Hey tweets, my husband and I just got back from a mondo rondo trip
beginning in Seattle at the Fill (where else?), then on to the Blues, the
Potholes, and home again. We saw some spectacular birds along the way:
80 American White Pelicans in a row at the Potholes rookery
15 Red-necked Phalaropes paddling for food in the shallow water there
2 Black Terns diving for fish there, too
1 Prairie Falcon circling Palouse Falls, going up like an elevator to
investigate a moth
6 Wild Turkeys taking a siesta in the midday heat near the water tank in
Washtucna
2 Swainson's Hawks grappling talons in midair over Lyons Ferry
1 Gray Partridge frozen on the roadside near Biscuit Ridge, dead to all
appearances until I leaned out the window to take a closer look - during
which half-second the bird must have clicked its red shoes together and
gone back to Kansas I guess; it certainly wasn't in the road anymore.

Our most thrilling spot, though, happened at Bennington Lake, which, but
for my loyalty to the Fill, might otherwise very well become my most
favorite spot on earth. Bennington Lake (p. 511 in Hal's book) was
literally stuffed with birds: western wood-pewees on every other branch
almost, Bullock's orioles, yellow warblers, yellow-breasted chats,
Bewick's wrens, house wrens, black-capped chickadees, downy woodpeckers,
cedar waxwings, black-headed grosbeaks, Cassin's finches, American
goldfinches - all going full speed from morning till noon (at which point,
we wilted from the heat and went back in the car). On the way back to the
car, my husband read the kiosk, which mentioned that western screech-owls
were common here. We decided to try for the owls the next morning.

We rolled out of bed at 4 a.m. and staggered around trying to get dressed,
drink some caffeine, find the car keys, find the exit to the parking lot,
realize we weren't awake enough to be driving, drink more caffeine, and
get ourselves out to the lake. We arrived shortly before dawn, with the
sky getting paler by the minute.

We hiked down the trail until we came to some likely looking dead trees,
at which point, I began imitating the call of a screech owl. Now I know I
promised myself not to pish for birds anymore after one day at the Fill
when I pished up a Cooper's hawk that clearly had got its little hopes up
about finding dinner, only to find me making stupid sounds instead. But
something came over me at Bennington Lake, and before I knew it, I was
hooting like an owlish soccer fan at the World Cup. Mind you, I'm not
proud of this. But I told myself that there is a moral difference between
playing songs with a tape recorder and playing songs with myself. In the
first case, I argued, I feel like I'm being rude in someone else's home,
as though I were a guest who brought along a boom box to the dinner table.
In the second case, I'm more like a guest who sings in the shower - a bit
irritating perhaps, but kind of cute too, as long as I'm not doing it too
loudly or too early.

If this seems like splitting hairs to you, believe me, at the time, it
seemed to be a significant difference. In any case, I hooted. No screech
owls appeared, so we kept walking. Around the next bend in the trail,
there - spang up against the morning sky - sat a Great Horned Owl, peering
down the trail at us. It might as well have been wearing a bib and holding
a knife and fork, it was so filled with anticipation. I stopped in
mid-hoot. We stared at each other, unblinking for a few minutes.

Many years ago, when I was in the second grade at Van Asselt Elementary
School, I had a crush on a boy named Jack. He didn't know I existed, so
one day, I decided that I would have to take the lead. I ran up to him on
the playground and kissed him on the cheek. To my everlasting shame, he
reported me to the principal. The next thing I knew, I was called out of
class and for the only time in my life, went to the principal's office for
a scolding. "Now Connie," intoned the principal, "we don't go around
chasing boys and kissing them, do we?" Prickles of embarrassment ran up
and down my arms. No, I guess we don't.

Those same prickles covered my arms when the owl gave me its look. We
don't go around hooting like western screech-owls and fooling innocent
great horned owls, do we? No, I guess we don't. John and I tiptoed away.

Have I learned my lesson? I sincerely hope so. When I go out into the wild
to observe birds in their native habitat, I really am a guest in their
home. I should behave as a good guest should.

It was a most glorious owl, though. Most glorious. And I still smile when
I remember what my mother told me on the day I walked home from the
principal's office. "When you find a boy who really loves you," she said,
"you won't have to chase him to get a kiss." She was right. I wonder what
she would have said about owls? - Connie, Seattle

csidles at isomedia.com