By Dave Faries
Let me begin by saying — by admitting — I know nothing about birds.
OK, they have wings and feathers. I’m good on the basics. But ask me to describe a robin and old songs are more likely to pop into my mind than migratory patterns. Ask me to identify a cardinal, I turn to the St. Louis baseball jersey for reference. When it comes to the distinction between, say, sparrows and wrens, I just shrug. They are both small and pesky, right?
Mind you, I’m not immune to their charms. We keep a bird feeder out back and scatter seed all over the deck — although, to be honest, the habit began as a way to provide entertainment for the cats.
Calm down, the felines are housebound. They just like watching.
Last weekend a strange new bird appeared on the deck. Unlike the skittering, Wehrmacht-gray birds populating the feeder on a constant basis, this creature showed blue plumage on its wings and tail, a gray feathery cape and white chest. And it was larger in size, times three.
Lacking a guide to North American flying things, I turned to the internet. Apparently this standout was — is — a Mexican Jay.
According to the site that popped up in response to my “birds with blue feathers” inquiry (how else was I supposed to proceed?), the Mexican Jay traverses the skies above Arizona, Southern California and the states south of the border. This bird (or these, as we later spotted a partner) apparently lost its way. I gather from the name that bird enthusiasts consider it part of the Blue Jay family, despite the absence of a pointed crown.
So that is bird number one in what might be considered a big year. Yeah, there are also those palm-sized gray niblets with black and white stripes on their heads, the petite all grey birds with a cardinal-like peak, seagulls and ducks (recognize them) and those patient predators hanging out all day by the water’s edge in hopes of nabbing a small fish or two.
That’s six or seven different birds already. I’m well on my way.
For those unfamiliar, a big year in birding circles represents an attempt to spot as many different species as possible within a calendar span. Devotees save up vacation and sick time, call on friends for favors, max out credit lines and, if one believes Hollywood, stamp out marriages in order to take a stab at topping the record of 749.
Of course, to reach that mark, birders must travel constantly. I’m more fortunate, living in Lake County. There are several kinds of geese and ducks, grebes, gulls and (whenever the fishing is good) pelicans. One morning what I assumed to be a Kingfisher spiraled off an overhanging limb into the water in pursuit of a small snack. Make that seven or eight. Along the shoreline it’s easy to spot cranes and assorted other feathered fiends I’ve been trying to identify.
Tapping “bird that hangs out looking for fish” on Google yields few solid answers.
No matter — the aerial activity around Lake County awakened long lost curiosity. When I was seven or eight, my mom bought a bird guide, hoping to spur some interest in the outdoors. I flipped through it with real interest for a few months before turning my attention to more serious pursuits — you know, baseball, football, racing and other activities not involving binoculars and specific knowledge. Birds once again were lumped into a generic category.
Birds, simply put, are birds.
We are here to work, grow up, live in retirement, run a business, serve the public or whatever. But around us, nature swirls and thrives. Purchase a home in Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago or New York and you will commute away time without encountering a Pelican or Mexican Jay. Oh, you might run across a Mallard or two, but that would be in a park.
Observing the different birds of Lake County is a reminder. There is color and a reason to become engaged with things tossed aside, when one wishes to look.
