A Parallel World

A Parallel World: Adventures in Beginner Birding

  • The Dancing Bird of Bryant Park

    This past April, folded into a sizable crowd, I finally glimpsed the famous dancing bird of Bryant Park: the American Woodcock. While the woodcock’s annual spring migration to Bryant Park is well known to birders, this year’s visit went viral. The woodcock filled TikTok feeds with its one-of-a-kind dance moves and even scored a feature in the New York Times.

    It’s not surprising the bird also known as the Timberdoodle is the one that earned crossover popularity. After failing to see it last spring, I was hopeful this year’s streak of multi-day sightings would help me get lucky.

    I arrived after work on a crisp, sunny afternoon in early April. The woodcock’s location was easy to spot thanks to a cluster of thirty-odd people a few yards from the Benito Juárez Statue. Drawing closer, a collective coo arose. Standing on tiptoe, I watched the woodcock rock its trademark dance, its needle-like beak probing the earth to draw out insects. Its beauty was striking: chocolate and silver-gray plumage with a creamy, rust-colored breast. Its doe-like black eyes were calm. Indeed, it seemed impervious to the adoring masses.

    Turning to leave, I made eye contact with a young, curious-looking couple.

    “Is that….the bird?” one asked, waving toward the crowd.

    “Yes!” I chirped, still buzzing from the sighting.

    “What….type is it?”

     “An American Woodcock,” I said, swelling with a silly sense of pride. A tumble of facts followed. Did the couple know the woodcock was actually a shorebird that favored woodlands? That it was typically shy and difficult to spot due to its impressive camouflage, which made dancing bird of Bryant Park even more unique? The moment reminded me of the first time I was able to give a tourist directions after moving to New York. I smiled goofily. Two years in, I was starting to feel like a real birder.

  • Chasing Bald Eagles

    Each winter, Coeur d’Alene, ID serves as a crucial pitstop for hundreds of migrating bald eagles en route to their spring nesting grounds in Alaska. They’ll feast on the small sockeye salmon, called kokanee, that spawn by the thousands in Lake Coeur d’Alene’s Wolf Lodge Bay. Eagle watching is a great pastime during holiday visits to my mother-in-law, who’s lived in Coeur d’Alene for 25 years.

    I was fortunate to spot well over 100 in January 2023 on the Coeur d’Alene Resort’s popular eagle cruise. (The boat stays far from the shore where the eagles roost, ensuring a safe distance.) I’ll never forget the awe of watching a bald eagle circle closer while we shivered at the bow. It shot up like a flare, then plunged into the waves below. Seconds later it emerged, a shadowy catch—no doubt salmon—in its talons. In the distance, dozens of white heads blotted the evergreens on the horizon. On a day with strong numbers and plenty of sunshine, bearing witness to this annual ritual felt like a small miracle.

    Bald eagles have been on my mind this winter closer to home. There are several well-known spots to see bald eagles in the Hudson Valley, notably Croton Point Park, a restored former landfill, and Steamboat Riverfront Park.

    Encouraged by the promising tallies on eBird, I took the train to Steamboat Riverfront Park on a frigid afternoon in February. Temperatures were only in the teens, and the wind, always fiercer on the water, seemed especially strong. Accustomed to the soft buzz of highway traffic at Tibbetts Brook Park in Yonkers, NY, the quiet was jarring. I scanned the winter-bare trees, hoping to catch an eagle roosting. No such luck. The icy Hudson River was barren. The wind howled; I wish I’d grabbed thicker gloves.

    Flooded by memories of the glorious sightings at Lake Coeur d’Alene, I was reminded of my first whale watch, age six, when I wept uncontrollably because the whales didn’t breach like they did on the brochure cover.

    I felt like a bad birder, disappointed by not seeing eagles right away. I often reflect on our misconception of nature being separate from us, a destination rather than an integral part of our world. Rather than enjoying the solitude of a winter day, I yearned to glimpse a bald eagle, rendering nature as spectacle.

    A light snow started to fall, forcing me into the present. But the snow made it even harder to scan the icy floes atop the half-frozen Hudson. Still, maybe if I zoomed in, I could see something. Fingers raw and shaking, I lifted my camera and peered through the lens.

    Sure enough, crouched on ice hundreds of yards away, two mature bald eagles feasted on the remains of a fish. Nearby was a juvenile. (The white heads appear when a bald eagle is 4-5 years old.)

    From left, two mature bald eagles and juvenile.

    In the end, due to the distance, the snow, and the half-frozen photographer, all the photos were blurred. In one shot (below), the juvenile resembled a medieval warrior. That one was posted to Crap Bird Photography, a Facebook birding group filled with photos guaranteed to spark laughter. 

    Juvenile bald eagle

    On the Uber ride back to the train, my driver asked what I’d been doing. Perhaps it was unusual to be in sleepy Verplanck, NY with a camera in the middle of winter.

    I told him.

    With an air of She-Must-Be-Crazy amusement, he said: “You came all the way up here to take pictures of eagles?”

    “Yup!” 

    And I laughed.

  • A Standout in the Crowd

    “Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last.”

    -Mary Oliver, Snow Geese

    During a winter thaw, it’s common to see Mallards and Canada geese–close to one hundred in this particular flock–nibbling the thawed earth with gusto. I had just arrived at Tibbetts Brook Park in Yonkers, NY, my local birding spot, on a Sunday in early December.

    As I walked, my boots sank into the water-clogged grass, feeling a little like quicksand. A blue jay shrieked somewhere. Soon a raptor emerged overhead, barely visible against the late afternoon sun. My eyes fell to the Canada geese covering the field. That’s when I saw it: a flash of white. There was an interloper in the flock.

    Snow goose and its adopted flock.

    The goose was mostly white with a black-tipped tail. It ate with ferocity, never lifting its head long enough for me to snap clear photos. At last it paused, perhaps noticing me for the first time. (I kept a safe distance.) Click. Finally!

    Uploading the photo to the Merlin Bird ID, I discovered the striking stranger was a Snow goose. Snow geese are known visitors to the New York City area during the late fall and winter, and are similar in appearance to the smaller-sized Ross’ goose.

    Clusters of power walkers and joggers raced by, either unaware or uninterested in the sight. But as a beginning birder, spotting this relatively common but new-to-me species sparked a thrill. In birder terms, such sightings are called “lifers.”

    I spotted the snow goose twice more before the holidays. Each time it stayed in the center of its adopted flock. Then, somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s, it left. On each visit the last few days, I’ve scanned the icy fields in hopes of a reappearance. But so far, there is no trace.