Once upon a time—oh, as long as four decades ago—I was a crazed practitioner of the birding Big Day wherein two or three keeners get together to see how many species they are able to find in a given window of up to 24 hours. Hereabouts early May is a good time for a Big Day; so is early-mid September. The thing about a Big Day is that it is a very intensive, rushed affair not conducive to relaxation, peace, quiet and tranquility.
Even as a young buck I was aware
of an alternative to the Big Day, namely, the Big Sit, an option that involves
no running-around at all, but a nice leisurely settling-in at some well-selected
site, preferably in comfortable folding chairs, a lovely picnic lunch at hand, chilled
beverages waiting in the cooler, all gathered at a site commanding excellent views
over an area likely to be traversed by a variety of birds. Despite its manifest
attractions I was never much drawn to the Big Sit when I was a young fellow.
That has now changed.
We arrived at our destination a little past 8, pleased as
usual to be greeted by a soundscape dominated by waves lapping at the rocky
shoreline, Garry oaks soughing in a gentle breeze, harbour seals contentedly
grunting from the islet just off the point. Human-made noise was happily
absent. There were birds to see right off the bat—surfbirds and turnstones foraging
for breakfast among the offshore rocks. Legions of gulls gathered too: old-reliable
glaucous-winged gulls, even bigger numbers of a lovely gull whose numbers peak
at this time of year, a species that for some reason always brings Brian Wilson
and the Beach Boys to my mind—California gulls.
My better half and I were well equipped for observing birds
and recording anything special that might fly into our view plane: two
binoculars, spotting scope, two cameras. Off to the west we saw a crowd of
gulls—two hundred or more—gathered on a sand bar at the entrance to winsome Witty's
Lagoon. I turned the spotting scope to the sandbar, soon gathered that the
majority of the gulls were Californias, the sort evoking Brian Wilson.
Then I
spotted something else, on the beach beyond the sandbar: naked women. Once upon
a time, back when I was as hardcore a Big Day practitioner as ever was, I might
easily have been distracted by women naturists assembled on a beach. It is
perhaps a sad marker of how much has changed over the years that I was hardly
distracted at all. No, there were birds to identify; I was bound and determined
to identify them.
Our principal birding targets were phalaropes and jaegers—seagoing birds that provide the best, albeit rare, viewing possibilities at this time of year. Well, to kill the suspense, no, we saw no phalaropes. We saw no jaegers. We saw container ships pass slowly by, too distant to hear the thrum of the ships' engines. In the distance zodiacs packed with whale-watchers also raced past, everyone on board keen for close encounters with orcas, perhaps even a humpback. We saw no whales.
Onshore just behind us, there were landbirds to hear and see: a towhee here, nuthatch there, a warbler or two, a little gang of bushtits, a flicker. In the result we fell short of the hundred-plus count that might have once been assured i
n a September Big Day. We listed barely a couple dozen
species. Feel no pity. The pesto sandwiches, washed down with herbal tea, were
every bit as brilliant as promised. On the way back to the car we filled two
containers with blackberries. The berries will provide the filling for the pie
we'll share tomorrow evening with Jan's Dad. What could be finer?
Despite the paucity of phalaropes and jaegers it was a Big Sit to remember. I can hardly wait for the next one.
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