This Side of the Pond

I don’t think I’m likely to go down in Wyoming history as a famous birdwatcher. Not that this was an ambition I felt was mine to achieve, but my failures over the last few days have certainly clarified that my talents lie elsewhere.

I don’t know about you guys, but we’ve been noticing more variety in the winged visitors passing through this season. We have crossbills and robins, the odd bird of prey and, of course, the ever-present turkeys and their adorable offspring.

Still waiting on the return of the hummingbirds who turn up every so often, but we have spied a couple of grackles. I’d never encountered them before this summer but was intrigued by their wonderful name, which sounds like of the sort of fluffy “monster” you’d expect to appear in a child’s picture book. On doing a little research, I was amused to see them described as “stretched blackbirds”.

Despite these unusual bird-based sightings, but I was not prepared for my experiences on Friday night. The hour was late, but the puppy required one final perambulate around the yard.

As we stood watching the dogs wander, sniff at things, eat grass and generally indulge in every possible yard behavior that had nothing to do with emptying their bladders, we heard a strange noise. Despite the darkness, it sounded like a hawk shrieking.

Actually, it sounded like two hawks having a discussion, but we could only pinpoint where one of them was – the other seemed to be wandering back and forth behind the house. It was a screech, but not really an alarm call, and there was no hooting so it couldn’t have been owls.

But at that time of night, what bird of prey would be active? It’s not like they could have seen a rabbit even if they’d managed to scare one up.

At this point, I should admit for the sake of transparency that this isn’t the first time my bird watching has been ill-fated. Back when I was a student, I joined a departmental trip to the Isles of Scilly off the southwest coast of England.

Our project was to record the singing of as many different birds as possible – a relatively easy task on those islands, where there are abundant species in a small area. I was paired with the only other postgraduate on the trip, a Japanese gentleman.

I didn’t have chance to get to know my new friend well because he didn’t speak a lick of English – the poor soul had only just arrived in the UK. He was full of smiles, easygoing and perfectly willing to communicate via mime, so we spent most of the time pointing at things and nodding at each other, while occasionally pretending to chew on a sandwich to indicate it was lunchtime.

Several days passed and we were starting to get the hang of things. I was tasked with operating the recorder, while my partner carried the boom (a large microphone on the end of a pole).

Whenever we heard a new song, we would spring into action. My partner would position the boom as close to the bird as possible and I would hit the button to capture the sound.

By the end of the week, as you might imagine, we were running out of new species and it became increasingly rare for us to hear a noise that wasn’t frustratingly familiar. As we walked along a woodland path, ears primed for any unusual noises, our patience was rewarded by a warble we didn’t already know. We scuttled closer and readied ourselves quickly, lest we miss our opportunity.

The woodlands were full of snags, so my partner stood to the edge of the path and stretched as far as he could. I hit the button, but was frustrated to see a man and his dog coming towards us. I crossed my fingers that he wouldn’t make too much noise and spoil the recording.

The good news was that he was silent as he passed. The bad news is that his dog mistook my partner for a tree. The scruffy little mutt trotted over, sniffed his legs and then left a deposit on his shoes.

I was horrified, but my partner was too pleasant to let such a thing phase him. He looked over at me with a beaming grin and said, “Ah, defecation!”

This happened many moons ago, but I’m still concerned as to which language school taught him that word before he even got to learn how to say “hello”.

Anyway, back to my yard in the middle of the night, and the unusual sounds that carried on the air for many long minutes. We went back inside and listened to recordings of every single bird species that lives in or migrates through Wyoming, but none of them matched.

It was only when I related this story to our resident office expert, who promptly rolled his eyes at me, that I finally found out what I’d heard. My nocturnal hawk turned out to be the same squirrel that has been yelling at my dogs all year for daring to exit the house, only this time we must have really ticked it off because it had resorted to screaming from a tree.

And so, sadly, I will not be the discoverer of a new nocturnal hawk, and they won’t need to update the wildlife books. On the plus side, from now on I will be able to tell a different tale when asked about my worst experience of bird watching, and this one didn’t ruin anyone’s shoes.