After two or three minutes it flew off. As far as I know, the kingbird did not reclaim its perch - although it was certainly 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.
A couple of months ago I finished reading The End of the End of the Earth, essays by Jonathan Franzen. And just last week I read a David Sedaris essay Notes on a last-minute safari in the June 17th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker. 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? Nothing really. The next part of this is more to do with photography.
In April 2005, I was scouting at Tawas Point State Park for the lay of the land. I was preparing for having three Baltimore friends visit me in mid-May for a birding trip in Michigan. Their list was long and their expectations high - Kirtland's Warbler, Spruce Grouse, Upland Sandpiper, Clay-colored Sparrow - just to name a few. After Tawas Point we were traveling to the Upper Peninsula and Whitefish Point. I had never been to Tawas Point and did not want to be unprepared for their visit. In the late afternoon on April 3rd it was still cold 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, But then I saw something different. Even though I had never seen one before, I knew what it was - a female Smith's Longspur. I was so excited. In those days I carried only binoculars. These were the early days of digital cameras and, at best, 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 with me, there was no cell phone service either. I left the bird and went into town to make a pay phone call to a friend asking him to post the bird, hoping that others would come see the bird and verify it with me. I hustled back to the park campground and easily refound the longspur. Sometimes 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 seen in Michigan's lower peninsula. 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 this 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. But, there are trees where the bird winters and all along its migration path. Tawas Point State Park has trees! Never mind. Of course, it's funny now but, at the time, I was put out. I learned more about the lay of the land in Michigan birding 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. I never did go in for the big DSLR camera and lens because, well frankly, they are heavy and awkward to carry. At least for me. My goal was to be able to carry the thing and take identifiable photos of birds and other creatures. In the years since, I have taken thousands and thousands and thousands of photos. This is the gift of digital photography.
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 be no surprise that my birding skills declined. I'm still okay, but not like when I was younger (I suppose that would be the case anyway). I found a couple of other good birds, but never as good as a Smith's Longspur.
In Jonathan Franzen's essay with 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 element is of his expedition to Antarctica; a three week 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 traveled with his brother. The trip was not a birding trip as such, but he meets a couple of other birders on the ship, Chris and Ada. Of all the birds one will see on such a trip, the Emperor Penguin is the bird to see. This is the March of the Penguins penguin. 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 had a patch of color behind its ear and a blush of yellow on its breast. Emperor Penguin? He tells one of the ship's crew members 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 what he thinks he sees is about a half mile away. He then runs to Chris and Ada's cabin to alert them to what he has seen. 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 is working on and instructs him to redirect to the Emperor Penguin. They pile into Zodiacs and 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.
Here is my punchline for this event. 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 "quiet resolution" not to take a single picture. In doing so, he sees and remembers forever his experience of seeing 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 see the Emperor Penguin. I know from my own experiences that those with their cameras did not notice any of this. 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 (page 12) (New Yorker essays in print and on-line frequently have different titles) he takes the reader on a David Sedaris style safari. He's at a Christmas Party that a number of other authors 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?" 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 relatively short. And, as in many David Sedaris stories, he carries on with all sorts of 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". 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," Dalton said 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 guards in the camp - "Everyone else is photographing all the time ... ," "So why not you?' David responds, "I jot things down instead," ... pulling my notebook from my pocket and showing it to him (page 13). Of course he jots things down. It's his bread and butter.
Just over a year ago I went on a birding trip to Southern India. We were all burdened by our binocular and camera equipment. 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 dismiss that part of seeing the birds). Another guide with a British birder spoke with our guides inquiring where we had seen the owl. The British birder, with binoculars hung 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 now ubiquitous on every nature oriented outing or trip. People also carry their smart phones and use these with abandon. 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? Maybe I should have just watched that Red-headed Woodpecker on the upright perch in the river. 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? What if I see another Smith's Longspur - and again, am left without a photograph and with another rejection?
I'm not a great photographer, often not even a good one. I'm a poor archivist of my photos storing them in my Google account by year taken. When I think of a photo, and want to use it again, often I can't even find it. I know that I will never be a truly skillful wildlife photographer. I have too much regard for those who are professional. and truly skillful, wildlife photographers.
To not take photos will take practice, but I'm working on it. I am missing the beauty of the observation. I would like to rekindle this skill.
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