At the Mic: Tom Leskiw
Tom Leskiw lives outside
Eureka, California with his wife Sue and their dog Zevon. He retired in 2009
following a 31-year career as a hydrologic/biologic technician. His essays,
book and movie reviews have appeared in a variety of journals. His column appears at www.RRAS.org
and his website resides at www.tomleskiw.com
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Saturday, 15 January
2011. 9:15 am. Estero Llano Grande State Park, World Birding Center, Weslaco
Texas. Sue and I once again worked the area where the White-throated Thrush
had been seen yesterday. A light rain was falling, as were my hopes for relocating
this notorious skulker. Rain jacket and pants seemed a bit overkill for this
semi-tropical woodland, but experience had taught me that long hours in damp
clothes, well…they dampen one’s spirits. And I was determined to get this bird,
even if I had to continue my vigil
until darkness fell. I snuck a
glance at another birder who was working the far corner of the open area, when
a birder wearing flip-flops and track shorts burst into the clearing. “I’ve got
the bird!!” he whisper-shouted.
We raced to follow him down the narrow gravel lane that
bounded the preserve. A man and woman stood there—not celebrating, but, rather,
looking sheepish, nonplussed. Then, came perhaps the most-dreaded phrase in a
birder’s lexicon. “It just flew,” they stammered. “Somewhere off to the left.”
“How far?” Flip-Flops wanted to know. “Did you see it fly across the lane?” “I
don’t know. We lost it,” was the reply. So, we started scanning for the bird,
searching high and low in the dense, shadowed woodland. After some time passed,
I figured it would be best to not have all eyes looking in the same general
area, so I made my way slowly back down the lane. “There it is!” said someone.
I moved back to where the throng of birders had assembled. There, wet and
sodden, was my life White-throated Thrush. Flip-Flops—sorry, I’ve forgotten
your name—smiled broadly, winked at me, and spoke. “And just like that!” And
just like that, indeed, I said to myself. Then, aloud: “My
700th bird for the Lower-48 states!”
The birding bug bit me in 1983. At the time I was a
landscape photographer who spent a portion of the winter in desert locations
that included Arizona’s Organ Pipe National Monument. Before I knew it, I’d purchased
a 300mm lens so I could photograph the birds that frequented saguaro “cactus
condos.” However, upon my return to California, I didn’t know any birders, and trying
to see birds in the low-light, dense confines of redwood forests never caught
my fancy. Thus, my interest lay fallow for a time.
Then, in 1987, I read that Gary Lester was leading a field
trip to Elk Head to look for Tufted Puffins. I had entered the wrong date in my
day planner and missed the trip. However, Gary returned to Elk Head with me the
following day, my first inkling into the generosity and sense of sharing within
the birding community. Later that spring, I took his bird field seminar that
was offered through Redwood National Park. Gary, Lauren and their family lived several
blocks from me, so the next several years were frequently punctuated with his impromptu
phone calls. “There’s a male Costa’s Hummingbird on our fuchsia.”… “Black
Swifts are passing over the house again.”… “I’m looking at a Cape May Warbler
in our birch tree right now.”
Following an Audubon Christmas Bird Count (circa 1990), I asked
John Sterling and John Hunter if I could tag along to chase some local
rarities. A year or so went by, and I began to dream about reaching 300 bird
species in Humboldt County. Somewhere along the line, I began to envision that
700 species in the ABA area might be attainable. Later, I began to ponder if it
might be possible to reach 700 in the ABA area without going to Alaska. I have
absolutely nothing against Alaska, somehow, it just never seemed in the cards
to get there.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Throughout this sometimes
crazy, (nearly) quarter-century quest, I’ve tried to focus on the experience
itself, on the goal of learning—as intimately as possible—about this great
country of ours. I saw only one of my ABA area birds in Canada and I’ve still yet
to make it to Alaska. It’s difficult to put into words, but my reason for steering
clear of the “Land of the Midnight Sun” had something to do with loyalty.
Because Alaska’s union with these “united” states is merely a political fluke (Attu
being situated west of the east tip
of Siberia), tallying the birds there seems somehow unfair, contrived. Furthermore,
limiting my search to the Lower 48 allowed me to focus on the amazing
biodiversity to be found here.
I’m reminded of lyrics from Dave Mason’s “Can't Stop
Worrying, Can't Stop Loving”: “A man needs the challenge or a man couldn’t
be.” Not a few times during this past decade, I reconsidered the wisdom of
excluding Alaska from my census area. Maybe it can’t be done, I’d concede. At
least not unless I drop everything and do a Big Year, which wouldn’t exactly
“Play in Peoria,” if you know what I mean.
It’s only human nature to dwell on the one that got away. In
this case, the one that eluded me wasn’t a bird, but, rather, a boy—a potential
birding convert. I was in Texas’s Big Bend National Park, retracing my steps
along the Window Trail, jubilant and basking in the glow of having found my
life Lucifer Hummingbird. A group of boys caught up with me. Elated, they
recounted the incredible view from the Window and how they’d just witnessed a
snake swallowing a frog. One of them pointed to my bins and asked me why I’d
traveled to the canyon. I explained that I’d come in search of a hummingbird,
as the area—at least at the time—was the most-dependable place in all the U.S.
to see it.
As some of the other boys began to sidle off, the
inquisitive one asked what the hummingbird looked like. Quickly, I sized up
their group. Red-faced and sweating, they clutched their empty (pint!) water
bottles. Clearly, the rest of the group wanted to beat the heat, get back to
camp. I considered just how difficult it can be to get someone onto a
hummingbird and how easy it might be to turn a group of tired, hot boys against
birding. Just then, their leaders appeared. “Let’s hit it, guys,” they said. If only there’d been a little more time…
maybe I could have gotten the kid onto the Lucifer.
It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I’ve shared
this journey with many good friends, birding acquaintances, and guides across
the country. I never would have realized this goal without your help. There
isn’t room here to mention you all, but know that you have my thanks.
As I studied the Texas Rare Bird Alerts this winter, I
realized that I lacked a bird-finding guide for the Lone Star State. So, I contacted
my birding compadre, Erika Wilson, who agreed to lend me her brand-new copy of
the ABA guide for the Lower Rio Grande Valley. Paper-clipped to the guide was a
note: “Have a great trip! Keep me posted on all your bird finding as you go.”
In 1992, an event occurred that prompted me to resume
writing after a lengthy sabbatical. Doc Harris, the dean of Humboldt County, California
birding was poised to record his 400th species for the county, the
first to accomplish what was then regarded as an improbable feat. So, I
chronicled the occasion in the Sandpiper,
our local Audubon newsletter, starting contributions to this and other venues
that continue to this day. My writing has improved during the intervening
years. I’ve tackled many subjects, but birds, birding, and bird chases remain
at the core of what inspires me to write. It struck me that Erika’s note applied,
not only to the Texas trip, but also to my writing in general: recording my
experiences in the field—for me, and to share with others.
Looking back, I think of all the out-of-the-way hamlets, urban
parks, wildlife refuges, fish hatcheries, sewage treatment plants, sod farms, migrant
traps, people, islands, and oceans I would never have experienced, were it not
for birds. The images emerge, fade, and are renewed in my cerebral cortex’s own
PowerPoint projector: Black and Brown Noddies, Masked Booby, Sooty Tern, and
Magnificent Frigatebird soaring above the azure waters of the Dry Tortugas. And
later, a Swallow-tailed Kite and Stripe-headed Tanager with Wes Biggs. A
Thick-billed Murre in Humboldt Bay—thanks to a timely call from David Fix. Machias
Seal Island for Atlantic Puffin and Razorbill followed by the Bluenose Ferry to
Nova Scotia for Great Skua and Wilson’s Storm-Petrels with Brian Patteson and
Ned Brinkley.
And solo, a long night trying to sleep upright in a Jeep
Cherokee near the Lesser Prairie-Chicken lek near Campo, Colorado. Ferruginous
Pygmy-Owl with Jeff Gordon in the oak mottes of the King Ranch. Slaty-backed
Gull, courtesy of Rob Fowler and Matt Wachs. Running alongside Guy McCaskie
after hearing the shout that the Fork-tailed Flycatcher had been relocated. White-tailed
Ptarmigan—and Grizz!—at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park with Jude Power. Green
Kingfisher along the San Pedro River and Montezuma Quail and Five-striped
Sparrow in Sawmill and Sycamore Canyons, with Troy Corman.
The adrenal rush of confirming a beyond-improbable, second-hand
report of a White-winged Tern at the Arcata Marsh one sunny Saturday morning. Island
Scrub-Jay on Santa Cruz Island with John Sterling and the rest of the merry
band of “Vagrants.” Great Gray Owl in a Yosemite red fir forest with John
Hunter. Streak-backed Oriole near Tacna, Arizona with Erika Wilson and Elaine
Emeigh. Craveri’s Murrelet and Baird’s beaked whale with Debi Shearwater. No one
could forget the olfactory affront of the Brownsville Dump for Tamaulipas Crow
with Joseph Brooks and Garry George. And a two-fer, the day before #700: a
Crimson-collared Grosbeak amid the restored splendor of Allen Williams’s
backyard in Pharr and the clockwork-like 4:45 pm appearance of the Black-Vented
Oriole at the Bentsen Palm Village RV Resort.
Each phone call, every set of directions I obtained from
folks I might never meet face-to-face reinforced my belief that I’d joined a continent-wide
community. Some of the fond memories center around birding comrades who are no
longer with us. Running into Stuart Keith and Arnold Small while searching for
the Crescent-chested Warbler at the Patagonia sewage treatment plant. Chasing
the Lesser Sand-Plover with Luke Cole while attending a meeting of the Western
Field Ornithologists in Humboldt County. The pilgrimage to Scheelite Canyon on
Fort Huachuca for Mexican Spotted Owl with Smitty (Robert T. Smith). Swapping
stories with Northcoast Environmental Center’s executive director Tim McKay at a
Del Norte CBC compilation.
Yes, 700 stories and more. All tangible, memorable, genuine.
No tepid, pixilated, ersatz excuses for real encounters in real places. If the
legions of those mesmerized by Wii and Xboxes only knew…
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