Mya Bell's Backyard Birding Diary
20 Apr 02

Drama Under the Tree I peered through the window into the back yard. In the noble fir, a Steller's jay was leaning forward on a branch about five feet off the ground, looking down at something. Five feet higher, several starlings were pecking at the suet, not especially concerned about what was happening around them. Several feet above the starlings, two crows were cawing--three caws in a row, then a pause--and they too were looking down, sounding an alarm. Crows, like robins, often behave like watchdogs; other birds and animals take note when they leave their high roosts to caw at unusual events. Above the crows, near the top of the tree, was a raven. The crows would caw three times, interspersed with the sound of the raven rattling its gravelly caw four times in a row, a cadence that was repeated several times. All this happened in the space of a few moments and I was convinced one of the cats was below, perhaps stalking a bird. I grabbed my camera and rushed outside, stealing around to the back of the house. When I rounded the corner, something had changed--all the birds except the starlings were gone. Then I noticed the jay was now high in the tree, still watching from a safe vantage point. I don't know if the birds left because they sensed my presence or because the drama was over.

Life and Death I looked around. About 60 feet away at the end of a long fence next door, was the neighbor's cat. He or she was watching my every movement but s/he was too far away to be the source of the fuss, and the attention of the birds hadn't been focused on the black cat or the fence. They had all been looking at the base of the fir tree. So I crossed the lawn slowly and quietly, expecting to see a cat stalking a bird. Unfortunately, I was too late. In the soft debris between the spreading roots of the noble fir were two sad piles of feathers, soft downy ones with gray, white, and orange markings. There were long tail or wing feathers, also gray, suggesting a medium-sized bird and a fierce struggle. My heart sank. There was no cat, no bird, and with that many feathers lying about, the cat had probably overwhelmed the bird. I turned over one of the feathers. Had it come from a robin? a varied thrush? I hoped it wasn't the female thrush I had recently seen hiding in the maple tree. There was only one in the neighborhood, overbalanced by three males. If the female had been killed, there would be no babies this year. But maybe it wasn't the thrush. Perhaps it was an Oregon junco, with the orange color coming from a feather from under the wings, on the sides of the bird. Since all the 'watch birds' had left the scene, I didn't hold out much hope of finding the cat or the bird. If the cat were in sight, they would probably still be making a fuss. There wasn't much I could do, but I hesitated nonetheless.

Hope I crouched down and sneaked along the fence, looking for the black and white cat that is constantly stalking birds in the area. If he were hiding under a bush with his prize, perhaps there was a chance to save the bird. As I reached the very back of the property and peered into the neighbor's yard I knew it was time to give up. There was no sign of a cat with an injured bird anywhere in sight. Instead, I saw a deer heading towards our yard. If I hadn't startled it, it would have hopped the fence and started munching on the cherry tree and flowering tulips. With little hope of finding the cat and bird I dipped out of sight, hoping the deer would change its mind and come back. Evidently its escape route was cut off by people getting into their cars on the other side of the neighbor's house and it came back my way; so I hid behind a tree with the camera poised and waited. After about seven minutes I concluded the deer wasn't coming and sneaked a peek around the edge of the tree, only to find that the deer had more patience than I. It was still hovering near the fence, cautious and slow-moving. Fortunately it hadn't seen me this time, so I hunkered down and waited. I was finding it impossible to hide and aim the camera around the tree at the same time and the deer approached very slowly, suspecting my presence.

That Special Moment Every photographer, even an amateur such as I, hopes for that special National Geographic shot. I had often seen deer vault the three-foot to six-foot high fences in our neighborhood, but I had never captured one of those fantastic leaps with a camera. Today I was hopeful that this was my moment and I waited patiently, trying to keep the camera steady and focused while the circulation drained from my cramped legs. The deer was in no hurry and I wasn't sure how long I could stay in this unnatural position.

Always the Unexpected Sometimes you get lucky and sometimes you don't. I had high hopes as the deer neared the fence, judging its height, trying to determine if I was gone and the coast was clear. I had almost entirely obscured myself behind the tree trunk and roots--only a part of my head and the camera could be seen around the edge of the tree, so perhaps there was a chance to capture the deer's leap. But there was something I didn't count on, the deer's excellent sense of smell. As it stretched its neck toward the fence, it began scenting the air, drawing in long drafts, flaring its nostrils. The wind was not in my favor and I was less than 10 feet from the deer. I knew it could smell me, especially in my excited state, with adrenaline pumping through my body. The deer decided not to take the chance and turned and left, leaving me wondering if I should have climbed the tree (those are pretty thin branches) or captured the shot from farther away. At least I had a chance to see the deer up close and witness its wonderful nose at work. Before going back inside, I spent a moment by the downy feathers of the hapless bird, picked up one to bring inside and hoped to myself that it had somehow managed to get away.

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Mya Bell is a novelist and screen author. Birding and sharing excerpts from her journals are Mya's hobbies.
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