Hey tweets, John and I made our second (and successful) try for the Siberian Accentor early yesterday morning, leaving Seattle at 3:15 a.m. to be sure to arrive before 7:00, when the bird was reliably reported to pop out of hiding on the car side of the road, leap into the apple tree of the poor guy who owns it, perch at the top of a t-shaped branch for a few minutes, then rocket off to other bushes, trees, and stumps, where it would appear briefly to tanatalize birders for the rest of the day.

Our first attempt happened on Saturday, when I led a small group of Birds in Flight intermediate birders on a field trip to Nisqually to study flapping patterns of waterfowl and raptors. Not finding many such flappers on site - a local birder told us the fields have become so flooded that grazing waterfowl have departed for parts unknown, followed by the raptors - we debated about what to do. One student decided to join another group of birders and explore Nisqually, but our car decided to drive over to Woodland Bottoms to find the accentor. Half of us had never chased a bird before; the other half had done so only too many times but didn't want to discourage the newbies by telling the many times we had chased, only to be told:
• you should have been here 10 minutes ago;
• the bird you want to find is nothing more than an escapee;
• the bird is right over there in that tree (one of thousands), you know, the tree with all those branches - can't you see it? Oops, there it goes.

We arrived in a driving rainstorm and joined a group of rather forlorn birders who had missed the bird by 3 minutes, 10 minutes, an hour - the times varied but the facial expressions did not. As we slowly got soaked and cold, a tiny bird way off in a willow tree hopped out briefly among a troop of juncos, then dove back into the brush. I thought it might be the accentor, but my glasses were foggy, my scope was drippy, the light was bad, and the distance was great. Humph.

We waited around for another hour, then climbed back into the car to head for home. "So, that was a chase," remarked one of our passengers. "Now I can say I've been on my first chase. It will also be my last chase."

It takes a special kind of birder to appreciate a rarity chase. For one thing, you have to accept that some chases, even many chases, will end up in disappointment. No bird. And even when you see the bird, the experience is somewhat lacking: you aren't seeing the bird in its accustomed habitat, so you get no sense of how it really lives. You don't understand its being, and for me anyway, this diminishes the sense of connection to the wild that I value so much. If you're a chaser, you're probably also a lister, meaning, you find it fun to tick off new birds on your life list. For dedicated listers, this is enough.

I am a lister. I have always been a lister. I suppressed my list lust for two decades, as I became more and more attached to Montlake Fill and to the birds who come here. In the process, I grew to feel deeply connected to a place. I belong to the Fill. It is my spiritual home. It is where I learn about human nature as well as wild nature. It inspires my writing. The birds here lift me out of my material existence to a plane of pure beauty and joy. But I still love to list.

I've asked myself why this is so. The best answer I can give is, finding new species comforts me when I worry about the impact we humans are having on nature. We are destroying so much that took nature millions of years to create. What sadness, regret, guilt. I yearn to travel back in time to see wonders that no longer exist. Yet the world is still filled with diversity. Life is abundant, resilient. There is hope.

These thoughts ran through my mind as we drove in the dark yesterday. The fat crescent of the moon spilled golden light across the sky, lighting our way. When we reached Stenerson Road, no one stirred. We had arrived a full hour before first light. The night was quiet, with only the occasional train whistle sending lonely cries into the dark. We huddled in the car and tried to sleep, but we were too keyed up. What lay ahead, we did not know: the day could produce a radiant smile on my face, or the little brave smile I paste over my disappointment so the other birders think I am a serious adult.

As the sky began to pale, more birders showed up, until there were nine cars lined up behind us. Then the first note of the dawn chorus sounded, and I sprang out of the car, set up my camp stool and scope, and awaited developments. The light slowly grew brighter, and the fog that clung to the fields drifted over toward us, veiling the grasses and low bushes. A pair of Sandhill Cranes passed overhead, misty swirls of gray parting the fog briefly before disappearing. The sky turned pink, and small birds began to arrive in the apple tree - juncos, a robin, a Song Sparrow, then, "It's him!" cried one of birders.

And it was. Dark face mask, buffy supercilium, tawny breast, warbler-like bill, plumped-up body, a bird bearing the whiff of Siberian birch and conifer forests. It paused in the tangle of apple branches, then hopped up to the top of the T, just as it has always done. There it surveyed the landscape, taking its time, giving us all fantastic looks, long enough for three people to share my scope. I think our smiles must have brightened the sky itself. Then it spread its wings, pushed off with its tiny feet, and blasted away at great speed into dense vegetation. Oh, oh.

Sometimes chases are the sublimest form of happiness. - Connie, Seattle

constancesidles at gmail.com <mailto:constancesidles at gmail.com>
csidles at constancypress.com <mailto:csidles at constancypress.com>

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