The Bittern and the Bush Growler

     In the shadow of the much derided Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Plant lies a delightful freshwater marsh where among the reeds and across the shimmering water, a variety of species lie crouched awaiting intrepid adventurers. As the noble Great Blue Heron [1] (figure 1) strikes its skulking prey among the waving lily pads, other creatures furtively busy themselves with the activities that define their existence. Ever searching for the elusive American Bittern [2], your correspondents stalked these dazzling environs and encountered an array of creatures endemic to the bastion of biodiversity that is Hinsdale, New Hampshire.

     For this joyous occasion I was outfitted, as always, in a permethrin-drenched quasi-military/vocational ensemble of carpenter's pants and tactical polyester [3]. My lovely wife Eloise [4] was a bespectacled vision in denim and chambray [5] and sported a charming floppy felt hat against the relentless sun. The sheer visual impact caused by the gestalt totality of our collective appearance has been known to stun our subjects into petit-mal seizures which are mercifully permissive of our fumbling attempts at wildlife photography (figure 2). 

     Low-crawling for maximum stealth, we rounded a reedy corner and came face to face with one of the region's aboriginal inhabitants. The specimen we encountered was a taxonomical puzzle worthy of Linneaus himself. Homo sapiens hinsdaleii appeared before us in breeding plumage. This particular individual, no doubt motivated by the blistering 67 degree heat, had elected to forgo the modern societal convention of a shirt. Several poorly rendered tattoos told the story his life in a language most easily understood by police officers. While we had no difficultly communicating in the lingua-franca of English, there were several regional variations in dialect which have since kept me from the restorative sleep that I so richly deserve.  Most troubling of all, the individual carried, as a sort of totem, a complex DSLR mounted on a very professional-looking tripod [6]. Having satisfied the need for the customary exchange of mundane pleasantries, we bid the specimen farewell, leaving him to complete whatever atavistic rituals he so clearly had intended on conducting in the privacy afforded by this remote location.

     For a time we entertained ourselves by drinking-in the captivating behavior of a pair of nesting Osprey which had established a home made of kindling atop an extremely high-voltage transmission tower. The nest can be faintly seen as a small square platform on the upper-right-most arm of the left-hand tower depicted in figure 3 but is more readily enjoyed through high magnification optics as can be seen in figure 4. Shortly after ostentatiously taking the photograph which became figure 3, I was stricken by a bout of paranoia and became fearful of swift and ruthless interrogation at the hands of Homeland Security. A fate even more terrible awaited us.

     As our trek wore on we grew weary of the baking sun and intrusive breeze. It became clear that no Bittern would that day deign to reveal his full glory but instead would remain hidden from prying eyes in the cattails and rushes of this magnificent landscape. We sallied forth to explore the so-called "rail trail" running parallel to the majestic Connecticut river in hopes of finding flocks of rare warblers. It was on this trail that we encountered a beast so ferocious, the mere mention of it causes the frail of constitution to bare-handedly rend their clothing in Lovecraftian terror [7]. While innocently viewing the antics of a capricious trio of American Redstart [8], a wave of grinding dread radiated nauseatingly through your correspondents' respective viscera. 

     At this point it may be instructive to briefly review the curriculum-vitae of brave and daring Eloise. In her early twenties and after enduring the horrendous side-effects of serious anti-malarial drugs, lovely Eloise embarked for the steamy jungles of Belize. There, she worked tirelessly to assist impoverished people in protecting their beautiful and stunning natural environment- the sole remaining economic engine in a land ravaged by unrestrained greed and profligate exploitation of resources. While engaged in this noble work she persevered through obscene levels of heat, humidity, and the relentless onslaught of vicious and vindictive predatory insects. She survived dehydration, accidental poisoning, and was nearly drowned [9]. Upon the completion of her task she triumphantly returned to her homeland and in a most resilient fashion, undertook employment wrangling aggressive vipers. This is not someone who is in any way squeamish around wildlife [10].

     So there we were, giddily ogling tiny birds when, like lightening, the beast struck. A rustling sound erupted from the tangled scrub near our feet. Eloise startled, yelped weakly, and clawed at my flanks in a way that- combined with the brush-rustling- scared the living shit out of me. I recoiled from the deadly edge of the trail, screaming like a poorly domesticated child. The following terse conversation ensued: 

Mike: What the fuck was that!?

Eloise: I don't know...

Mike: Bush Growler [11]?

Eloise: Bush Growler.

     As the dust cleared from our pas-de-deux of juvenile terror, the creator of the noise revealed itself to be an Eastern Cottontail rabbit [12]. This innocent inhabitant of many a comforting children's story was so reproachful of our behavior that it scampered merrily off into the woods with such alacrity as to deny us the opportunity to photograph it. At this point, your fearless correspondents elected to take this episode as a "sign" that it was time to attend to other, non-bird related, activities of the day's itinerary.
     Later that evening, we set off for sublime Keene, New Hampshire [13] to have dinner with our dear friends Elaina and Jed [14]. Time allowed for only a quick stop at a primo birding location known locally as Krif Road. After puzzling momentarily at a rather discouraging locked gate, we were able to enter the fields and woodlots attendant to Keene State's athletic complex through an inviting and well worn trail, hot on the heels of a shirtless jogging fratboy [15]. Various species of jolly passerines frolicked energetically through the burgeoning "pollinator habitat" planted adjacent to the road. Our time growing short, Eloise commented that one is most likely to see an interesting bird on the way back to the car. Like many things sought in earnest, it is often when you stop looking that something remarkable appears. As we neared the aforementioned locked gate- this time from the inside- I noticed an approximately robin-sized bird with a gloriously long tail alight on a distant tree branch. Quick work with the binos revealed this specimen as a Black-billed Cuckoo [16]! Lacking an actual camera, I was able to capture the blurry image which appears here as figure 5 through the time-tested process of "digiscoping" [17].
     On our way to Elaina and Jed's we reflected on the events of the day. While the American Bittern eluded us yet again, we were not deprived of the emotional peaks and valleys that make for a truly rip-snorting day of quality birding. We were reminded that this activity is a journey and not merely a destination. If you want to get face-to-face with an exotic bird without very much effort, go to a zoo like the rest of the suckers. Eloise and I are content to take our chances with the hostile natives and bush growlers that differentiate the active process of birding from the passive pastime of bird-watching.

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Notes:

1. Official mascot of Angry Birding (TM, all rights reserved).

2. Botaurus lentiginosus; a well-camouflaged heron which emits a simultaneously hilarious and terrifying "gahLUMP" sound at improbable volume- a sound one would imagine a bullfrog native to Dante's Third Circle of Hell (Gluttony) would routinely make.

3. Dress for the job you want.

4. Pseudonym reluctantly ratified by said lovely wife.

5. Otherwise known as the "Canadian Tuxedo".

6. No doubt, he had taken a wrong turn on his way to the pawn shop [a].

          a. Alternately, the camera and tripod could be seen as evidence that this individual was, despite his rough appearance, a fellow wildlife enthusiast; a brother traveler in our mysterious universe; cut from the very same cosmic cloth; possessed of the same hopes, dreams, desires, strengths and weaknesses; subject to the same vicissitudes of pleasure and pain, gain and loss, praise and blame, fame and disrepute; born from the same causes and conditions and destined for the same uncertain finality; worthy of our respect. Or he could have been there to take creep-shots of girls in kayaks.

7. Woe to you, mankind.

8. Setophaga ruticilla, a brightly colored and spritely warbler whose nesting behavior reads like a divorce settlement.

9. Attempting to retrieve a very fetching hat from a swirling hell-vortex in the rageful Mopan river.

10. All of this is essentially true.

11. Bush Growler noun,  /bo͝oSH/ /ˈɡroulər/ mythology, 1: An opaquely described yet horrifying monster said to terrorize late-1950s elementary school children who entered the grounds of an abandoned sanitarium by crossing the bridge over the Hackensack River in New Jersey. 2: colloquial, Any immediately unidentifiable noise heard in the wilderness.

12. Also known as a "bunny rabbit". Exceedingly cute.
13. Proud home of the "Pumpkin Fest" riot.
14. Pseudonyms pending approval. 
15. ABA Code of Birding Ethics section 2, subsection A: "Do not enter private property without the owner's explicit permission". 
16. Coccyzus erythropthalmus; a regal bird of exquisite patience who waits motionless for blundering caterpillars and other witless prey to enter its deadly area of effect. Much more often heard than seen.
17. i.e, holding your phone up to a spotting scope or pair of binoculars like an asshole and praying you get a serviceable image.

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Figure 5

Of Tadpoles And Gall Mites

     Lured by tales of Red-throated Loons, we ventured forth to Herrick's Cove in beautiful Rockingham, Vermont. After several laps around the dirt track which proceeds from one bucolic picnic area to another [1], we elected to park and set out on foot. Predictably, I was almost immediately wronged [2] by several bovine intellects who had the temerity to pilot their kayak-laden family fun wagons on intercept-courses to where I was futilely attempting to locate untold numbers of rare species amongst the quivering leaves of proud catalpas and maples. Undaunted but not unfazed, I was stopped in my tracks by an unfamiliar bird call. A sort of trilled quirk issued three times in quick succession from the tree tops on the far side of the road [3]. Deft manipulation of my binocular's focus wheel brought a Great-crested Flycatcher [4] into sharp relief. The bird quickly retreated into the canopy and we continued on our way.
     Herrick's Cove is a small marshy peninsula in the estuary of the Williams River and the mighty Connecticut. To your average barbecuing, sun-bathing, frisbee tosser, it's a shaded grassy wonderland of American summer afternoon r&r. We had received well-substantiated reports [5] that among a general abundance of bird species, several rare birds could be found. Your correspondent is sad to report that we were unable [6] to realize the full promise of this location [7]. Stepping gingerly down runoff cutouts and other wooded paths to the marsh's edge, we were able to see many of the typical denizens of this type of environment [8]. What initially presented as a beaver nosing gracefully through the murky shallows, in fact, turned out to be an enormous snapping turtle with an incredibly long and prehistoric looking tail. Unwilling to submit to paparazzi-esque attempts at candid photography, this beast melted from view to chase its hapless prey in the muck of the marsh's bottom [9]. Said prey undoubtedly being the parents of the profusion of tadpoles pictured below in figure 1.
     We spent another hour between glassing the open marsh and the wooded roadside. Chestnut-sided Warblers cavorted precociously, landing tentatively on branches and vines and waiting patiently to be in the frame of a focused camera before flitting away as the shutter closes [10]. A Brown Thrasher plied his dusty trade in the road before us only to be frightened off by the approach of a mid 90s Buick Century. Operating this craft was a late-middle-aged gentleman with pasty hair and Jeffrey Dahmer glasses who was blasting what I can only describe as "ice cream truck" music at high volume as he completed his fourth lap around Herrick's Cove's circuitous road. While it would be fair to be concerned that this individual was some kind of child predator, it could also be posited that this was simply a retired man out for a Sunday [11] drive, windows rolled down against the heat in the A/C-less cabin of his Elks Club mobile [12], and playing his favorite soothing musical intonations at deafening volume in hopes of overpowering the limitations of grave hearing loss. We may never know.
    We will undoubtedly return to Herrick's Cove at a time of day more conducive to well-planned birding. Despite my juvenile reactions to the necessity of my coexistence with other humans, this trip was by no means a loss. The Great-crested Flycatcher was a bird I had never seen before [13]. Just as the words of Alice Walker echoed through my thoughts- "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it"- my eye was drawn to the color pink where it had no business being. Stuck like Nerds candies to a maple leaf was something else I had never seen before. After exhausting the Audubon field guide to mushrooms and fungus, I resorted to a simple Google search to identify what turns out to be Maple Gall mites (figure 2). These delicious looking nubules are actually microscopic mites that irritate the plant in such a way that it produces an ostentatious cocoon which protects the mite from the rest of the outside world. Reflecting on the poetry in this [14], I recommitted myself  to avoiding angry and self-centered mental states. I was doing pretty well until we started driving again.
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Notes:

1. Narrowly dodging sugar-fueled, Evel Knievel impersonating children throughout.
2. My wife quite rightly points out the irony in my frequent perceptions of being "wronged" by people merely conducting the commonplace business of daily life when such business necessarily shares the same space I am occupying. This is a common trait among alcoholics. I do poorly in a grocery store.
3. ...that I was standing in the middle of. See note 2, supra.
4. Positively identified only after consulting the field guide. I am still, and will likely for some time remain a rank amateur.
5. Rare bird alerts. It's a thing.
6. In this brief and poorly planned trip...
7. Which is almost certainly not to be had smack-dab in the middle of a very bright, sunny, and windy day after the intensity of the spring migration has subsided.
8. The ever-present and highly regarded Great Blue Heron, Mallards, Canada Geese, Red-winged Blackbirds in their cackling legions, etc, etc.
9. In retrospect, it may have taken offense to my loudly exclaiming "Holy shit! Look at the size of that turtle!".
10. Or opens for 1/250th of a second and then closes. However that works.
11. Saturday.
12. No offense.
13. A "life bird" in birding parlance- as common as this bird is.
14. i.e., irritating behavior as a defense mechanism to insulate one from one's environment.

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Figure 2