Is a picture really worth a thousand words?

Definitely not great photos; I was carrying my dragonfly camera and did my best.  Anyway, you can certainly see the bird and tell what it is.  The circumstance was amusing.

Initially there was an Eastern Kingbird on the upright perch in the river.  It sat still for a moment or two and then took off low over the water to catch a bug.  The kingbird had to chase the bug around a bit and caught it on its flight back to the perch.  Suddenly there was a mini-squabble and a Red-headed Woodpecker claimed the perch.  The kingbird flew off.  The Red-headed Woodpecker seemed comfortable on the perch and remained looking around. 

After two or three minutes it flew off.  As far as I know, the kingbird did not reclaim its perch, although it was a convenient spot to hunt insects.

Later, leaving the area, I was at my car and look who appeared on a slender tree just off of the parking lot.  The above photo was the only one worth keeping.  

This is Lower Huron Metropark where there is a deck that people fish from, some picnic tables and where bike riders park their cars to unload their bikes and begin their ride, and it seems that at least one, but occasionally two, Red-headed Woodpeckers always show up here.

A couple of months ago I finished reading The End of the End of the Earth, essays by Jonathan Franzen (Picador. Farrar, Straus and Girous, New York, 2018).  And just last week I read a David Sedaris essay Notes on a last-minute safari (The New Yorker, June 17th, 2024, pages 12-14 print edition).  Two very different writers, but each has at least one shared viewpoint in common.  Franzen is a well-known birder and has written many essays that include his interest in and concern for birds. Sedaris, as his essay title might imply, is more of a big game guy, although he writes about anything and everything.  What does their viewpoint have to do with a Red-headed Woodpecker imitating a flycatcher?  Well, mostly nothing.  The next part of this is more to do with photography.

In early April 2005, I was scouting at Tawas Point State Park preparing for having three Baltimore friends visit me in mid-May for a birding trip in Michigan.  To be precise, the date was April 3rd.  I had never been to Tawas Point State Park and did not want to be unprepared for their visit. Their list was long and their expectations high:  Kirtland's Warbler, Upland Sandpiper, Clay-colored Sparrow, Spruce Grouse, were just some of the birds on the list.  After Tawas Point we would be traveling to the upper peninsula and Whitefish Point.   Northeast lower peninsula Michigan is most often still cold in early April and I may have been the only person in the park.  There were lots of Dark-eyed Juncos, some American Tree Sparrows and possibly others, White-throated Sparrows too maybe, scattered around the grounds near the campground buildings.  I looked through them all with half interest. Then I saw something different.  Even though I had never seen one before, I knew what it was; a female Smith's Longspur (Calcarius pictus).  I was so excited.  In those days I carried only binoculars. These were the early days of digital cameras and, at best, if not excessively expensive, they were still rudimentary.  Anyway, it didn't matter because I didn't have a camera of any sort.  I stayed with the bird and watched it closely for over an hour.  Although I had a little flip phone, there was no cell phone service in the park.  I remember my reluctance to leave the bird while I went into town to make a pay phone call to a friend.  I asked him to post the Smith's Longspur on a statewide list serve hoping that others would come and verify it with me.  I hustled back to the park campground and easily re-found the longspur.  At times the little bird was no more than five feet from my toes.  It was getting later and colder.  No one came.  Then it was nearly dark and I had to leave.  Early the next morning I returned to the spot from the evening before.  No Smith's Longspur.  I walked along the road that leads to the beach searching.  No Smith's Longspur.  I scanned the beach.  No Smith's Longspur.  At that time it was the first Smith's Longspur reported from Michigan's lower peninsula.  Previously, I think there had been one record from the upper peninsula.

I wrote up my experience and findings of the Smith's Longspur and sent it to the Michigan Bird Records Committee (MBRC).  I am a native Michigander, but I cut my teeth as a birder in Maryland learning from some of the best.  I was not aware of the good ole' boy reputation of the MBRC.  My findings and report were rejected with a vote of 7 to 1.  Even today I still recall one of the funnier comments in the rejection:  "What would a Smith's Longspur be doing in a tree?"  Apparently, the reviewer was referencing its tundra breeding habitat where there are no trees.  However, there are trees where the bird winters, as well as all along its migration path.  Tawas Point State Park has trees!  Never mind.  It's funny now but at the time I felt put out.  Perhaps the reviewer was lost.  I learned more about the Michigan birding scene and soon came to take it in stride.  However, I also knew I needed a camera and needed to learn how to use it!

From then on, I have lugged some model of point-and-shoot with zoom lens capability around with me on every outing, near or far.  I never did go for the big DSLR cameras and lenses because they are heavy and awkward for me to carry.  I have a friend who gave himself tennis elbow from carrying around his big camera.  My goal was to be able to carry the thing and take identifiable photos of birds and other wild creatures.   

I started this blog and then I needed photos.  On every outing, every trip, getting the photo became the goal.  I was aiming for the photo before even looking at the bird.  It should come as no surprise that my birding skills declined.  In the years since, I have taken thousands and thousands and thousands of photos.  Most are deleted, the gift of digital photography.  I have found a couple of other good birds, but none like a Smith's Longspur.  Being alone and cold, I will always remember that bird and the experience of spending so much time with it.  

In Jonathan Franzen's essay of the same title as his book, The End of the End of the Earth (page 195), he writes a wonderfully tangled and complex connection of memories and events.  It's a beautiful piece.  One of the events is of his expedition to Antarctica, a three week trip with the Lindblad National Geographic.  With money left to him by his uncle Walt, first he was to go with his girlfriend, but when that fell through he travels with his brother.  He meets Chris and Ada, a couple of other birders on the ship.  Of all the birds one hopes to see on such a trip, the Emperor Penguin is the bird to see.  "Four feet tall, these are the stars of the March of the Penguins" (page 208), "every one of them as heroic as Shackleton" (page 209).  Turns out, a sighting is not easy and is not guaranteed.  Traveling in Lallemand Fjord near the southernmost latitude, Franzen knew this location was the last hope for seeing an Emperor Penguin (page 208).  He is scanning the ice field and sees a bird that appears unfamiliar.  "It seemed to have a patch of color behind its ear and a blush of yellow on its breast.  Emperor Penguin?" (page 208).  He tells the ship's crew member who is in charge of operations, because seeing an Emperor Penguin would change the operation.  He's not certain he is taken seriously.  He's also aware of his "distressing history of incorrect bird identifications" (page 209) and the bird is about a half mile away.  He runs to Chris and Ada's (birding friends he has made on the ship) cabin to alert them to what he has seen.  They join him on deck and Chris puts his spotting scope on the bird and confirms that it is an Emperor Penguin.  They all high-five and tell the ship's captain who suspends the operation the other crew member was working on and instructs him to redirect to the Emperor Penguin.   They pile into Zodiacs.  The news traveled quickly.  By the time Franzen "arrives on the scene, thirty orange-jacketed photographers were standing or kneeling and training their lenses on a very tall and very handsome penguin, very close to them" (page 210).  

Here is my punchline.  Franzen writes, "I'd already made a quiet, alienated resolution not to take a single picture on the trip.  And here was an image so indelible that no camera was needed to capture it:  the Emperor Penguin appeared to be holding a press conference.  While a cluster of Adelies came up from behind it, observing like support staff, the Emperor faced the press corps in a posture of calm dignity.  After a while, it gave its neck a leisurely stretch.  Demonstrating its masterly balance and flexibility, and yet without seeming to show off, it scratched behind its ear with one foot while standing fully erect on the other.  And then, as if to underline how comfortable it felt with us, it fell asleep" (page 211).

Franzen, whether before or during the trip, makes his "alienated resolution" not to take a single picture.  He doesn't say why he made this resolution.  I'm not sure I agree, but he has a reputation of being somewhat curmudgeonly.  In forgoing taking photographs, he sees and remembers forever his experience of the Emperor Penguin.  Of course, Franzen has a way with words and imagery that few do, but in this passage we are all able to visualize this scene and see the Emperor Penguin.  It's unlikely we would have this description had he been busy taking photographs.  Birder or not, doesn't matter, I highly recommend this essay for the beauty of it.

David Sedaris takes a different path to the same decision for a different reason.  In his June 17th New Yorker Personal History essay Trophy Room: Going on safari (link above; New Yorker essays on-line frequently have different titles than the printed essay), he takes the reader on a David Sedaris-style safari.  He's at a Christmas Party that a number of authors he admires are also attending.  He is introduced to a curator from the Metropolitan Museum who is soon "leaving on an African safari, the sort where you carry a camera rather than a gun."  After the party on the subway ride home he whines to his boyfriend Hugh, "Why can't we go on a safari" (page 12)?  A month later they are in Kenya "in an open-sided four-by-four vehicle surrounded by seven lions, none of which seemed to care about us" (page 12).

As essays go, safari ... is short.  As in many David Sedaris stories, he carries on with side stories and makes amusing observations about the most ordinary things.  Early on he describes ... - "couples with camera lenses the size of the Hubble telescope" (page 13, 1st column).  A couple of columns over, they are again in the four-by-four when they come across at least thirty baboons, many with babies on their backs.  "Get out your camera," their guide, Dalton, instructs as he turned off the four-by-four's engine.  "I'd told him from the get-go that photography was not my thing.  I will not be taking a single picture," Sedaris promised.  "Not even if we come upon a rhino?" Dalton asks.  "Not even if we see one fighting a mother grizzly," Sedaris responds (page 13).  Then, a couple of paragraphs down, he is asked by Evan, one of the camp guards, "Everyone else is photographing all the time [...] ."  "So why not you?"  David responds, "I jot things down instead."  Pulling his notebook from his pocket he describes his illegible writing (page 13).  Of course he jots things down.  This is his bread and butter.  

Over a year ago I went on a birding trip to South India.  We were all burdened with our binocular and camera gear.  We had just seen a special owl and a pair of frogmouths and everyone dutifully took their photographs.  (Actually both birds were spectacular; I don't mean to diminish the joy of seeing the birds).  Another guide leading a British birder spoke with our guides to inquire where they could find the owl.  The British birder, with binoculars slung around his neck, stood by listening.  He didn't have a camera.  I asked Robin, one of our guides, "Robin, do you notice anything about the British birder?"  He looked over at the man and then back at me and said, "No camera.  Pure birder."

Digital cameras are ubiquitous on every nature oriented outing or trip.  People use their smart phone cameras with abandon.  I think this would be the case even without the pull of social media.  I wonder what it would be like to not carry a camera on a trip?  To not take a single picture?  What if I just observed and wrote things down or tried to draw a picture?  If I don't have a photo, does this mean I never saw the bird or the landscape or the thing?  After all, I'd have nothing to show for it.  Silly thought.   Do I have the discipline to do this?  Or will I become envious when everyone else is pressing their camera shutter like a machine gun?  Would my envy ruin my trip?  What if I see another Smith's Longspur and, again, am left without a photograph and with another rejection? 

I love taking photographs.  I'm not a great photographer, mostly not even a good one.  I'm a poor archivist of my photos storing them by year in Google albums.  When I think of a photo that I want to use again, often I can't even find it and end up going on a time-consuming search.  From time-to-time, I'll take a good photograph, but I know that I will never be a truly skillful wildlife photographer.  I have too much regard for those who are professional wildlife photographers.  

Recently, for a few important discussions and decisions, I've noticed that I'm a bit curmudgeonly myself.  Maybe I should have just watched the Red-headed Woodpecker on its upright perch in the river instead of taking poor photos which, practically speaking, have no purpose.  For me not taking photos will take some kind of resolution, but I'm going to work on it.  Taking fewer photos might be a good starting point.  My goal would be to rekindle my skills of observation.

Piping Plover goes to jail

On June 3rd and 4th I took a quick trip to Tawas Point State Park, Tuttle Marsh NWA and Nayanquing NWR.  It was a short, but great change of scenery.  

The best bird I saw was the Piping Plover.  On the morning of June 3rd her nest was surrounded by orange traffic cones.  I wondered, how is that going to work?  The nest must have been newly discovered because when I went back in the evening to check on her, the cones had been removed and she seemed comfortable in her new digs.

 

Until I downloaded the photos, I did not see the eggs and I mistakenly deleted a photo where the eggs were in plain view.   

In the morning there was only one bird.  I thought she was waiting for a mate to arrive.  But when I went back in the evening, her mate was present and I also noticed their two eggs (visible in the photos 2, 3 and 4).

 Piping Plover jail to keep everyone safe.  So cute!

Notice the bands on both legs of both birds.

Book Review: The Birds That Audubon Missed

The Birds That Audubon Missed:  Discovery and Desire in the American West by Kenn Kaufman, Avid Reader Press, 2024.

About a year ago exactly a local Audubon Society, of which I am a member, had an exploratory meeting to discuss a name change for the group.  The group had a long history with the name Audubon Society and, now, because of all that has come to light about John James Audubon - enslaver, theft of the work of others, fraudulent bird documentation, disparaging language related to his colleagues, etc. and most importantly, in the interest of diversity, equity and inclusion in the university town where the organization exists, the Society leadership wanted to change the organization's name.  Those assembled gave a near unanimous vote to proceed toward this goal.  I voted for the change as well and did not give it another thought.  That is until I read a New York Times article, Is Social Justice for the Birds?  Audubon Attemps an Answer by Clyde McGrady, Aug. 7, 2023.  

The article was quite good and, as NYT articles go in the era of woke, it tried to be equal to both sides.  I noticed that, in the discussion of the lack of participation in birding by people of color, it had managed to sneak in a reference of racist ageism as in  “... but it was all old white folks," said one birder of color.   The comments were excellent and, as I recall, weighted nearly 1/2 and 1/2 to each side.  I changed my mind on the issue, but my local Audubon Society exists in a liberal bubble and I knew the name change would be approved.  I voted in favor of the change.  

I have been birding for about thirty years - give or take - and guess that I began in my mid-40s, hence my sensitivity to the ageism reference (others may not even have noticed) in the NYT statement.  Additionally, over time, I have come to strongly dislike the word woke, now used almost entirely in a pejorative sense, even though it didn't start out that way.  (For how it's being used, it's a silly word so I understand why it attracts derision).  In the spring of this year, a new name for the local group was selected by the membership and they are moving forward.  They chose a good name and also eliminated the word Society - too highfalutin I guess.

All of the above occurred in 2023 and the first half of 2024, but when you read Kenn Kaufman's book, you will understand that his research began much earlier.  When one considers the time line of activities a book needs to meet for publication, Kenn Kaufman was ahead of everyone.    

Remarkably the book is not just about John James Audubon.  It actually starts with the Linnaean system of classification in the 1700s and goes forward from there.  The Linnaean system has also received new attention via this review, How Carl Linnaeus Set Out To Label All of Life, by Kathryn Schulz of a new biography by Gunnar Broberg, “The Man Who Organized Nature” (Princeton), The New Yorker, August 14, 2023.

There were many early North American ornithologists who preceeded J.J. Audubon.  I hesitate to call these early birders ornithologists; they were actually bird hunters, bird describers and some were also bird illustrators.  Perhaps they are more accurately described as naturalists and Kaufman uses both descriptors about equally.  To name just a few:  Mark Catesby, William Bertram, Alexander Wilson and, believe it or not, even Thomas Jefferson receives recognition.  By far this not an exhaustive list.  On a new continent and in a new country being explored by ornithologists and naturalists, imagine all of the birds new to Europeans.  Ultimately, Kaufman's main focus is on Alexander Wilson and Audubon.  Wilson was a Scot and Audubon was French, probably born in the West Indies, although that part of his biography is unclear.  Audubon met Wilson in 1810 and their meeting set up a rivalry from the get go.  When Alexander Wilson died in 1813 at the age of 47, Audubon continued to compete with him.  It was a race to see, collect, describe and name North American birds.

As I read, I tried to match the title of the book with the content of the book.  Kaufman weaves his astonishing knowledge of North American birds with his equally deep historical research and, basically, writes the history of American birding.  Kaufman never says as much, but as I was reading I could easily relate American birding as it exists in the present and connect it to its 18th and 19th century foundations, to which Audubon was a major contributor.    

No question about it, John James Audubon was a scoundrel (my own mild-seeming description of the man) and Kenn Kaufman never turns away from this.  Whenever necessary he faces it head on.  He's never dismissive, cruel or political, but he gives us the full measure of the man. 

I took the photo above titled Washington Sea Eagle from the 1994 reprinting of the First Royal Octavo Edition of Audubon's Birds of America, Introduction copyright © 1994 W.S. Konecky Associates and published by Thunder Bay Press, San Diego, CA.  The story of Audubon's infamous and fraudulent bird discovery, originally he named it the Bird of Washington, is well-told by Kaufman.  Audubon stuck with his story of this bird his whole life, hence its appearance in the First Royal Octavo Edition.

Kenn Kaufman is an accomplished artist in his own right.  I never knew this about him until I read this book.  He is deeply admiring of Audubon's illustrations and he weaves this as a side story in brief chapters titled "Interludes:  Channeling the Illustrator."  These "Interludes" connect the past with the present.  My favorite of these is Materials and Methods (page 256) where Kaufman writes about the kinds of materials that were available to Audubon for his illustrations.  I am not particularly fond of many of Audubon's illustrations as they seem so contrived, but I am now more respectful.  I understand why they are this way, and it is remarkable what Audubon did with so little.

One thing that will strike any modern day birder, like a sucker punch to the gut, was how many birds there were in Audubon's day.  In the early days of the founding and settling of this country the bird population must have been just extraordinary.  When I struggle now to find a Hairy Woodpecker or a Field Sparrow or a ... you name it, I am shaken to my core.  What have we done and continue to do with so little insight into the consequences?  Kaufman writes about this, clear-eyed, in chapters 10, 11 and 12.  Throughout the book, we recognize all of the names of the men who had birds named after them and how obsequious these honorifics were.  Kaufman writes about a PhD student, Robert Driver, and his 2018 proposal to rename the McCown Longspur and puts this into historical context.  Initially, Driver's proposal was dismissed out of hand by the American Ornithological Society (AOS).  He did not give up.  With the help of the chair of the AOS checklist committee, Dr. Terry Chester, Driver drafted a new proposal that passed in 2020 and "the erstwhile McCown's Longspur was officially renamed Thick-billed Longspur" (page 331).  The American Ornithological Society (AOS) made history when, on November 1, 2023, it voted to change all 236 honorific bird names.  Perhaps other current history also pushed this to happen, but I like to think that Robert Driver's contribution hurried it along.

If I recall correctly, Kenn Kaufman never finished high school.  But he writes like he has a PhD in Fine Arts.  His field guides are well known by all birders, but he also has a significant literary publishing background as well.   This is the third literary nonfiction book by Kenn Kaufman I have read; Kingbird Highway, a classic, being the first.  I have a friend, prominent in the field of education, who would recommend Kingbird Highway be required reading for all high school students.  The Birds That Audubon Missed is so intimate that you feel you are sitting with Kaufman as he shares his research.  His birding credentials are incomparable.  So when he writes a book of this depth, and keeps it topical, we sit up and pay attention.       

Not to sell short my own review, I include here the New York Times review, Uncovering What Audubon Missed, and What he Made Up, by Benjamin P. Russell, May 8, 2024.

I don't want to end my review with the New York Times review, so I'll share a final thought that occurred to me as I was reading.  Given the history Kaufman covers in The Birds That Audubon Missed, both past and current, the explosive growth of birding as a hobby in the US and worldwide, the understanding of the impact of human caused habitat destruction and climate change on the animal creatures we share this planet with, and more, I recommend Kenn Kaufman's book be nominated to receive a nonfiction Pulitzer Prize.  No, it's not about war, economics, national politics or geopolitics, the drug crisis or other frequently recognized topics of writing.  (Washington Post journalists Robert Samuels and Toluse Olorunnipa won the 2023 nonfiction prize for “His Name is George Floyd").  Please, hear me out; all of these topics are enormously important and sell a lot of books.  But we are also saturated.  It's time to have a change to the constant drumbeat we are subjected to every time we read a newspaper or watch the nightly news.  If it were up to me, and it's not, I would nominate and vote for The Birds That Audubon Missed to receive one of the 2024 non-fiction Pulitzer Prizes.   It's time that Kenn Kaufman's excellent literary and topical writing be recognized with a major prize.  We can go back to all of the other topics in 2025.  Indeed, in 2025, the other topics will be inescapable.  

References:

1.  Audubon's Birds of America:  Containing All of the Original Plates Reprinted from the First Royal Octavo Edition.  Introduction copyright ©1994 W.S. Konecky Associates.  Published by Thunder Bay Press, San Diego, CA. 

2.  John James Audubon The Birds Of America.  Introduction by David Allen Sibley.  Metro Books and the distinctive Metro Books logo are registered trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co, Inc.  Text and illustrations © 2012 by The Trustees of the Natural History Museum, London. 

Addendum added on 08/27/2024

Last night I woke up at 3:00 am and was unable to get back to sleep.  The day before I had been to the library and checked out a book of essays titled The Glorious American Essay:  One Hundred Essays From Colonial Times To the Present, edited by Phillip Lopate, Pantheon Books, New York, 2020.  It's a doorstop but I opened it up and began to look through the Table of Contents.  

I read a Benjamin Franklin essay from 1784 on page 48 and then continued to go through the contents and came to a John James Audubon essay The Passenger Pigeon from 1835 on page 87.

J.J. Audubon may have been known and revered for his bird illustrations, but turns out he was also a good essayist.  In just seven pages he writes about the Passenger Pigeon; its beauty, its vast numbers, the methods used for killing it, and its mating habits, nesting behaviors and the number and color of its eggs, etc.  Even as he watched the birds being killed and what was done with the dead birds, it seems that extinction did not cross his mind.  Kenn Kaufmann writes in some detail about the Passenger Pigeon in The Birds That Audubon Missed as well as the Eskimo Curlew; less so about the Carolina Parakeet and Bachman's Warbler (Chapter 10, Abundant Life, pages 277-292).  It's one of my favorite chapters of the book.  Kaufmann writes, "We may take it for granted today that a major goal of wildlife conservation is preventing the extinction of species.  But the idea of extinction is a fairly recent concept.  It would have been alien to most of the naturalists of the late 1700s."  I think he could have written 'alien to naturalists in the 18th and even early 19th centuries.' As I was reading, I was aware of how valuable this information is now. Although I was unable to find a link for this essay on-line, I did find this by J.J. Audubon: The Passenger Pigeon, a 4-1/4' x 7' book of seven double-sided pages published by Applewood Books in 2015.  I haven't yet compared the essay published in Lapate's anthology to the contents of this little book, but no doubt they are the same.

Whatever we think about J.J. Audubon now, much of it checkered and not admirable, it is an understatement to say that he made vast contributions to our recognition and understanding of North American birds.