Greetings tweetsters,

This startde out as a short break between other stuff. Sorry, it got to be
quite long. So hit delete if you're not interested in nostalgic drivel. How
did I get started birding?
No encouraging grandmothers or parents, but good friends (to this day). But
then again, no discouraging birders either, until later in the game, when I
couldn't care less about what anyone else thought. Amazing, though, how
often the experience of others trying to discourage someone crops up in this
thread. It was this discouraging experience back in Holland that made me
reluctant to get involved with other birders here. But then I joined a
Seattle Audubon Society walk around Green Lake. I discovered wonderful
people. Excited to be out, enjoying bird watching. Encouraging, friendly
people, who soon made me forget about past experiences with other people.
Here was a group of people I could relate to. They treated each other with
respect and created an environment in which learning, with its inevitable
mistakes, was encouraged, not punished with snide remarks or disdain. Like
tweeters. Before I forget; thank you, one and all.
But, back to the real "issue" at hand.
I was about 18 and had gone through life without ever truly looking at
birds, except for the few high school biology assignments. Remember, I grew
up in Holland, so the birds were somewhat different. Western Holland is
mostly very urban. I grew up in or just outside Amsterdam. The most
frequently observed flying things were the airplanes passing our house
within a quarter mile on their way to nearby Schiphol International Airport.
The canals housed Mallards, Coots and Grey Herons (size of Great Blues).
Kids fishing the canals did discover the thrill of feeding caught fish to
the herons, who, with some coercing would take the fish from ones hand.
House Sparrows and Blackbirds (thrush, really). Some gulls and that was
about it.
Shortly after enrolling in the Teachers Education of the University of
Amsterdam (Biology and Health Education), a friend of mine asked if I wanted
to join her and her boyfriend on a bird watching trip. They were going to
drive, starting out before dawn, to an area about an hour away, and observe
birds in a marsh area, from a blind. Never one to turn down a new experience
I accepted the invitation.
It was February. We set out in the dark. Biting wind, freezing temperature.
Nice warm comfortable car. We headed east, crossed a bridge to get to the
"polder" (newly claimed land, you know, put a dike around water, pump the
water out and start working the land, clay mostly, like the Skagit and
Sammamish Flats). We turned north and pretty soon we were driving along a
dike. Water to the left, lower land to the right. As dawn crept up on us I
could occasionally see Mute Swans on the water and flocks of unidentified
ducks, sometimes what must have been thousands of them (later I learnt some
of these were rafts of Tufted Ducks).
We got to the Oostvaardersplassen. Marsh that, against human intentions, had
been discovered and colonized by birds in between creation and exploitation.
Now set aside for wildlife. Still quite dark we took a right turn, parked
the car at what to me looked like a random place along the dike. It was
freezing! I had not been warned properly. I was wearing jeans, maybe two
layers underneath a winter coat. Rubber boots (unlined) and I do believe I
had gloves. I also had an old pair of binoculars. My dad's. Why he had
binoculars I still don't know (I will ask him one of these days). The prisms
didn't exactly line up, but at the time I didn't know that.
We slid down the frosty grassy slope of the dike. There was a wooden sign
saying "observation hut" and an arrow pointing across two planks with a
railing, crossing a ditch. The mud was frozen solid. It wasn't until later
visits, under warmer conditions, that I learnt to appreciate how ankle-deep
mud can keep the number of visitors to a popular place down. Today that path
is paved and leads to several blinds, with interpretive signs and other
amenities.
I remember coming out of the marsh one Sunday morning, years after that
first visit. Our boots muddy halfway up. Two couples in their Sunday's best,
obviously having decided to do "something" after church, asked us if this
was the way to the observation hut. We took one look at the polished black
dress shoes of the guys and the open-toed, high-heeled shoes of the ladies
and as one (there were three of us at the time) said: "sure." We didn't
stick around to see how far they would get.
But back to that first frosty morning. We crunched our way across the frozen
mud, occasionally sliding on frozen puddles. About a third of a mile. The
path was lined by young willows on either side. Occasionally a break in the
vegetation showed drainage ditches on either side. In the gray of early
morning we could hear myriad of geese and ducks greeting the approaching
day. They were out of sight, up ahead. Birds, most unfamiliar to me, started
flying overhead. Noises came from the brush. We proceeded.
Suddenly the sides of the path were flanked by solid fences, made of reed
stems strapped together (a bit like thatch). A little farther and a wooden
blind on pilings appeared. Up a few steps and we opened a door. It was
fairly dark inside. We stumbled in and stood still to let our eyes
accommodate. Pretty soon I became aware of an astounding situation. Sitting
inside this blind (perhaps ten by ten meters) on benches on three sides,
were a bunch of heavily wrapped-up, hunched-over figures. In front of them,
narrow slits at about eye-level allowed a view of an expanse of (what later
on turned out to be shallow) water. Some hushed-tone mumbling and some
shuffling and pretty soon I too had a place on a bench (hard and cold) and
was able to look out the viewing window.
We were on the edge of the marsh bordering one of the "plassen" (pools).
Reeds going off to the sides, to our left one could see the mouth of one of
the ditches we had paralleled on our way out. That spot, I learnt over the
years, was great for all kinds of unexpected birds popping out. The pool
itself showed mostly distant flocks of geese and ducks. This particular day
the edges were more or less frozen.
There I was, sitting over a frozen section of marsh in a dark hut with
mostly strangers who in hushed tones, almost irreverent, started exchanging
information with my friends about species of birds whose names sounded
exotic and sometimes far-fetched to my ears. My friends took great pains to
show me their field guides and then point out distant birds. I finally
learnt to close one eye, when using the binoculars, so the picture would be
sharp. Occasionally I got to use someone else's bins. What a difference good
quality optics made! Suddenly I saw colors on those ducks. I got to see
Northern Shovelers with their clownish proportioned bills.
For a while the discovery of new birds and the overwhelming number of
details one has to pay attention to, made me forget that I was starting to
get cold.
One person got really excited. At first I though he must have seen something
world-shocking. When it turned out he was describing a bird, I could hardly
believe anyone getting this excited; over a bird. The guy was practically
incoherent with excitement. From what I could understand there was a big
raptor somewhere across the wide expanse of water. "Oh sure, yes, I see it,"
several people agreed. Pretty soon a heated discussion ensued. It was
determined it must be an immature White-tailed Eagle, Europe's biggest
raptor. Wow, judging by the excitement this must be something to behold.
Unfortunately, with my one-eyed, poor light-gathering (dark) binocs, I didn'
t see the bird. People, strangers, incredibly excited, pointed across the
mile-wide expanse of water. There, across that water, against the reeds, the
bird had landed. Oh, Okay. I looked. I momentarily forgot about the chill
which had numbed my posterior and the complaining signals emanating from
clumps of ice inside my boots, formerly known as my toes.
I strained my eyes. Willing the binoculars to pick up on this bird and allow
me a glimpse. I leaned forward, pressing against the wooden supports,
ignoring the wind blowing through the openings, practically freezing the
tears trickling down my cheeks. The inside of my nose hurt with every
breath. I tried to exhale downward through my mouth, so my breath wouldn't
fog-up the binocs. I looked and looked. Nothing even vaguely resembling an
eagle.
There were about a dozen people crammed in the hut. Eleven of those were
terribly excited. I felt left out, stupid for not seeing the bird. I figured
it was dark inside that hut and these people didn't know me; the hell with
pride. "So where is this bird?" I ventured. Some heads ever so briefly
turned in my direction, then immediately turned back to look through their
binoculars. One person said: "see that gull across the water, flying low
over the reeds from left to right?" "Yes" "Follow it, I'll say "when" as it
flies over the eagle."
Seconds of silence followed. I watched the gull, a small grayish blip, a
mile away, against gray sky and black silhouetted trees. Pumping its way
leisurely undulating towards that inevitable moment when it would reveal to
me this obvious gem of an observation.
Eleven voices in unison rang out "when." I fixed my one-eyed gaze on the
reeds. Brown, light brown, dark brown, some gray. Wind made my eyes water.
Blur. "H'm, all I see is a brown blob" "Yeah, that's it. Keep looking, oh
hey, did you see that? it just now turned its head" No, I didn't see that.
I was starting to feel really stupid. Here were all these people, obviously
spellbound by a common event. Total strangers crammed together in a small
hut experiencing camaraderie and elation, all because of a bird. I felt
inadequate. The guy next to me must have sensed my growing disappointment.
He advised to just keep looking at that brown blob and eventually it might
move enough so that I could outline the shape.
Sudden commotion. "There it goes, it's flying!" "See, it's flying to the
right" "Wow, look at the size of that bird, those wings, wow!" "See?"
Well.no. My "blob" is still there
I never did see the bird that had generated all the excitement. As a matter
of fact I never saw an eagle while in Holland. Perhaps this explains my
determination and doggedness in watching eagles around Seattle for hundreds
of hours each year, just to make up for that first day.
Needless to say, when we left the observation hut, frozen stiff, my toes
hurting with every step I took, I was hooked. I had discovered bird
watching. Or had it discovered me? Two years later, the same friends asked
me if I wanted to make an other trip to the Oostvaardersplassen. "Well, I
was just there last week but sure, I'd love to." We started out at 4 AM;
summertime. By 8 PM I had a car full of complaining people (I was driving).
Can we please go home now, I've had enough?" "Guys" I replied 'it's not dark
yet; look at that gorgeous sunset! Look at the spoonbills; let's just stop
here and check for egrets! Hey, look Great Crested Grebes, let's see if they
have any young with them."

Martin Muller, Seattle
MartinMuller at email.msn.com