The Curlew Experience

It was a typical vacation setup for our family. We were on the Gulf coast, at one of my favorite places on the planet. Fort DeSoto County Park (St. Petersburg, FL). The kids played in the water and the sand and the sun. My wife, not desiring to brave the 67 degree surf and trying to avoid excess sand, sat in her beach chair reading and keeping a watchful eye on the kids.

I was the one who didn’t fit. I was the one carrying binoculars, spotting scope and camera. Daypack with a few field guides. I was behind the beach, probing in the edges of a tidal pool that makes its home on the north end of the island. I was enjoying the shorebirds and especially the long-legged waders. Some of my favorite birds—Herons, egrets, ibis.

My new camera (arrived just before we left for this trip) was being put through its paces. I was enjoying photographing the birds. I wasn’t worried about identifying everything in front of me today. I had used the camera enough the past few days to know I could get good enough pictures that I could finalize identifications later, when we were back at my in-laws, sitting in front of the computer reviewing images.

Said in-laws arrived and lunch was had. I decided to walk around the very north end of the island in case anything I hadn’t seen was out in the inlet or the back side of the tip of the island. I experienced the usual questions I do on every beach I bird on.

“What are you looking for?”
“What are you taking pictures of?”
“What kind of birds are you looking for?” and the like.

Unless queried by someone else with binoculars, I understand it is usually just casual curiosity. I reply, but don’t invest too much information because I have learned most people don’t care that much.

Then, after getting some photographs of an immature Little Blue Heron I was making my way back. I started to get some different questions.

“Are you with that group of photographers?”

What group of photographers?

I hadn’t seen any today. A few more similar comments as I came back toward the tidal pool. Then I saw them. These were serious bird photographers. Big camouflage telephoto lenses on sturdy black tripods. Photographers vest and bags. Long pants and hiking boots. I instantly knew something was up. Dunlin do not attract this kind of attention.

I stood back. I watched. I began to figure out where the telephotos converged. I took some pictures on my own of the suspect. I had seen it earlier. I had got some good photos. I hadn’t checked my field guide by my initial impression was Whimbrel. An interesting bird, but not a “second-mortgage for cameras” interest bird. Not for a group of four or five, not all shooting the same bird.

I worked my way toward one of the photographers, not wanting to spook anything, wanting to show proper decorum for the situation. “Okay, so what is it?” I inquired. “Long-billed Curlew. This is one of the few places to find it in the east.” He went back to clicking.

After I took a few more photos I wandered back to our outpost on the beach. I consulted my field guide. “Cool” I thought to myself as I was chided to do my parental duty and take some pictures of the kids before I filled my camera’s memory with birds.

As I reviewed pictures that evening I was very pleased with my photographic efforts. I had got some genuinely good pictures—including the Curlew. I consulted my lists. It was the first time I had seen this bird. That made it a lifer. The first instance of my personal observation of a bird.

And I had pictures. And I had not realized what was happening when I was first wading in the incoming tide taking pictures of this long-billed wonder. Somehow that made it sweeter. It was a longer and more gradual euphoria than seeing a bird I know is a lifer on the spot. It dawned throughout the day, growing and blossoming from, “Cool Florida bird with pictures.” To “Good bird for Florida” to “Lifer.”

The bird itself, of course, did not change. Nor did it care about its status in my mind; as long as the status did not include “dinner” I am sure it was ambivalent about my existence. But such are the categories we use as birders. Arbitrary as they really are in many ways.

I like shorebirds and waders. I like them for many reasons. One is that they like to hang out in areas that make them relatively easy to observe. Beaches, mudflats, shorelines. No neck-craning or tree circling to watch these birds. I also enjoy the fact that, at least for the shorebirds, they tend to hang out in flocks, more often than not mixed flocks. You can see many at once.

Finally, there is just something about the wader working its way through the water, slowly stepping, watching, watching, and then the dart of the head and the grasp of the prey. On some primal level, the long-legged waders’ hunting engages me in a way I cannot fully explain.

Our trips to Florida offer me a chance to see many of these birds. For some Florida is home, for others, like my in-laws, it is an escape from harsher northern weather in the months when temperatures drop and nights are long.

This time, with new camera in hand, it was a chance to try to capture some of these wonders. Pixels and apertures, exposures and focal lengths. The end result being a bird I can look at then at my leisure, back at my desk in my office. On days when they have departed and flown well north of my South Carolina home or when they otherwise stay in Florida.

The list still plays into the game of birds for me. I knew this trip was likely my only one to Florida for the year. That made it significant for both my year list and my Florida year list. There were also chances to increase my Florida state list and, with any luck, my life list.
It is these lists that the curlew rose through, gaining the coveted checks next to, state, year and life in their respective categories. The first entry for Long-billed Curlew. The increase of multiple lists with one bird. It made it special.

As I’ve already alluded however, the bird did not care. And on some level, I don’t either. (Well, I do, but I care on other levels as well.) I have pictures. Memories of a fascinating creature with a bill that I amazed that it does not trip over or break off. A bird with beautiful coloring of browns and black and a cinnamon underbelly. Watching it catch small crabs and somehow manage to work them through the inches of bill until they were consumed. Watching it preen and clean. A picture of it the moment after it shook, as if it had a chill, and all of its feathers were “poofed” looking very much like it had just sneezed.

That, on one level, and I think the most important level, is the joy of birds. Just that they are so very different. So nearly magical when we try to think of them in terms of our comparably clumsy existence. They can take to flight. They are all colored differently, distinctly and beautifully. They take a common set of “bird” characteristics, feathers, wings, beak, legs and feet and employ them in such myriad different ways.

They continue to delight, inspire and amaze. From the awe of a large heron or raptor flying nearby to the golden drops of warblers that appear in the trees. From the common bird coming to the window feeder day after day to the once-in-a-lifetime rarity. Somehow, birds capture my mind and my heart in a way that no other creatures do. And for this reason, I am indebted to the joy they have brought me.