Mya Bell's Backyard Birding Diary
16 Jun 02

Location:

Partway up a small hill in the Pacific Northwest.

Critter highlights:

• Robins
• Sparrows
• Juncos
• Hummingbirds
• A special rare bird alert sighting!! Read below
• Flowers

Sleepy Sunday. I was sleeping. I was tired. It was Sunday morning at 5:40. Like any sensible person, I wanted to keep sleeping, but someone was persistently whistling for a dog right outside my window (or so I thought at the time). The whistle pierced the air again and again. I began to wonder which of my neighbors was demented enough to be calling a dog with such an unusual whistle, so early in the morning. It sounded like Rob RoyYY, Rob RoyYYY. Wait a minute, I thought as I struggled out of my dream haze, What if that's not a human making that noise!? That was enough to motivate me to tumble out of bed, half conscious, and struggle into a sweatshirt and pants. No underwear, no socks, no jacket; I wasn't expecting to go anywhere; I was heading right back to bed as soon as I figured out what was making that whistling sound.

I padded out to the balcony, expecting to see the neighbor calling his little dog. Once again I heard the whistle, but realized it wasn't as near as I had first thought. Rather than being a soft whistle very nearby, I now realized it was a somewhat louder whistle farther away. "Okay," I said. "I can't resist a mystery." So I grabbed the camera, slipped into my sandals (still no socks or jacket to protect me against the chilly morning air) and ventured into the yard.

The air all around me was filled with a low murmuring buzz. I realized the buzzing was bees, many, many bees, happily enjoying the bounty of Acacia blossoms and honeysuckle that were now in full bloom. The gentle fragrance and bee murmur filled the air like a presence. Then again I heard that whistle--two notes, with a strident crescendo at the end. What could that be? I thought. The sound is so strong and distinctive, so unfamiliar.
Without thinking too much about where I was going, I started up the hill. After walking about 100 feet, the whistling stopped, but it was peaceful in the morning light and I hesitated to leave while the streets were empty. I noted the pretty spring flowers in the neighbors' yards and photographed a few of them where I stood. As I became more attuned to my surroundings, I began to hear Steller's jays chattering, robins chipping, crows cawing, and finches and house sparrows chirrupping in rapid succession. But it was like listening to ghosts or teasing echoes, because the birds were keeping out of sight as I made my way up the hill. I wasn't sure which way to go, as I could no longer hear the unfamiliar whistle and I realized my chances of finding the source were rather bleak if the sound didn't resume.

No Place to Go. At the first crest in the hill, I was deeply saddened to discover that all the tall trees, wild berries, bee hives, and fruit trees that had graced the midpoint of the hill had vanished without a trace. Where two weeks ago there had been a tiny bird paradise, a haven for wildlife in an urban setting, and pretty greenery and privacy for the local residents, there was now this flat, wide, gaping slash. The trees were gone, possibly forever, as were the doves and woodpeckers that had frequented these woods not just for decades, but for centuries. And now the deer, deprived of another 1/2 acre of food would intrude more regularly on people's gardens, if they survived at all. I stood and looked at the gash and realized the importance of undeveloped land. Isn't it odd that we call a strip of land a "vacant" lot even if it is teeming with flowers, grasses, berries, and wildlife? It seems the only criterion for describing a piece of land as 'vacant' is whether or not it has a building upon it. Perhaps we need to expunge the term "vacant lot" from our vocabulary. The only truly vacant lot is one that has been completely stripped and sealed over.

I was mystified as to why the vegetation had been stripped away. Surely this wasn't the city making a decision to create a street that no one in the neighborhood would have requested or approved of? There was already an alley right next to the cleared swath. While pondering the destructive capability of humans, I completely forgot about the mystery whistle that had brought me up the hill in the first place. I sat on a rock and spent some time trying to photograph the few small birds that were chattering around the edges of the swath and wondered how many birds had been ousted by the cutting of the trees.

Finally, I stood and took a few steps toward home when, suddenly, I heard it again--a long whistle, very loud this time, repeated thrice. Now that I was closer to the source, I noticed there was sometimes a low beginning note before the Rob RoyYY sound. It was hard to think what sort of creature could be so lusty and yet so invisible. Perhaps it was a strange new squirrel. I walked around the perimeter of the clearcut and headed down the next street. The lots there are larger, 60 to 80 feet across compared to 40 near the bottom of the hill. It's pretty, like a park, with more room for trees and more birds. This lot looked like a double lot, perhaps two 80-footers? and some of it had been left wild, while another section had some lovely Japanese-style landscaping. I sat on a log by the road and looked up at the trees, trying to find the source of the sound (which had now stopped) and realized I was beginning to shake all over.

Zeroing In. Then I heard it again, loud, lusty and unmistakeable--from this distance it sounded more like ho hob whoight!, ho vob vhoight! repeated about two or three times per minute. I couldn't see what was making the sound, but it seemed to be coming from about 10 feet up in a tree. I stepped onto private property, in the hope that my neighbor would forgive me for walking up his garden/woodland trail, in search of a mystery creature. For the next 20 minutes I kept circling that small area with no luck at all. The critter had stopped whistling, perhaps because it was gone or maybe because it saw me bumbling about in the underbrush. I finally gave up. I had been outside without a jacket or socks for almost an hour and had narrowed my search down to a 10' by 10' patch of ground, without finding anything in the trees above. Defeated, I slowly started home.

Then I heard the whistle again, very clearly, nearby. It was hard to maneuver through the undeveloped part of the property but I circled the trees again and again, trying not to crunch the thick layer of twigs and fir cones beneath my feet. I finally gave up. The only thing I could see was a little brown lump of twigs that looked like a round, brushy bird's nest or a burl (see photo)--and even that was hard to distinguish from most angles because of the intervening branches. Once again, I walked partway up the hill toward home and then, just to tease me, the sound came again.
Well, I didn't want to give up after coming so close to discovering the source. I went back and looked a bit more closely at that unassuming brown lump. Then I jumped. It moved! No, yes, no. Hey, it did move! That's the mystery creature. It's something fat and round. What the heck is it? A gopher? No way. Gopher's don't climb trees, do they? Hmm, is it a bird then, a small grouse? A large quail? When I looked very closely, I saw the faint suggestion of speckles. Whatever it was, it was almost invisible and sat very very still. I could only make it out by very patient inspection. (The photo to the left was taken with a fairly strong telephoto lens--to the unaided eye, the brown lump was only about half as big.)

For ten minutes I tried to get closer, but there wasn't any way to get through some of the thicker bushes without damaging them (or me) and the whistling lump was about 10 feet up in the tree. Then, as I stood quietly for a moment, it called out its full-throated lustyvob vhoight! right before me, poking out its head for a moment and then hunkering down into invisibility once again. The call was so loud, I suspect it could be heard for a mile or two on a quiet day. The next time the critter called and stretched out its neck, I could see white and black bands on its head and eyes. Between whistles it would stuff its head back down between its 'shoulders.'
A moment later an insistent chip, chip, chipping sound surrounded me as two dark-eyed juncos spotted the mystery bird and began to complain about its presence. The bird just sat like a fat feathery buddha and ignored them, and me. Eventually the juncos went away only to be replaced by a hummingbird which also made a fuss and appeared to want to drive the bird away (look in the upper left corner of the second picture below--that faint red and white blur is a hummingbird making clicking noises that were quite similar to the slightly longer, louder clicks of the juncos). The bird sat impervious, quiet, whistling on occasion as though hoping to hear an answering call from another of its kind.

With persistent and patient effort, I got close enough to get a better picture and noticed that the bird, which was certainly aware of me, preferred to turn its back toward me, disguising itself as a burl or a nest. Fortunately, it decided to find another branch on the other side of the tree. I walked around and had a brief opportunity to photograph it from the front from a closer vantage point. It was quite comical to see the critter trying to maneuver on branches. Clearly this was a bird more adapted to walking on the ground than on branches. I was fortunate to get the pictures below because it soon moved around the trunk again to avoid me.

Then the beautiful, reclusive bird vanished into a crook of the tree and I realized I was shivering so hard my teeth were almost chattering. Even though the days were getting warmer, there was enough cold wind to chill me to the bone. Since the bird wasn't interested in entertaining me and didn't appear to appreciate me violating its privacy and sense of security, I bid it farewell and turned my steps toward home, passing once again through the flattened clearcut, photographing a few flowers on the way.

Epilogue: As soon as I got back home, I grabbed the bird book. The mystery bird was so distinctive it only took me moments to find a picture. As far as I can tell, it was a northern bobwhite. Wow. I've never seen one before, they aren't normally found in this area, at least according to the field guide, except in a couple of tiny pockets about 200 miles south of here along Puget Sound, and there aren't any where I was raised. I don't know how it got here, it can barely fly and it would have had to cross many streets to reach this little green patch of heaven. I neither heard nor saw it again even though I tried locating it later in the day. How fortunate I was to see it for those few brief minutes when everybody else was sleeping.
<- The End (of the Bobwhite, that is, camoflaging itself as a brown lump)

Mya Bell is a novelist living and working in the Pacific Northwest. Birding and sharing her sightings on this Web site are Mya's hobbies.
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