If We Were Stringers... If We Were Stringers… Nathan Cornwell age 12, OR Wouldn’t birding be so much easier if we were all stringers? (Stringer, noun: a birder who has amassed several doubtful bird sightings, I.e., “I saw an Eared Trogon in Alaska!” If nothing else, I would have a larger life list. I bet many of you would too. What? You don’t believe me? Let me tell you two horror stories from my past to illustrate my point. Mom, my mom‘s friend Cathy, Jacob, I were at a ranch in Logan Valley, Oregon that was special in only one way: it was one of the only places in Oregon were the Upland Sandpiper can be found. Can you guess why we were there? We were looking for the rare Upland Sandpiper. Suddenly, mom stopped the car so fast I thought that she had almost hit a cow. (I was immersed in the Sibley Guide, you see, studying the Upland Sandpiper, so I didn’t know why she had given me a horrendous crick in the neck.) She leapt out of the car and everyone shortly followed, me muttering and rubbing my neck. She had the scope up faster than I could blink. (And indeed I did blink several times, wondering how she did that.) She looked focused, and called out, “Upland Sandpiper!” We all crowded around to look. Now, if we were stringers, we probably would have packed up the scope and left the “Upland Sandpipers” that, since eluding us for the past three years, had suddenly appeared en masse all along the fence. But no, we had to stand there and drink in the beauty of the “Upland Sandpiper.” Suddenly, the “Upland Sandpiper” I was looking at stretched it’s wings. We saw a striking black-and-white pattern underneath the wings. Mom, at least, realized our mistake. It was a ?!*# Willet we saw! After mom had voiced our mistake, all the “Upland Sandpipers” we had seen along the fenceline stretched their wings, too! They were…mocking me?!? I began to see red…crosshairs appeared on the nearest Willet…but then, mom coaxed me back into the car, preventing me from hurling my binoculars at the closest Willet. But the most frustrating thing was when mom said, “Well, we would have realized our mistake when we reached Burns.” Firstly, I don’t really remember birds well enough to compare them even 24 hours later. Almost all good stringers-I mean birders-forget most of the detail of even a life bird. Second, if the ?!*# Willets hadn’t stretched their wings, our lists would have read ‘Upland Sandpiper’ because we never got to Burns because of a severe weather system moving through. The second horror story is of our hunt for the vagrant Gyrfalcon at Baskett Slough NWR. We arrived at 10:00 a.m. in heavy fog. We mistook no less than 3 raptors for it by lunch but got a good view of two American Pipits. Then, driving home on the last (or first, depending on if you are exiting or entering) gravel road, mom again performed a “potential life bird stop” and backed up, talking about a Gray Bird she had seen on the hill behind us. We got the scope out (me this time, this was my dream bird) and trained it on the lump about a quarter-mile away. We compared the Lump to a male Harrier and found no rust on the chest and no facial disk. We were celebrating, but then a portent of doom appeared 100 meters to the left of the “Gyrfalcon.” (If we were honorable stringers, we should have left right then with another check on the life list.) An immature Harrier flew towards our “Gyrfalcon.” We began uh-ohing. The juvenile flew directly over the male and the “Gyrfalcon” flew. (Well, jumped with it’s wings extended.) There, on the underwing, was the pattern of a Harrier, not a Gyr! (We really should have left before the juvenile reached the adult.) I began to see red again…thwarted by the underwing pattern twice! I swear I would have run screaming at the Harrier and strangled it if it would have stayed still long enough. But my stringer philosophy works in reverse, too. For example, a Baird’s Sandpiper we found at a local wetlands would have remained unnamed if we would have walked away early. I guess we birders have to be honest after all. (Anyway, cheating while birding is about as satisfying as cheating at solitaire.)

WildBird on the Fly! Check out Editor Amy K. Hooper's random dispatches from afield and at home.

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