Subject: no beans about goose
Date: Dec 18 16:49:00 2002
From: Constance J. Sidles - csidles at mail.isomedia.com


Hey tweets, I don't want to seem churlish by not thanking Wilson Cady and
company for telling John and me on Sunday to look for the bean goose off K
Street. I do sincerely thank him and all the birding community that takes
such care of its members by sharing really wonderful birds with everyone.

It's just that it's taken me this long to stop being so angry that I want
to chew nails. Here's what happened:

John and I headed out for Hoquiam at 4 a.m. Sunday morning, our hearts full
of hope and our stomachs full of delectable donuts that we always buy at
Western Donuts to gruntle us for getting up so dang early. We have
discovered, over the course of many years of chasing, that if we don't stop
in at the Western, we get so cranky with each other that one of us is bound
to press the big red Eject button we have installed in our car in order to
send the other one blasting off into the wild blue yonder, where to alight
we neither know nor care. (We wish; in reality, the Eject button is our
emergency lights button and only sends us to virtual oblivion. Still, there
is a certain satisfaction in pressing it when one of us gets too ornery.)

We always start out on these chasing expeditions with such big smiles on
our faces. We just know "the bird" is going to be there. Sometimes, it
actually is. Other times, we have another story to tell (like the time we
drove 600 miles round trip to look at redpoll vents to no avail, or the
time... well, you get the idea).

This time, the signs were ominous. We ran into a pair of forlorn birders on
the Sandpiper Trail, who told us that Ruth was down the path and said no
one had seen the bird since the previous morning, when it had been spotted
flying purposefully off. Not good. We spent the entire day dodging
rainstorms, traveling in a circuit to the elementary school, the high
school, the ball field, the airport, back to the elementary school, etc. We
learned a lot about Hoquiam but nothing about geese.

Finally, the wind came up, as John had predicted, having checked on the
internet that the ocean buoys anchored way out were bobbing up and down on
swells so enormous that even the biggest of big-wave Hawaiian surfers would
quail at the sight. (Washington has the biggest surf in the world, when a
big winter storm comes through with sustained western winds.) We decided to
pack it in and headed for home when, much to our happy surprise, Wilson and
company came roaring past, waving and shouting that the goose had been
relocated off K street. By then, the rain was coming in horizontal sheets,
but hey, we're birders. Who cares?

We drove off bouncing and jouncing over potholes until we came to the
railroad tracks and found a little parking place. By then, the wind was
howling so loudly that John and I could hardly hear each other. We set out
down the railroad tracks with our heads down, the rain pelting so hard it
drove right through our clothes and actually hurt our skin. When we reached
the field described by the carful of lucky birders, we set up the scope,
only to have the wind blow it down, damaging the casing. Great. But who
cares? We're birders.

We started to scan the field, where some billion geese were hunkered down
against the wind. The gusts were so strong that I couldn't see through my
binoculars because I was swaying so hard. I had to look quickly whenever a
short break in the storm came. This was frustrating, especially because if
we had known about the K street location earlier in the day, when we were
getting sunbreaks and still air, we would have had a perfect view. But who
cares? We're birders.

Just then, I saw a few geese jump up into the air and start flying off. I
thought that was odd, given the conditions. So I put my binocs down to ask
John what he thought. I never got the words out, because I saw what was
happening. Some jerk had brought his border collies down to the field for a
little fun and was siccing four dogs onto the geese. Three of the dogs
preferred not to run around like crazy gerbils and satisfy their owner's
pathetic ego, but the fourth one was happily running all over the field,
putting up every single goose, duck, phalarope, even starling. Birds all
gone. No bean goose.

Without a word, John and I packed up the scope and started trudging back to
the car. Our clothes were so wet and we were so cold that we could hardly
move our legs. Nevertheless, we moved them. Not because we had to in order
to keep from dying of hypothermia. No, we wanted to catch up to that man
and commit mayhem. Unfortunately, a glacier could have moved faster than we
did.

Years ago, I remember watching a PBS show about anemones. It turns out that
anemones, which we think of as pleasant little plant-like organisms that
live peacefully attached to a rock, really are highly aggressive animals
that engage in constant warfare against each other by reaching out their
tentacles and grabbing each other. They also try to grow into each other's
territory. But it all happens so verrryyyy sllloooowwwllly that humans
can't see it. We can only see it with time-lapse photography. Well, that's
how our battle with the dog owner was. We advanced on him verryyy
slllooowwwlly, and he "ran" away verryy slllooowwllly, keeping just ahead
of us. My brain was boiling over with hot emotion, but my body was frozen
solid. He got away. All that John and I got for our pains was a damaged
scope, wet clothes, cold bodies and grumpy moods. Not even Western donuts
could make a dent. We were two steamed clams.

So you see, that's why I haven't written before now. I'm still grieving.
I've passed the anger stage and am stuck in the depression stage.
Eventually, I hope to reach acceptance, but that day has not yet arrived. -
Connie, Seattle

csidles at isomedia.com