Turkeys!

Tom in full display on the Natchez Trace in Tennessee, 2010.

Turkeys! Love 'em or hate 'em, they're now very much a part of the biota here in New England, and in many other parts of the country as well. As I write on a chilly, 20-something morning the day before Thanksgiving, Turkeys have been a more-or-less constant presence in my yard. A flock of seventeen cruised through early on, making the rounds of my bird feeders, scratching the ground underneath in search of seed that the Chickadees, Juncos, Nuthatches, et al have scattered. They were followed an hour or so later by a group of seven. The second bunch may have found slim pickings, but they're all looking pretty plump these days.

Things weren't always this way, of course. The comeback of Wild Turkeys is one of the big success stories of 20th century wildlife management. I clearly remember when I saw my first one. In the spring and summer of 1972 I worked  for a farm supply company based in Greenfield, MA, driving a small truck applying liquid fertilizer to farms in the region. I covered a lot of ground. One day when I happened to be driving on Route 9 through my hometown in Hampshire County, a large, brown bird came out of the woods on my right and flew across the road right in front of me. After a few nanoseconds of disbelief, I recognized it for what it had to be--a Wild Turkey. Not only was I astonished merely to see one--at that point I'd heard nothing about any restoration programs--but also to see a bird that bulky, flying with such apparent ease well above the surface of the road.

When I told people what I had seen they greeted my story with a combination of skepticism and the sort of pitying looks that let me know they thought I was nuts. No matter...within a few years Turkey sightings in Western Massachusetts had become relatively commonplace. By 1980 the population was deemed healthy enough that the state instituted a spring hunting season.

Nevertheless, it was still something of a treat in the early 1980s to see a few. One summer, probably in 1984 or '85, when I was doing some tractor work in the big field above the barn on the family farm, a small flock of Turkeys appeared in the pasture across the brook that runs through the property. I stopped the tractor, got off, and tried to get a closer look at the birds. Not surprisingly, my approach spooked them; they took off and flew into the neighbor's cornfield. When I clambered over the stone wall between the two fields to look for them I had a major "Aha!" moment, as the meaning of the phrase from the old song,  "He was long gone, like a turkey through the corn," suddenly became abundantly clear to me. I had not a chance of seeing them again!

Although the idea that the Pilgrims and native Wampanoags dined on Wild Turkey at the harvest celebration held in Plymouth in 1621 that has become mythologized as "the first Thanksgiving" is just one element of the extensive body of apocrypha surrounding the event, Turkeys did function as an important food source in the early days of English colonization. So important that our forefathers seem to have done their best to wipe them out through over-hunting. No surprise there. As early as 1672 English traveler and writer John Josselyn wrote that "'tis very rare to meet with a wild Turkie in the woods." By the end of the 18th century Turkeys were all but gone from most parts of Massachusetts and elsewhere in the Northeast. Edward Howe Forbush does not include an entry on them in his Birds of Massachusetts (1925-1929), but gives a comprehensive survey of their history and decline in the section on "Species Extinct or Extirpated," in his 1912 work, A History of the Game Birds, Wild-Fowl and Shore Birds of Massachusetts and Adjacent States (which is my source of the Josselyn quote).

Turkey in the Maine snow.

John James Audubon, writing in the 1830s or 1840s, also speaks of their relative rarity in the Northeast. "In the course of my rambles through Long Island, the State of New York, and the country around the Lakes, I did not meet with a single individual, although I was informed that some exist in those parts....Farther eastward, I do not think they are now to be found." He noted, however, that regions to the south and west, including parts of Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, Ohio, Kentucky, and elsewhere, "are...most abundantly supplied with this magnificent bird."

Audubon's admiration for Turkeys is reflected in the fact that he included not one, but two, renderings of them--one of a female with chicks and one of a Tom--in his Birds of America, the only species that he so honored. He further demonstrated his esteem for the bird by granting his portrait of the Tom pride of place as the first plate in BoA.

 

It is regrettable that because Turkeys were not part of the active avifauna in Massachusetts at the time Forbush wrote his book on birds of the Bay State, we have no painting by Louis Agassiz Fuertes to go along with all the other wonderful ones he did for Forbush's volumes.

Historical inaccuracy notwithstanding, Turkeys are, of course, now an essential part of Americans' Thanksgiving celebrations. I'll no doubt consume my fair share in tomorrow's feast. I'll confess that I've never eaten Wild Turkey; I've heard from various folks who have that it leaves something to be desired. So the Turkeys who hang out in my yard have no need to fear that they might end up in our oven, though these guys are taking no chances:

"Hello, we must be going..."

Birder's Bookshelf 2: Joseph Kastner, "A World of Watchers"

Joseph Kastner, A World of Watchers, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986.

Whereas Kastner's first book, A Species of Eternity, was a broad survey of the development of the study of natural history in North America, A World of Watchers, his second, is a focused look at the history of bird watching.* Chronologically, Watchers picks up more or less where Eternity left off, i.e., in the latter half of the 19th century. Which makes sense. The men whose work was chronicled in the first book laid the broad foundation of knowledge in all the various areas that can be said to comprise the study of natural history. In this book, Kastner writes of the men--and now also some women--who built on this foundation and began to delve deeply into one particular branch of the field, i.e., the study of birds and bird life.

In today's world, bird watching, or birding, is among the most popular forms of outdoor activity. According to one study from 2011, there currently are an estimated 47 million bird watchers over the age of sixteen in the U.S. Birding clubs are numerous; anyone who develops an interest in birds and wants to flock together with similar-minded folks can find a local club without much difficulty.**

Things were not always so, of course. Early avian enthusiasts were, by and large, few and far between, folks who pursued their passion in relative isolation. Kastner tells us (p. 4 and Chapter 3) that the first organized bird club was not established until 1873, when the Nuttall Ornithological Club was founded in Cambridge, Mass. The formal organization was an outgrowth of the activities of two young ornithologists from that city, William Brewster and Henry Henshaw. Other clubs in other areas soon followed, and there was a concomitant growth in the number of bird watchers.

Kastner goes on to provide accounts both of professional ornithologists and amateur enthusiasts who made contributions to the growth of our knowledge about birds. Among the pros to whom Kastner devotes a chapter is one of my personal favorites, Edward Howe Forbush (1858-1929). Forbush was the state ornithologist in his native Massachusetts from 1891 until his death. His magnum opus was the three-volume Birds of Massachusetts, which was published by the Mass. Dept. of Agriculture from 1925-1929.

I mentioned this work in an earlier post, and will write more about Forbush in the future. For now I will just note that Kastner's chapter on Forbush, "A Friend of Bird and Birder," is a marvelous, affectionate portrait of a man who I wish I had known, and had had the opportunity to learn from. Kastner writes: "Going through his volumes is like going along on a long bird walk, getting to know birds through the eyes and ears and feelings of scores of birders--all their perceptions filtered through the mind of one of the finest and most literate ornithologists the country has ever known."

Amen to that. Many's the time I've observed a bird in the field, and noted some particular aspect of its behavior or appearance. Then, upon returning to the house and consulting Forbush, been delighted to find a perfect description of what it was that I had just seen, a description written in prose so lovely that it bordered on the poetic. It was as if he had been looking over my shoulder as I watched and made my own observations.

Apart from his own stellar work, Forbush's Massachusetts volumes are notable for the magnificent paintings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes that illustrate them. Fuertes (1874-1927) was a brilliant artist, the most important bird painter after Audubon, and arguably the best ever. Kastner employs small field sketches by Fuertes as epigraphs at the beginning of each chapter, and includes a special section of color plates with a few samples of Fuertes' paintings. Fuertes' oeuvre was immense; his paintings graced the pages of many other bird books in addition to Forbush's. His story is as much a part of Kastner's narrative as is that of any ornithologist. I intend to devote a future post or two to him. For now I will just include a sample of his work, the small falcons--Kestrel and Merlin--from the Birds of New York, by Elon Howard Eaton.

Kastner writes also of the growth of the conservation movement; of the change from specimen collection to sight records; of numerous eminent pioneer ornithologists such as Elliot Coues, Witmer Stone, Frank Chapman, and Lowell Griscom; of the influential female writers such as Mabel Osgood Wright, Olive Miller, and Neltje Blanchan; and numerous other topics. His own prose is a delight to read. This, coupled with the evident comprehensive research that underlies the writing, makes A World of Watchers a much-valued item on my bookshelves. Like A Species of Eternity, it is also out of print, but copies are easy to come by on the used-book market. Definitely worth looking for.

*Given the importance of various optical devices to birdwatching--note the design of the book's dust jacket--there's probably a bad joke about focusing lurking in there somewhere, but I'll be damned if I can find it.

**Talk about bad jokes...

What kind of birder am I, anyway?

I don't remember a time in my life when I was not interested in birds. I was blessed with having a father who also loved birds, and who encouraged my own curiosity about them. One of my earliest memories of learning about birds is of seeing an unfamiliar one in our back yard one day, showing it to my father, and having him help me find it in a bird book. I was probably about five or six at the time. My parents always put out feeders for the birds so I had long since learned to identify the Chickadees, Nuthatches, Blue Jays, and Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers that hung around the house, but what I saw this day seemed to me to be far more exotic than any of those familiar friends. Of course my father, Francis, knew exactly what it was--a Northern Flicker (though he would not have included the "Northern")--and patiently helped me locate it in one of the few bird books he owned.

This little lesson was important not just because I learned the name of the bird I was seeing, but also because of what it taught me about using books as sources of information. At the time--this would have been c. 1956-57--there were not many bird books in the house. I don't think we even had a copy of the Peterson guide at this point. The bird books that my dad did have were large and bulky. With green covers. The one I remember best was Edward Howe Forbush's Birds of Massachusetts and other New England States, though my dad owned only Volume 3. (He told me once that that was all he could afford.) It was not the Forbush book we looked at to find the picture of the Flicker--that's in Volume 2--but another green-backed tome the name of which I no longer recall. I think it was The Book of Birds, by Gilbert Grosvenor and Alexander Wetmore, published by the National Geographic Society, but I'm not certain of this. [see update below]

In later years I would come to have a great appreciation for Forbush and his writing, especially for his monumental work on Massachusetts birds. Of which I am now the proud owner of a complete set. The magnificent paintings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes that grace this work are also a stunning achievement and another personal favorite in the realm of ornithological literature (broadly speaking). But these are all topics for other days, and other posts.

To get back to my father...he was a farmer who possessed a keen sense of observation and a deep appreciation of the natural world around him. Birds were, of course, a large and integral part of this world. The idea of “going birding”--making a special effort to travel some place just for the sake of seeing something different--would never have occurred to him. Nor would he have taken the time away from the farm to do so. Rather, he enjoyed watching and learning about the birds that he encountered as he went about the business of "farmering,” as he sometimes referred to the way he made his living.

I carried this birds-as-a-part-of-daily-life attitude with me as my own love for and interest in them evolved. There have been times in my life when I've pursued this interest more actively than others, but for the most part I've done so on the fringes of the organized birding community. I was an enthusiastic non-joiner of bird clubs until some musician friends in Tennessee, who are also birders, persuaded me to sign on to the local chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society. Participating in a few seasonal counts with those folks was very eye-opening in terms of a) realizing how much I didn’t know and b) how much I could learn from others who shared my passion.

Upon moving to Maine in 2010 I attended a couple of meetings of the local (York County) Audubon Society and soon found myself drafted to serve on the group's board, ultimately sitting as president. There are some extremely knowledgeable bird people in the area and I enjoyed having the chance to learn from them. I even led a few bird walks myself under the auspices of the group. The association with YCAS came to an abrupt and unhappy end in the Spring of 2013 when I found myself on the receiving end of a vitriolic diatribe launched by one of the long-time members of the board, in a case of what the folks in Hollywood and Nashville call "creative differences." Deciding that I would be happier without the aggravation of trying to lead an organization, I resigned my position and went back to birding at my own pace. And am much happier for it.

So, what kind of birder am I?  I’ve never been much of a lister, and do not enjoy the competitive aspects of birding. I do keep a life list but have no real idea how many species are on it. Somewhere in the vicinity of 300 species, I think. No so very many, I suppose, for someone who is on the north side of 60 and has been interested in birds all his life. I get as excited as anyone when I see something new, but I'm not one to drive hundreds of miles just for the sake of tallying one more species in my personal census.

When I was young and first learning about birds, people who maintained an interest in birds were known as "bird watchers," and the activity was known--sometimes derisively--as "bird-watching." Somewhere along the line, in the early 1970s, I think, as more and more people took up the activity and the nature of the hobby changed, it became known as "birding" and people who took part in it became "birders." This was more than a simple semantic shift, as the nature of the activity changed as well. The emphasis shifted from leisurely observation to tallying numbers of species seen, in something of an avian variation of trainspotting. Though I confess to sometimes getting caught up in the numbers game myself, I'm consciously making more of an effort these days to watch, to observe, to learn, and not just concern myself with ticking off species on a checklist. (And I don't do eBird, though I may, at some point, relent.)

I watch for birds constantly, and often unconsciously, whether at home or out and about. I keep at least mental tabs on the avian activity in our yard and get excited when new visitors join the Usual Suspects. (As I type I'm pleased to see that Juncos have re-appeared for the season.) I love working outside around my house because it affords more opportunities to see what birds are present and active. I make frequent forays to favorite birding spots in the area such as the East Point Sanctuary in Biddeford Pool, Wells Reserve at Laudholm, in Wells, Scarborough Marsh in Scarborough, and various properties owned by the Kennebunk Land Trust. Because I travel back and forth to the Boston area with some degree of regularity I often hit other good locations between there and southern Maine. The Parker River National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island, off Newburyport, Mass., is a favorite destination, as it is for many other birders. I will be writing about ventures to all of these locations in future posts.

I look forward to sharing some of what I see and learn about through this blog--though birds will by no means occupy all my thoughts and space here.

What kind of birder are you?
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Update, March 16, 2017: Yes, it was the Grosvenor/Nat'l Geographic book that my father owned; I have since obtained my own copy. The flicker--called "Yellow-shafted Flicker" in those days (1939)--was painted by Allan Brooks, a fine, Canadian-born painter who completed the plates for Forbush's Birds of Massachusetts after the principal artist, Louis Agassiz Fuertes, was killed in an automobile accident. The image of the Brooks painting of a Flicker is forever etched in my memory: