The Sound of One Hand High Fiving

Smith's Longspur on its way to the Arctic

Last Sunday, Susan and I, along with our pacifist, tree-hugging, birding buddies Pat and Karin, spent a delightful day in an old-growth forest here in Ohio; one of the last of its kind. The spot was chosen (by them, not me) in honor of my soon-to-happen birthday. The day had not progressed too far before I started gnashing my teeth and whining about not getting my 600th North American, lower-48-states, non-pelagic-trip bird on my life list.
I think more to shut me up than to have a philosophical discussion, Pat and Karin suggested I use a more non-violent approach; more Buddhist, more Zen-like. It’s not all that important in the scheme of the Great Mandala. Just let go, set it free and the bird will find you kinda thing.
I must admit, I fell under Pat’s Svengali-like reasoning. It lasted almost 24 hours. For the most part I was cool, laid back, on Monday. Then I read the reports on eBird (www.ebird.org), that marvelous birding project from the good folks at Cornell Lab of Ornithology, and I snapped out of all that Let-it-Be crap.
A flock of Smith’s Longspurs was in nearby Indiana. It’s a bird that rarely makes it to Ohio. This would be my last-best chance of reaching my self-inflicted goal: to reach 600 birds on my lower-48 life list before I hit that three score and ten mark. Tuesday morning Susan was alternating holding her hands over her ears and making a list of things she had to do—alone—and was helping me pack my bags; holding the door open for me.
I loaded a bag of health food stuff—jelly beans, caramel corn and a supply of Starbucks Komodo Dragon coffee. Somehow, Susan slipped in some pineapple upside down cake, apples and other fruit, things not on the basic-birder diet.

At daybreak Wednesday morning I was in place—north of Crawfordsville, Indiana. Now, when you go looking for a bird near a town named “Fickle,” you’d better have Karma on your side—or at least have your duck in a row. The temperature was a balmy 30 degrees, breezy with a windchill in the low 20s. Car windows down, heater blasting, cruising along the gravel road on idle speed, I was ready.
When I spotted the first longspur after several false alarms sounded by Horned Larks, I could not believe my good fortune. There it was, right were eBird said it would be; looking just like the picture in the field guide. Leaping from the car, I nearly strangled myself with seatbelts, binocular straps and camera gear. Just as I got a really good look at the bird, my cell phone rang—or chirped, since for a ringtone I use the call of the Carolina Wren. I, however, didn’t realize it was my phone. Still untangling myself from too many straps, I spun around to see how in the hell a wren could have possibly gotten into my car.
It was Susan calling. Asking, nonchalantly, if I had found the bird. Her timing is impeccable.
So, there I was, in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere—Montgomery County, Indiana, actually—crepuscular rays of the morning sun warming me, high-fiving with the sky. It’s a wonderful sound.

And Phil Ochs’ words for Susan: Love is the flame that keeps the fires burning.