Out of a fog

Having been disappointed lately in the quality of my bird hikes at Nelson Lake and everywhere else, I determined to pay greater attention to detail on the morning of September 26, 2009. I've begun to realize it is not the fault of nature that I am not seeing much in the field, but my own. Of course there are quiet mornings without many birds. But even on busy bird days the feeling I've gotten from "getting out" has not been satisfaction. Something else completely, in fact. And that is no one's fault but my own.

As if to compliment my determined focus on the near and present, the preserve was shrouded in fog when I arrived. Now you might think that would be bad news for someone interested in detail. But in this case you would be wrong. Fog closes things down a bit, but the near details are available if you dial in and study.

There were waves of warblers moving through the grasses as I pulled up to the east side parking lot. Palm warblers mostly. Dull shapes in the fog, but yellow and brown with tiny flecks of white on the tail if you looked closely with binoculars. Then a Lincoln's sparrow popped up along the trail. A sedge wren too. A whole flock of swamp sparrows closer to the lake. Song sparrows. A bright, clean, fall plumage yellowthroat. This was a birdy morning.

On the eastern slope the oaks were brimming with warblers. I took my time and identified each at the pace it allowed viewing. There were redstarts, magnolia warblers, Cape May, yellow rumped and chestnut sided.

Other songbirds filled the woods with snippets of spring calls and songs. A rufous-sided towhee kept its vigil: "srrreeee?" it kept asking. There were catbirds, cardinals, blue jays and flickers. Cedar waxwings, robins, grackles and an immature yellow-bellied sapsucker. Now this was fall migration in full force.

A flight of wood ducks ripped through the fog. On the lake there were blue-winged teal, visible in shape and form next to a pile of dabbling mallards. My senses were dialed in now. Another sedge wren called from a pile of prairie scrub next to the trail. It was no more than four feet from me, twitching through the tall bluestem and goldenrod plants.

Something else caught my eye while looking for the wren. An argiope spider clinging to its dewy web next to a prairie dock plant. These spiders grow huge before the frost nips them. This spider was covered in droplets. It would wait for its

web to dry, then eat its fill, I'm sure.

It was quiet along the trail. Very few grasshoppers this year. Some seasons they are thick and annoying, bashing off your pantlegs as you walk along. Twitching about the bushes. This year, none? Where are all the grasshoppers?

The crickets weren't singing, either. That left plenty of space to listen to the chips and pips of warblers fussing each other in the trees.

Then I heard a rumbling noise and a human voice. A black dog came tearing around a swerve in the path, then saw me and tried quickly to stop. Its paws tore into the turf and it slid sideways, surprised to find someone blocking its way. "C'mere, Dixie," the owner called. He had a slow basset in tow as well. I've seen them many times together. They look like a family. Nature evolving one form to match another. Dog and owner. Owner and dog. They moved off through the fog, into some other reality.

I went back to looking at everything I could find up close. Tuning out the world. Birding is good for that. Later that morning I would ride my bike in a race, an entirely inorganic experience. It occurs to me with increasing frequency that one matters more than the other. The birds. The morning. The wet grass. The living in the moment.