, scratched their necks, talked to their passengers, passengers had their feet up on the dashboard, and everyone looked annoyed.  I wondered where they were all going.  Most of the vehicles had Pennsylvnia plates, a few New Yorkers, and the odd Delawarian.  I was the only Ontario plate among the sea of metal.  I saw one man point-out my car to his daughter and I imagined their conversation, "Look honey, a Canadian!"  "Wow, dad!" I felt so exposed, so exotic.  But in some strange way, I also felt normal again being back in the United States.  Canada is my home, yet I have gained a great deal of my birding experience in the USA partly because my own country is lacking in the bird-job department, and partly because several states boast attractive ecozones that Canada doesn't have.  So, here I was again, on my way to a new state to work with another wildlife observatory generous enough to give this Cana-alien a job.

The road stretched on and my heart was nostaligic as I made my way through the rest of Pennsylvania.  I had worked in an old coal-mining town the previous fall and I was pleasantly haunted by memories of singing katydids and the taste of cigarettes and Suntory.  I passed a band of motorcyclists and wondered how they were dealing with the soaking wet weather.  Their gear was covered in garbage bags and they rode with stone-cold faces into the sheets of falling water.  At least they had each other.  At least I had a roof. 

I eventually left the 476 behind me but the memories and rain continued to splatter across my mind and my windshield, respectively.  The freeway grew more and more complicated as I approached Philadelphia.  Large overhanging signs with peeling arrows (somewhat resembling bananas) and numbers and letters told motorists where to go.  I was told to follow 95 to 4A to DE-7 to 1 South.  Phew.  WELCOME TO DELAWARE, the state sign read.  A new state for me!  I continued on my peeling banana path around Wilmington, through Bear and Odessa, and then onto the Beaches.  I was now the only Ontarian among blue and yellow plates but I didn't notice anyone pointing.  I crossed the toll bridge near St. Georges into the Delmarva Peninsula.  The sun was falling toward the busy earth and the rain tapered off.  I began looking for a place to spend the night.  Sign after sign promised comfortable hotels and motels with reasonable rates, wi-fi, flat-screen TVs, swimming pools and free hot breakfasts.  I briefly entertained the thought of camping out in the parking lot of an abanoned grain elevator, but my busy, creative brain imagined zombies escaping the dark, empty building at nightfall to paw at my windows.  I coaxed myelf to search for an overpriced hotel room instead where I could shower and sleep soundly. 

I decided to drive another hundred miles before stopping.  I meandered along 13 South until I came to the small town of Salisbury, MD.  The first hotel I saw was a Comfort Inn.  I parked in the half-full lot and went inside to see how much they wanted for a single room.  $79.99 for a single?  I knew there was cheaper places but I was dog-tired and decided to pay the ridiculous fee.  I took my overnight bag into my expensive room and made the most of my stay.  After all these years I still felt a stupid sense of excitement when I stayed in a hotel room.  As a child I relished the rare night my family stayed in a hotel while on vacation.  The emotion stuck with me to this day.  I poked about the room and made note of all the amenities: coffee maker, tv, microwave, mini-refrigerator.  I jumped from bed to bed and decided on the left as my sleeping place.  After a thorough inspection of my room I decided to venture out to find some food.  I drove down the Ocean Highway (aka Business 13 South) through town scanning for a grocery store.  Nothing was open at 10 PM except for one store.  One giant store.  And I really, really didn't want to go inside.  I slinked into the jam-packed Walmart parking lot, it's enormous glowing sign burning my retinas.  Who the hell was shopping this late at night?  Was everyone completing a 600 mile day and looking for a frozen meal to warm in their hotel microwave?

I entered and rather than being greeted by the wonderfully depressing old woman at the front door, I was met with the sound of screaming children and squabling couples.  I plucked up a basket and scooted through the aisles with as much haste as possible.  Large, flabby people floated about in lycra and spandex pants and long t-shirts, pushing carts filled with items they probably didn't need (not at this time of night anyway).    I collected some fruit and a frozen chinese entree then waited behind six people at the checkout before dashing toward the exit.  The same sad wrinkled old lady at the entrance ignored me and stared straight ahead.  I swallowed the smile I had stored in case she acknowledged me, and exited.

Once back in my room I successfully filled the stale air with the smell of wonton soup and vegetable pot-stickers.  I put on an old movie and ate to my heart's content.  I scraped the bottom of my chinese entree boxes then retired for the night.  The next morning I hit snooze on my alarm nearly six times before eventually climbing out of bed.  I still had time to eat a free hot breakfast which included Belgian waffles, toast, coffee, and boiled eggs.  I wrapped a few pieces of toast with a napkin and grabbed a handful of jam to take with me as I completed my journey south.  I didn't have far to go, only another 100 miles to Kiptopeke State Park.

It was an uneventuful drive.  Highway 13 frequently plunges through bustling box-store-infested beach-towns, and is lined with pine trees, dotted with abandoned houses and the odd boarded-up gas station.  Occassionally it is intersected by a county road leading to a small, uneventful town.  I noted all of these relics with mild curiosity.  I arrived in Cape Charles, VA at noon and made my way into the small state park situated on Chesapeake Bay. 

I pulled up to the main office to announce my arrival. Once an old farmhouse, the quaint building was now painted white with a red tin roof.  Inside I found two members of the park staff, both of whom greeted me with warm Virginian hospitality (and warm southern accents).  The park manager showed me a map of the park and directed me to the trailer I would be living in with a few quick lines made by his pen.  I heeded the blue vectors and made my way over to my new home.

The beige and brown trailer, circa 1992, sat at the eastern edge of the campground.  It was framed by two Japonese Maples and a sprawling Prickly Pear, home to two large Argiope aurantias (Black and Yellow Garden Spiders).  The assistant park manager soon met me in the driveway and guided me inside to show me around.  He pointed out the two bathrooms, bedroom (complete with two dressers and a bunkbed, cool!), kitchen and laundry room.  Any maintenance issues I had I was to go to him about.  He dropped a few names of people I would eventually meet, gave me the park number in case of emergency, and left me to unpack.

I wandered back into the bedroom.  In lieu of a flag to stake my territory, I threw my backpack onto the bottom bunk.  My heart yearned for the top bunk, but I had learned that life was much easier on the bottom (and less wobbly).  I was to meet my superiors at the banding station in an hour, so in the meantime I attempted to find places for all of my books, clothes, and toiletries.  I was still making myself at home when my boss called to let me know it was time to start setting up the mist nets.  I left my bags strewn on the floor and headed out the door.  I shielded my eyes from the hot, Virginian sun as I closed the half-mile distance between my trailer and the banding station.  This was it.  Another field season had officially commenced and I couldn't help but wonder what I was in for...

If We're Lucky

I had been in Tofino for a few days now and was still feeling a little unsettled.  My best friend, whom I was visiting (the sole reason I was in Tofino to begin with), worked most days so I attempted to keep myself busy by applying to jobs, entering data freelance-style for my previous employer, and writing here and there.  In the evenings we went out for dinner or visited her boyfriend at work, watched movies, drank tea, and just hung out and caught up on life. 

I wasn't sure how much longer I'd stay out here, though.  Yasmin and Ryan had some housing issues that would soon leave them looking for alternate lodging  until their new place was finished and move-in ready.  This left me in an awkward position since I would also be along for the ride.  I felt like a huge imposition now and it was one more thing that I had to worry about.  My to-do list already included having to replace my driver's license and health card that were stolen a few months earlier (before setting off on my desert journey), as well as replace my "lost" passport.  I really did need to get back home to Ontario to take care of these things, but I did my best to stay on the west coast, and thus extend my adventure, for as long as possible. 

One morning, before Yasmin had to be at work, she and I headed into town to run a few errands.  Our first stop was the Co-op grocery store, a link in a prominent chain here in Tofino (there was also a Co-op hardware store and the Co-op gas station).  We travelled up and down the aisles, plucking random items from the shelves.  While in the dairy section we ran into a man that Yasmin knew through her work.  He was a local ornithologist and owned a bird-watching adventure company in town.  Yasmin said a polite hello and introduced me.  She was ready to leave it at that and stroll away, but I took the opportunity to pick this man's brain about the local bird life.  I told him that I had just come from Arizona, surveying breeding birds along the Colorado River and immediately we were engaged in conversation.  Soon I was booked to join him on one of his guided walks.  I left the grocery store exultant.  So far, I had spent a little time roaming around town and some of the local beaches familiarizing myself with Tofino's avifauna, but now I had the chance to get a little more hardcore about it.  Also, I had started keeping a life list (like any good bird nerd) and was eager to add a few new species to my on-going tally (and hang out with someone who understood why that was so exciting). 

The next morning Mr. B met me at the corner of Fourth St. and Campbell.  Binoculars draped around my neck and a Kaufman field guide in hand, I climbed into his beat-up black Jeep Grand Cherokee and we set off for the Pacific Rim National Park.  He said we would try to see as many birds as possible so I could really appreciate the whole experience, but there was really only one species I secretly wished to see.  A colourful robin of the west with a beautiful, clear whistle of a song - the Varied Thrush would make for an excellent addition to my list.  Mr. B said these fellows were more common in the fall and that we'd be very lucky to see one.  I put the bird at the back of my mind and looked forward to seeing everything else, novel or not.

On the way we picked-up one other person and it became blatantly obvious to me that the people of Tofino didn't care too much about birds.  Her name was Mary and she ran a small bed and breakfast.  She wanted to learn more about the natural heritage of Tofino and took Mr. B up on his offer of a free guided bird walk.  She and I would be his only bird-loving companions in weeks.  Mr. B expanded greatly on this point several times throughout the day and revealed the hardships of owning a business that thrived specifically on a virtually non-existent human interest (at least out here anyway).  Needless to say, profits had decreased over the years since people had better things to do during the recession than watch birds poke around Vancouver Island.

Despite the constant rain and fog, the three of us spent a grand total of six hours scouring the trails and beaches for birdlife.  I managed to pick out a pair of Brown Creepers (rarities on this side of the island) as well as a multitude of Pacific Slope Flycatchers - species Mr. B could no longer hear due to the combination of a high-frequency call and his dimished hearing ability.  We saw Black Oystercatchers scuttling across the sand, Wilson`s and Orange-crowned Warblers darting low in the brambling blackberry bushes, Bald Eagles perched high in the towering spruce trees, and chattering groups of Chestnut-backed Chickadees (the only chickadees on the island).  We heard Townsend's Warblers high up in the canopy but never caught a glimpse, much to Mary's dismay. 

Song and Fox Sparrows were seen foraging in piles of washed-up kelp and driftwood and Mr. B explained how to tell the difference between the similar brown birds based on tail length and their overall posture. He also pointed out similarities between Glaucous-winged and Western Gulls.  Since their wing plumage varied from charcoal grey to light grey they could be very easily confused - especially since they often hybridized.  A Red-throated, and Yellow-billed Loon floated far out on the Pacific and we were able to see them through a powerful spotting scope.  We were also witness to a few Marbled Murrelets flapping erratically across the bay, as well as a lone Pelagic Cormorant. 

Around noon we were all thoroughly soaked and chilled to the bone, but it was an excellent day for birds and I managed to see seven new species.  I was eager to get back home and change into some dry clothes, however, Mr. B wanted to stop at one more location to see if we could detect anything else.  We exited the Pacific Rim National Park while our driver cursed the government's lack of interest in maintaining the few remaining Canadian wild spaces.  Driving further from Tofino down Highway 4, we turned right onto a small road and headed towards a nameless bay.  Large, boradleaved trees created a dim road-hugging tunnel through the temperate rainforest.  Suddenly, Mr. B screeched to a halt as a chunky bird darted out from the understory.  It landed in the middle of the road and we all squinted through our binoculars to see it.  I caught my breath as my heart skipped a beat.  What we thought was an American Robin was in fact a Varied Thrush.  Despite the low visibility I was able to see his bright orange throat and belly, charcoal back, and black breast.  He paused for a mere moment then took off, flying deep into the forest.  We exited the jeep and listened hopefully for a song, but heard nothing.  The bird had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

We climbed back into the jeep and sat in amazed silence. "Well," excalimed Mr. B, "That was lucky!"

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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...

In the Belly of the Bus

Tofino. A small town on the western coast of Vancouver Island. The enormous Red Cedars are outnumbered only by tourists. The tourists don't stick around as long and the cedars keep to themselves...

I arrived here on a Greyhound bus, greasy-haired and dissheveled. As I made my way to the exit I wondered if the trip had been worth all the trouble. I was two days older and indeed, two days wiser.

My original thought before stepping on board a bus filled with strangers of all ages and backgrounds was that I wanted to embark on a different kind of journey back home to Canada. I had spent the last three months in Arizona working as a field technician, surveying breeding birds along the Colorado River. It had been a dramatic season full of love and adventure and I wanted to take the next two days to say goodbye to America and to reflect on my time in the desert. So, in lieu of the convenience of an airplane I opted for a bus. This way I could witness the beauty of Oregon and Washington, read my book, and write in my journal. It was a romantic idea. But sure enough like most ideas, it didn't quite materialize the way I had hoped. In reality, those two days lent themselves to the longest week of my life. It may of had something to do with the fact that I left something of great value behind. I was incredibly sad and in my opinion, there was no better way to be sad than to wallow in the loneliness of an epic 1000-mile bus ride.



A day before embarking on my journey north, I said goodbye to my field house in Lake Havasu City, AZ and drove off in the last remaining work truck. I took it six-hundred miles across the seemingly endless deserts of Nevada, northwest to Reno. The trip was lonely, sad, and a little maddening but I occupied myself by taking pictures of distant mountains through the smudged windshield and sang along to my favourite songs. I stopped occasionally for food, gas, and bathroom breaks only to hit the road once again. Eleven hours later I triumphantly pulled into a driveway in a quaint neighbourhood just south of downtown Reno. The lawns were manicured and the gardens were overflowing with colourful flowers. The home at the end of this particular driveway belonged to my boss and her husband. They had offered to put me up for the night, and I was happy to have a warm bed to rest my tired and confused head.

The next day, after a restful sleep and a bowl of oatmeal, I strolled over to the Stephenson Street bus station. One hundred and seventy-nine dollars later I had my ticket to Canada. I spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging my backpack and in the evening I enjoyed a few farewell drinks with my boss and her husband.

At 8 PM I sat in the run-down, Reno Greyhound terminal gripping an orange, second-hand suitcase and waited eagerly for the first of five buses that would eventually take me all the way to Tofino, British Columbia. My head was full of thought, and my stomach was full of drink. Soon, people began forming a line which I promptly joined. As we all stood there, a young man standing in front of me asked where I was heading. He raised his eyebrows in shock when I told him I was travelling all the way to BC. I raised mine when he informed me that he was heading to LA to catch a flight back to Germany. Being born in Germany myself, we found a few things to talk about while we inched closer and closer to the narrow bus door. Finally, it was my turn to hand over my ticket and my luggage. We eyed separate window seats and parted with a smile. I curled up and tried to mentally prepare for the longest bus-ride of my life.

***

It seemed that everyone I met on my buses had a story. It began with a conceited woman with a fake nose and collagen-injected lips. She sat next to me on that first bus which embarked from Reno. All the way to Sacramento, California she entertained me with tales of rock stars and celebrities she had mingled with, danced with, slept with. She talked to me about chakras and astrology. And I was glad for her company. The first one hundred and thrity-two miles flew by and before I knew it I saw the tall buildings of downtown Sacramento.


I waited two hours for the next bus that would take me to Portland, OR. We roared onto the I-5 around 1:15 AM and I managed to sleep until 7 AM, at which time the small town of Roseburg, OR met us for breakfast. Little did I know, this would be the only meal I would eat until midnight.
I savoured my coffee and gazed beyond the smudged glass, watching as green fields, lush forested mountains, and deep valleys rushed past. Abandoned houses and farms dotted the fertile landscape and I wondered who had lived there once upon a time.

I marvelled at all the beauty and told myself that this was why I did it. This was what made the entire bus trip worth all the discomfort. It was absolutely breath-taking. The New Pornographers "Entering White Cecilia" whispered into my head and provided the perfect soundtrack to accompany the transient world outside my window.


In Eugene, an awkward man climbed the stairs of the bus and made his way down the aisle. He was the next person to grace me with tales of his life. He was going home to Portland where he was studying to be a nurse. He had two kids and a new baby granddaughter. In earnest, he showed me pictures of his family, as though the world could end at any moment and he desperately needed to inform someone that he did something meaningful with his life. I feigned polite interest for a little while, but I soon returned to looking out into the world. I placed my headphones over my ears and watched as the rest of Oregon passed me by.

My makeshift solitude was not to last long, however. In Corvallis, a young, deaf mother with a pair of toddlers sat in the seat in front of me. I was initially annoyed when one of the little girls popped her head over the headrest. An enormous, small-toothed grin crossed her face as she stared at me intently. I smiled back thinking she would grow bored and retreat. But she was persistent. For the next two hours she pointed at absolutely everything from the bus window - clouds, cars, dogs in cars, people in cars, horses, cows, buildings, my water bottle - with intense curiosity. I laughed at her eagerness and pronounced all of their names. The mother occasionally turned around and looked at me apologetically, letting me know that I didn't need to entertain her daughter. But I was happy to teach her some new words, and make her bus trip a little more bearable.


At 2:45 PM we all exited the bus in Portland and half an hour later I was on my next bus heading for Seattle. This time I shared the ride with a young girl, also studying to be a nurse. We chatted a little bit but she mostly talked on her cell phone. I took this pleasant opportunity to listen to my music and contemplate my future out west. I had the notion that I would live a quiet, artistic summer beside the ocean. I would write music and paint, perhaps work part-time. My best friend was living out there with her boyfriend and I hadn't seen her since February of 2009. A lot had happened since then and we needed to catch up in a big, bad way. So I would establish myself in Tofino and spend the summer with my friend. This seemed an ideal place to ignore my spot of melancholy.

I arrived in Seattle at 7:00 PM. This bus station was the worst I had seen so far. It smelled of urine and was packed wall to wall with grumpy travelers. We all stood, toes thumping, eyes straight ahead, praying for our respective buses to pull-in and take us home.

I heaved a sigh of relief once on the bus - my second last bus before I reached my final destination. We crossed the Canadian border at 11:00 PM after a few minor hiccups (I had to turn over my pepper spray and then discovered I needed to replace my passport... long story) and arrived in Vancouver at midnight. My bus to Nanaimo didn't leave until 5:45 AM and so I took this opportunity to clean-up. I spent the next twenty minutes in the washroom changing my clothes and washing my face. I braided my greasy hair which I tuckedunder my green field hat and brushed my teeth.
When I exited the washroom I saw a round, red-faced Ukrainian security guard explaining to a mother and daughter that the bus station was closing. The pair had nowhere to stay while they waited for their next bus which coincidentally was destined for Nanaimo. I joined in the conversation and explained that I was in a similar predicament. The guard gruffly told us we could sleep in the station but would have to remain inside all night as they would lock the doors.

We settled into a corner of the bus station and piled our belongings on a pair of wooden benches. We laughed about how ridiculous we felt and spent the next hour chatting before catching a few, broken hours of sleep. As it happened, this Navajo woman and her daughter had traveled from Phoenix and were delighted that I was also coming from Arizona. While we exchanged stories the Ukrainian security guard, along with his Punjabi partner, strolled over and chatted with us. They asked us where we were from and what we were doing in Vancouver. They told us they always worked the night shift and liked it because it was quiet. They did their rounds and then returned. This time they sat together near the ticket booth talking quietly. In the meantime I had unrolled my sleeping bag onto one of the benches. I lay there listening as the soft voices of the two men echoed around the hollow bus station and drifted in and out of sleep.

At 4 AM the Ukrainian barked at us to wake up since they would be opening the station in half an hour. With as much haste as I could manage I stuffed my sleeping bag into its pouch and packed it away. I yawned and looked around the empty station. Soon it would once again be busy with the to and fro of those making their way from place to place.

The bus to Nanaimo departed the Vancouver terminal at 5:45 on the dot, and took me along with it. Together we crossed the Straight of Georgia on a large ferry. I was forced to exit the bus for the duration of this water crossing. Pillow in hand, I found an empty seat and curled up. I dozed for the entirety of the trip, waking occasionally to the sound of excited elementary school kids running around the deck.
I arrived in Nanaimo at 8:30 AM. Two days had passed and I was nearly at my final destination. I waited in the small, dusty bus terminal for the last wheeled beast to take me to Tofino. I busied myself with a romantic World War I novel. The bus rolled-in at exactly 10:30 AM and I climbed aboard. How sweet this final stretch would be. I could taste the salty air, smell the cedar, hear the waves crashing onto the sandy shore... Exhausted, I lay across the two hard, narrow seats and slept the last four hours into oblivion. I woke randomly to see the road before us snaking through poisonously green mountains. My eyelids closed against my will and I continued to dream.

I didn't wake again until we arrived in Tofino.