The Reluctant Twitcher by Richard Pope Read Free Book Online

the time when not looking. I also nearly miss the Cobourg Laughing Gull. On March 5, I scan the harbour for hours in the bitter cold and wind before finally attempting to get out of the car and have a further look. I say attempt because I nearly step on the Laughing Gull, which is lounging in the parking lot right beneath my vehicle door waiting for a handout. It is miffed and I have to close my door again quickly. Unlike Doug McRae, I don’t routinely stock up on donuts before going for gulls — but then I don’t go for gulls in my pyjamas either. As Ron Pittaway later says of this bird, “It was too easy.” Not much satisfaction, true — but a tick.
    March 12, Gray Partridge seen with Hugh and Andrew Don (Andrew really thinks he spotted them first) right out in the open by the runway at the Brantford airport after a thorough search of the entire surrounding neighbourhood, tramping around in deep snow and grass, Hugh in his tennis shoes.
    March 14, I find my own Harlequin Duck at Lucas Point east of Cobourg. A first-winter bird — sweet bird of youth.
    March 26, American Woodcock and a close brush with death. I visit Margaret’s favourite woodcock site alone at dusk. I look and listen and see diddly-squat. I decide to stray down the road from the car. When it is nearly dark I hear a loud peent almost in my ear. I know the bird is very close. Seconds later I see it in all its glory, though to the naked eye it is just a black shape. Let’s hear it for the light-gathering power of binoculars. I enjoy the spectacle and flights for ten minutes, until suddenly all hell breaks loose right behind me in the woods. The coyotes go crazy. I can hear their teeth snapping and the drool hitting the ground. Am I the source of such frenzied excitement? I walk briskly, trying hard to give the appearance of nonchalance as I make a beeline for my distant car. How could I have walked so far from it at night? Stay calm, Poper, stay calm. Do not give in to those powerful, if subliminal, promptings toward lycanthropic delights put forth so urgently in your dreams. I do not take off my clothes. Before they can swarm me and drink deeply of hot blood, I dive into my car. I open the window and howl madly in frenzied relief.
    The next day Margaret says, “Oh, yes, I forgot to mention there is the odd coyote in the area.” Yeah, the odd one and a hundred even ones, too. No one ever said birding was safe, though some elderly dotards may actually think so.
    April 2, Margaret and I get the Eared Grebe at the Grimsby lagoons. Easy peasy. It comes, however, like most good birds, with a price tag. But I learn a lesson. Instead of taking the easy roundabout way, we decide to head directly for Long Point through the countryside. I have a fairly good idea of how to do it, but since Margaret will be navigating, I relax utterly and bask in the Eared Grebe. We fall to chatting. I mention David Mitchell’s stunning tour de force Cloud Atlas . Margaret has read the book and has impassioned views. We are about in mid-book when I come to a stop at an unfamiliar T junction. I ask my navigator which way to turn. She hems and haws. None of the many toponyms on the signposts for either direction are familiar. No problem. Margaret will consult the map book. Several minutes of concerned silence, interspersed with uneasy looks at the signposts and the road numbers.

    Photo by Sam Barone.
    American Woodcock. Rondeau Provincial Park. It can be very difficult to see these birds when they are hunkered down.
    â€œOdd,” says Margaret. “I can’t find any of these roads.”
    There turns out to be a reason for this. Our exact location is three full maps away from where Margaret thinks we are. We have gone hundreds of kilometres out of our way and have to make a huge loop back to get on track. Margaret “can’t understand” how it could have happened. I understand exactly. I tell her about the time I was