BACK TO THE BEGINNING (5/24/02)

I started out all by myself, and now I've returned to birding alone. It's not that I'm antisocial or don't enjoy the company of other birders, but I've discovered that my pleasure in birding is diminished when others around me are pointing out birds are naming those that they hear.

When I first was smitten with the birding bug, I didn't know another birder. I was embarrassed when neighbors or passersby saw me looking at birds, but I couldn't help myself. My children were in elementary school when this addiction first took hold. I'd see them off on the school bus, then head off immediately, often with my bike on the back of the car, to a nearby lake that was the water supply for the town of Springfield. There was a public dirt road on one side of this reservoir, a workers-only road on the other side.

Each day was one of discovery for me. I'd hear a bird, follow the sound until I could see it, then flip feverishly through the field guide hoping to find a picture that would put a name to my quarry. Once I'd made that match, I found that I'd remember it forever. I built a large store of songs that I could play over in my head as I fell asleep at night. Having discovered that my hearing was better than my eyesight, I depended on my ears to tell me what was around. To this day, that's still the way I bird, even though my hearing isn't what it used to be.

In fact, all my hard-earned birding skills have been in serious decline for some time now. No, they haven't been lost for any physical reason; they are simply rusty from little use. Yes, I know. I go on many out-of-country bird trips every year. Surely, I must be quite a birder. It might seem so to anyone who's not participated in a group birding tour with a leader. Unfortunately, most of the time, as soon as the leader hears a bird, he says what it is and then helps everyone see it. One sees wonderful birds this way, but as I often say, "I don't have to engage my brain at all!"

So, this spring I decided that I was going to return to birding just the way I started -- by going out every possible morning by myself. I'd see what I could; I'd miss birds without ever knowing it or having someone tell me what was around.

I chose a nearby mostly-wooded conservation area that skirts a large lake and has a variety of trails and habitat. I can't remember when I've enjoyed myself more than I did the first morning I went there. A group of 10 bufflehead on the water 1 adult male, 1 adult female and 8 young-looking brown ones -- immediately confused me. I knew these adorable ducks did not nest here but went at least as far north as Quebec for the summer, but it was well into spring now, so what were they doing here? Since I never saw them again, I can only surmise that they were late getting to wherever they needed to be. It wasn?t much of a sighting, and yet I knew I would remember it for a long time and would never look at the lake again without thinking about this family.

I continued walking at a brisk pace until I'd hear a bird call. Sometimes I would have to delve deeply into the recesses of my brain in order to bring forth that particular sound, while other times, I'd know instantly what had arrested my attention. More times than I like to admit, I just plain didn't know what song or call I'd heard.

I'd wait patiently, watching for a movement that would allow me to get it in my binoculars. The first time this happened was on my third day in my new-found birding area. It was seven notes all with the same rhythm and pitch which ruled out the ovenbird that had been at the top of my wish list for the day. I knew a lot of birds the songster was not, and I had narrowed down it to one of two possibilities, both southern birds that were not often encountered in Mass., especially on the Cape. I could tell the bird was close to or on the ground. I did some spishing, a noise many birders make in an attempt to cause a bird to come in for a closer look, or at least to move where its action will help the viewer to find it. I think the spishing sound sounds a lot like the calls chickadees make when they discover an owl or a snake. It results in all the other little birds coming to join in the harassment.

My spishing didn't produce results, so I was forced to leave the trail and pick my way through the briars in order to get closer to the calling individual. It took nearly ten minutes before the singer suddenly dropped down to the ground right in front of me and began picking through the fallen leaves and unfolding foliage. It was an ovenbird, after all, giving a song I?d never heard before. Usually, its distinctive call starts out softly then builds to a ringing crescendo: "teacher, teacher ...." with a strong accent on the second syllable. Well, already I'd learned something! I hoped I wouldn't be fooled again.

Ovenbirds are warblers, most of which seek tall trees rather than the ground. Their nests are said to resemble a small oven with an opening on the side. They have a large white eye ring, heavy streaking on the sides of their breasts and a distinctive orange patch on their crown. It walked around on its pink legs, either unaware or indifferent to my presence.

And so my days continue. Once I followed the call of a red-bellied woodpecker, one of the many southern species that now calls Massachusetts home. Although not considered rare residents any longer, they are still rather few and far between, and I was happy that almost as soon as I heard its call I knew what it was. Other days brought white-eyed vireo and the ringing calls of a Kentucky warbler, although it took me two days before I actually saw the latter.

What lies ahead? I can hardly wait to find out!

OVENBIRD PHOTO BY JOYCE LEARY