I saw a Turkey Vulture on Halloween. I don’t know if it was heading south. Vultures will hang around our area well into winter, at least that’s been my observation. Migration, for a lot of birds these days—herons, for example—doesn’t seem to be the hard-wired obligation it once was. I watched the vulture wheeling around up there and thought of a deceased writer who said he’d like to come back as one of these birds. The writer was Ed Abbey. He wrote the somewhat famous “Desert Solitaire” and other books that are fun because the guy was a curmudgeon. (Sounds like a kind of duck, you know? Curmudgeon). And he had a way of appreciating wild things. For example, he didn’t mind sharing his trailer with a rattlesnake when he lived in the desert. Many people would say they’d want to come back as something more glamorous than a bald, carrion-eating bird. But when you think about it, the Turkey Vulture has a good life. It soars on wide wings all day. It sees well, and when it finds something to eat, it doesn’t have to inflict panic or pain; the prey’s already dead. The vulture just plunges in, digests with pleasure and helps clean up the place. Then it’s another day in the sky, above it all, enjoying the scenery. If a Turkey Vulture ever thought of re-incarnation I doubt he’d want to come back as a writer. I think he’d want to come back as another vulture. Keep a good thing going. There are a lot of Turkey Vultures, and I see one or two every week. If I’m driving I slide my sunroof open so I can look up at the bird. I think: is that the ghost of Abbey up there? I may not remember everything the guy wrote, but I can’t forget his choice of re-incarnation.

I’ve walked through prairies before. I knew that pheasants and other birds of the quail persuasion hunker down until you get close, then fly up into your face, shocking you. I knew this. But it happened anyway. I was making my way through knee-high weeds and BAM, a burst of flapping wings. It was a Ring-Necked Pheasant shooting up and flying away. Before I could calm down, it happened again: ANOTHER big bird flapped out of the same spot in the weeds, shocking me again. But it was no pheasant; it was a Red-Tailed Hawk. The pheasant went left and the hawk went right. Suddenly it was quiet. At my feet there was a scatter of soft feathers and red, shining blood. I guess the hawk was on the pheasant and just digging in when I came along. The pheasant seemed okay; its flight was strong and it disappeared into the distance. The hawk went to a nearby treetop and glowered at me. Tough birds, both of them. I figured I’d helped the pheasant. Then I realized I’d interfered with the hawk’s meal. What was I? Rescuer, or pain in the butt? Neither. I was just another agent of chance.

I was walking my dog near midnight. In the top of a leafless old tree, way up, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Great Horned Owl, black against a black sky. I rushed home and came back with a portable searchlight. I shined my light on the owl, getting a good look. It was huge, with brown streaks and had tufts on its head that looked like horns. Its round yellow eyes glared down at me. I thought the bird might take off. Then I remembered reading somewhere that unexpected bright light could cause an owl’s wide-open eyes to lose night vision for a moment, so I clicked it off. The owl had work to do. Owls sometimes eat skunks, and our dog had been skunked earlier in the year. I figured maybe this owl would grab a skunk if it saw one. We needed its vision to be in good shape. I said, “Sorry about the light, bub.” And went home.

I try to go into the wild every day, if only for a short time. I live in a wooded area with a pond out back. There are hardwood forests, scrubby fields and a river nearby with beaver sign—gnaw marks and wood chips. I usually see something interesting. I’ll let you know, right here. Sometimes I might go on a tangent (see last two posts) and rant about some other subject. But we’ll do the daily reporting most of the time. Today I saw a flock of Robins. Now there’s nothing rare about Robins; they’re common. But I always think it’s unusual that they don’t migrate any more. They used to, when I was a kid. By November they’d be gone. Now they congregate in great numbers, especially in the woods. I never realized they were social until I saw this. I’ve seen them in deepest winter. Snow Robins, we call them. And their plumage is paler. Last winter’s surprising stay-over bird was a Great Blue Heron that I saw walking on ice. Another example of gradual climate change, I guess. Tomorrow I’ll look for the little Pied Billed Grebe that turns up on our pond from time to time during migrations, and I’ll let you know what I see.

The year’s almost over and I realize that once again I haven’t seen a Bobolink. In fact, I haven’t seen Bobolinks in years. My spot for Bobolinks was an unspoiled short grass prairie. These birds, with their distinctive warbling calls would hover and circle over their territories. And you could see them hanging onto the sides of weed stalks, black-chested birds in Spring with that unexpected yellow-white nape coloration. Pretty cool. But the powers that be—including well-intentioned nature lovers—decided to turn the wild prairie into a botanic garden. Now it’s just another tamed and sculpted piece of land. It’s nice to look at, with planted gardens, exotic trees and tram rides. And there are some birds hanging around. But no Bobolinks. They’ve bobbed on out of there.

Birds observed at feeders don’t really count. Sorry. Bison seen crossing a road in Yellowstone don’t count. Lions in a Kenyan “game preserve” don’t quite count. You want them to count, but they don’t. They have the taint of the zoo on them. You know this in your gut, right? The Red-Bellied Woodpecker hammering on a dead tree in a wild river valley is spectacular. When it’s eating suet that you put outside your kitchen window it’s like a pet. Or am I missing something?