Birding with Yeats: A Mother's Memoir (11 page)

Amherst was a very sleepy place in January. The hamlet of Stella was deserted. The few cars and pickup trucks that were on the ferry with us dispersed and disappeared. There were no shops or cafés. Even the store with the post office sign seemed to be closed. The school, too, was closed since it was still Christmas break, making the place feel even more like a ghost town.

As we drove across the island, though, we began seeing people here and there. We saw farmers around their barns and the occasional person out for a walk. We saw people walking their dogs and others filling their bird feeders. Everyone waved at us, something we were not used to in the big city. I waved back, gleefully.

Amherst is mostly rolling fields with a few small areas of brush and forest. There are homes and cottages along the shoreline and the one little town of Stella. About four hundred people live year-round on the island and another four hundred or so join them in summer.

For most of the day, ours was the only car in sight. It was lovely. It meant we could drive as slowly as we wanted, keeping a lookout for birds or a good place to stop. It meant I could pull over in an instant and park at the side of the road. We left the car unlocked as we ventured into fields and copses of trees. Despite being the middle of winter, there was only a light layer of snow on the ground and none on the roads.

We turned onto the main road out of Stella. To the left were houses overlooking the lake and to the right were fields bordered by an occasional thicket. Just past the last house Yeats spotted movement in a clump of trees, so we stopped and got out. We saw a northern cardinal and a blue jay along with a whole flock of dark-eyed juncos. We saw these birds in our backyard every day, but it was still worth the stop.

The whole time we’d been investigating these birds we’d been hearing the persistent honking of a lone goose on the lake side of the road. We crossed over to take a look.

The lake was frozen from the shoreline to about
250
metres out. A flock of Canada geese was swimming around, but one poor goose was frozen in the ice. It was this bird that was making all the racket, and we saw instantly that it wasn’t just because it was stuck and uncomfortable. A red fox was slowly advancing on it. The goose struggled and honked, pulled and pulled, trying to get free. Its compatriots kept swimming around. I was thinking they could have flown at the fox, driving it off. I didn’t know why they wouldn’t do that. Maybe this stuck individual was a particularly annoying goose. Maybe they were waiting for the fox to get closer.

The fox sat down and licked a paw. The goose squawked. The fox looked around, stood up, sat back down again. It advanced a bit and sat down again. Maybe it was waiting for the goose to get really tired before it went in for the kill. We decided we didn’t want to see the kill and went back to the warm car.

We drove to the end of the island and turned south, the only way the road went. Someone had planted a huge purple martin house in their garden near the road. We fantasized about seeing purple martins swooping in and tucking themselves into this house. It was the wrong time of year, though. The martins were somewhere down in South America.

We continued down the road until we noticed a little break in a fence and a footpath snaking along the shore. I parked the car again and we took the footpath, hoping it would lead us to the swans.

We were walking in shallow snow and some slush, which didn’t bother me in my winter boots. It didn’t bother Yeats in his running shoes, either, but it bothered me that Yeats’s feet were probably getting wet. Like father, like son. This was an endless source of irritation between us. I cared about his feet way more than he did. If people could see Yeats’s father’s feet, they would understand. I wouldn’t wish Ben’s feet on anyone and neither would he — corns, bunions, in-grown toenails, horrible old sports bruises on his ankles that have never healed. They are a mess. So I feared that Yeats’s cavalier attitude towards his wet, cold feet in winter was the first step towards feet like Ben’s, even with the assurance of friends that this was normal teenaged behaviour. To be fair, Yeats did wear his orthotics religiously. He’d inherited his father’s flat feet (and his hard head).

Waves were crashing on our right and the freezing wind was blowing into our faces, but we were happy to be outside looking for giant white birds. The field was to our left, looking empty and frozen, but Yeats spied something moving and we stopped to look. It was a
snow bunting
. Then it was a whole flock of snow buntings, rising from the snow-dusted field where they’d sat camouflaged. We watched as a couple dozen birds flew and swooped around the field together, their little white wings flashing in the sunlight. It was a magnificent sight and all the better for being unexpected. Over the years this would become an iconic birding moment for us, one we would pull out whenever we were talking about our best sightings or the times that most delighted us.

Snow buntings resemble sparrows in size and shape, and in fact they were once classified as sparrows, but are no longer. Now they are classified with
longspurs
, another family of perching bird. Buntings in winter are white and sandy-coloured. As a flying flock, they appear all white, but they aren’t. The males will leave the relative warmth of these fields in April, about six weeks ahead of the females, and will begin building nests somewhere in the Arctic at temperatures as low as −
30
°C.

Our next stop was inland: Owl Woods. There were no signs, but the map I’d downloaded indicated that the woods were off the first road that bisected the island, heading west. We bumped along that road until we arrived at a bend where two other cars were parked. On one side of the bend was a house and on the other was a trailhead with a signpost of rules. A bit farther on was a board with descriptions of flora and fauna, but nowhere was there a map of how to get to Owl Woods.

We followed the footpath and trusted it would take us there eventually. It led to a scrubby forest full of black-capped chickadees looking for handouts (which we happily supplied in the form of oatcake crumbs), as well as some of our other winter woodland friends — downy woodpeckers, white-breasted nuthatches, a blue jay, juncos.

We came to a clearing and across it was an evergreen forest with little bits of colour here and there — other birders in their down jackets and toques. This was our destination.

We hiked until we found ourselves in a small clearing where the snow was trampled down. I saw a pine tree with wide, spreading limbs and little clusters of needles. In every cluster sat a perfect ball of snow about the size of a toddler’s fist. I couldn’t stop looking at this joyful sight, this tree flooded with sunlight, decorated by nature.

We preferred being still in the woods. We looked up, moved slowly and quietly, searching for owls. We hoped that those other people didn’t come any closer with their loud whispers and crunching feet.

Three owls swooped soundlessly out of the woods. One flew on while the other two doubled back and landed somewhere in the pines, hidden and silent. We stood still again, breath held, sun pouring into the clearing. We waited and I felt my limbs grow loose; I felt my breath relax and my feet planted.

After a couple of minutes I beckoned to Yeats to stay put in the clearing. He nodded and I moved into the trees, quiet as a mouse, only little crunchings of snow and the slidy sound of my nylon jacket brushing a branch. Within fifteen seconds I saw them, high in a tree: two owls. I turned my head back towards the clearing and called, “Yeats, come.” He moved even more quietly than I had; he could be a tracker. He stood beside me and I signalled up with my eyes.

There sat two
long-eared owls
, one facing us and the other sitting right beside the first but facing the opposite direction. We watched through binoculars as, very slowly, this second owl turned its head all the way around to face us too. Two owls staring at us staring at them. We watched each other for fifteen seconds before they flew away. We lowered our binoculars and looked at one another. My wonder was reflected in my son’s face and we both smiled.

The long-eared is a medium-sized owl, about the size of a crow. It’s widespread throughout most of North America at least some of the year, but not commonly seen. It hunts at night — studies have shown that it has supreme hearing and can catch mice in the pitch dark — and stays hidden in the woods during the day. We were lucky to have seen these two. Later that day we saw a snowy owl perched on top of a hydro pole just outside Stella. Yeats saw it as I was driving.

“Stop!” he shouted. “A snowy!”

We climbed out of the car, leaving the doors open, and stood gawping at the bird. We had no need of binoculars, we were so close. It stared at us for twenty seconds then swooped off.

“Listen,” Yeats whispered behind me. The snowy was absolutely soundless; large white wings tipped with grey, flapping as though in a silent movie.

The snowy owl is unmistakable, being the only white owl around. It nests in the Arctic and, though it winters in most of the Canadian provinces and the northern United States, seeing a snowy is not easy. It, too, usually hunts at night, and tends to live in secluded areas. Its preferred food is lemmings, and in years when the lemming population is low, it will migrate as far south as Alabama and Georgia. Seeing a snowy was a heady experience. It filled me with a kind of awe and I wanted it to happen again.

Another favourite moment on Amherst was seeing the bald eagle. This time we only saw the bird in flight, but what a sight it was. We watched until we couldn’t see it any more as it flew out over the fields. Yeats made an audible sigh behind me as he lowered his binoculars. This was a sigh of deep satisfaction. He nodded at me and we got back in the car.

As we drove back to the city, I thought of how priceless moments like these were. They became etched into our memories and didn’t cost us anything except transportation and time. To be standing together in a frosty field, looking up into the sky, marvelling at birds and revelling in the natural world around us, was a simple miracle. And I wondered why we were so rarely able to appreciate it.

SEVEN

YEATS DID A LOT
of birding in a short period of time and I accompanied him when I could. We’d get up on a Saturday morning and Yeats would say, “Can we go to the Brickworks today?” An hour later we were zooming down the Bayview extension and minutes after that, we were slowly walking the pathways over the ponds. We were looking for hawks, hoping for goldfinches.

Or Yeats would have a half-day of school, and we’d hop in the car after lunch and drive to Humber Bay Park or High Park or Sunnybrook Park or Ashbridges Bay. We were lucky to have so many places to go in Toronto. As winter turned to spring, we saw more species — a
northern mockingbird
at Humber, a
spotted sandpiper
at Ashbridges.

Whenever he returned from one of his solitary expeditions, Yeats would list all the birds he’d seen. He listed them in his book and also out loud for me. He brought out his bird guides to show me which birds he’d seen. He talked about their migration routes and where they’d be nesting in the spring and when they’d be leaving to migrate south. He talked on and on and at some point, I tuned out. Well, I didn’t tune out completely, but I didn’t pay as much attention as I thought I should.

The truth was, while I loved going out to see birds, to be alone with him like that, I was not too fanatical about all the details. He could tell me a hundred times where the spotted sandpiper nests in Ontario and I wouldn’t remember the next day. Such a big part of why I loved birdwatching was being in the moment, really
being
in the forest or on the sand spit or sitting overlooking a marsh. The actual bird details I left to the boy. That was just the truth of it.

Later that winter, our datebook was starting to fill with spring publishing events. I had a long list of things to do before mid-March, so I couldn’t go birding as often as I would have liked. Yeats seemed to prefer going on his own, anyway, especially in the rain. And we had a trip coming up that required planning. There were a million things I needed to pick up — duffle bags from a friend, extra memory and batteries for the camera — and I had to speak to our friend Holly, who would be staying in the house to look after the cat. We were going to a place that is every birder’s dream: the Galapagos Islands.

A few weeks into autumn, Laurie had called from Greenwich and said, “What are you guys doing for March break? Because we’re going to the Galapagos, to sail around for a week, and we have three extra spots on the boat. Wanna come?”

It was a Sunday morning and we were having breakfast. I put my hand over the receiver and said to Ben, “It’s Laurie. They’re inviting us to go with them to the Galapagos. Let’s say yes.”

Ben looked stunned. It isn’t every day you get an offer like this. He was caught off guard and said, “Jeepers. Okay. That would be amazing. How can we turn that down?”

I eyed him carefully and said to my sister, “Yes. We’d love to join you. Thanks a lot.” It was decided: we were going on a big trip — Ben included.

IN THE AIRPLANE ON
the way to Ecuador, Yeats asked me which bird I most wanted to see.

I replied, “
Albatross
.” Yeats glared at me because he knew that I knew we wouldn’t be seeing an albatross. It was the wrong season for albatrosses in the Galapagos Islands, something he’d been telling me for the past few months. We’d had a long time to contemplate this voyage.

Ben said he wanted to see the booby, entirely tongue-in-cheek because he knew it was what we expected him to say. Parents are so irritating.

“Okay, then,” I said, “I most want to see something I don’t even know about yet. Otherwise,” I continued, catching Yeats’s stony look, “I want to see the
magnificent frigatebird
with its red throat.”

This was an acceptable answer and, as it turned out, we would see those frigates, lots of them, more than we could ever imagine and up so close we would swear they must be tame.

We were accidental tourists to the Galapagos. This was not a trip we had ever dreamed we’d take. It was my brother-in-law Andy’s trip, planned by him and for his family. But they had those three extra spots on the boat and we were filling them.

The group convened in Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest city, which was located on the coast: very hot, very muggy. For Ben and Yeats, who had never been to a developing country, it was magnificently exciting. The traffic alone, with five lanes accommodating eight lanes of cars, food and drink vendors wending through the vehicles, no visible means of control anywhere, not to mention the apparently life-threatening taxis we took, yielded story after story over many a dinner to come. The mix of colonial architecture with modern; the tired, run-down feeling of most of the city juxtaposed with the incredible energy of the place; the wonderful Malecón — the boardwalk — along the waterfront; the marketplace . . . our trip was off to a memorable start.

We checked out Iguana Park, across from the main cathedral in the centre of town. Land iguanas languished and lolled and then crawled all over one another at feeding time, each trying to out-eat the other. They looked prehistoric, somehow unreal, and I was reminded of a stuffed iguana Mom and Dad had brought home from a trip to Mexico when I was a kid. My brother kept it in his room for years until it started to rot and its claws broke off.

We saw birds we couldn’t identify — beautiful little blue ones that Yeats thought must be some kind of
tanager
— and small
doves
like our mourning dove but with different colouring. We saw
grackles
and a kind of
tropical kingbird
and hummingbirds. There were too many kinds of
hummingbirds in Ecuador
for us to even begin to identify them. In fact, there were too many kinds of birds in Ecuador, period, for us to identify them. I’d looked for a bird book before the trip. The only one available came in two volumes, each one over $
100
and weighing ten pounds. So we’d bought a general guidebook for the Galapagos instead.

From the Malecón we saw three kinds of heron down at the river’s edge:
black-crowned night heron
,
yellow-crowned night heron
, and
striated heron
. The first two we remembered from our faithful Audubon field guide at home, and the third was in our Galapagos book. At first glance I couldn’t see any birds and wondered what Yeats and Ben were talking about. Then my eyes adjusted and I spotted them. The night herons are smaller, more compact, than the familiar great blue. They blended in with the riverbank, but as soon as I saw one, I started to see them all over the place. The birds were poking about in the mud and plant debris while the river rushed by on its way to and from the sea. I could have stood and watched that river all day, except that the weather was far too hot. We bought bottled water and found some shade in a small treed garden where hummingbirds were feeding off a flowered vine covering a rock wall.

All told, sixteen people were on the trip: Laurie, Andy, and their children, Thomas and Lauren; Andy’s oldest brother, Stephen, and his wife Jane; Andy’s sister Barbara, her husband Tom, and their seven-year-old daughter Fiona; Andy’s younger brother David and his wife Meredith; and Andy’s parents, Ron and Barb. And us. Steve and Jane, and David and Meredith each had three children, but they were at home.

We’d known all these Chisholms for years and felt relaxed and welcomed amongst them. The night before the departure to the islands, we went out for a celebratory dinner. All sixteen of us sat at a long, narrow table and made a toast: to Andy, to family, to tropical adventures. Yeats and his cousin Thomas were ecstatic to be travelling together, and I laughed watching them goon around at the table. Lauren and Fiona acted likewise, faces shining. The adults were more circumspect in their emotional displays, but clearly we were a happy bunch.

We flew from sunny Guayaquil to the Galapagos Islands, where it was pouring rain. We met our guide, Jorge, who told us as soon as we were seated on the bus that our boat, the
Alta
, wasn’t ready. He’d take us to a different, more luxurious boat, which would ferry us to the
Alta
after dinner. So far we’d nearly missed our connection to Guayaquil from Bogota due to overbooking; two of our bags (one of ours and one of Jane’s) were lost and returned to us only hours before the flight to the Galapagos; and now this new glitch. Some of us looked at Andy, who just smiled and shook his head.

We liked Jorge, though. The delay wasn’t his fault. He knew his flora and fauna, and he was a professional photographer with an eye for what was interesting. We ended up learning a lot from him.

The
Alta
was a
46
-metre ship with three masts. Most of the time we were under engine power, but from time to time they raised the sails and we flew across the water, dolphins leaping at the bow. That was a good memory.

The sixteen of us slept two per cabin, and there were nine crew, including Jorge. The young girls bunked in together, across the narrow hall from Yeats and Thomas. Both sets of children managed to personalize their cabins within hours of being on board: stuffed animals for the girls and stuff everywhere for the boys. We all settled in pretty quickly and had a good first night on the ship.

Over the course of the week we would cruise from island to island, stopping from time to time to hike or snorkel or play on a beach. We were there in March, so the weather was variable: a little rain every day and a lot sometimes, but only in the afternoons. The currents brought warm water at that time of year, so the swimming was lovely.

The most exciting birds for me were the ones that followed the boat and those that landed high up in the rigging for a ride. These were the storm petrels, the frigate birds, the tropic birds. They had huge wingspans and curved beaks and lived for months at sea. In my romantic imagination they were impossibly free. I sat on the upper deck in the sunshine watching them fly around the masts.

We saw the
red-billed tropic bird
once and the magnificent and
great frigate birds
every day. These birds accompanied us for hours at a time, sometimes flying with the boat and sometimes perched in the rigging. Both species are about
102
centimetres long, which is about the length of a large Canada goose. The tropic bird is white with a red bill and has long white streamers flying off its tail, making it look twice as long as it is. The frigate bird is black; the males have their distinguishing red throats while the females have white breasts. Jorge told us that some of the frigate birds were Greats, because they had a pale wing bar. All frigate birds, he said, spent almost their entire lives at sea, but they rarely, if ever, landed on the water.

Yeats didn’t spend a lot of time on deck. Instead, he passed hour after hour in his cabin with Thomas, where they played cards and a game involving tossing a tissue box up into the porthole. They joined us on all the expeditions and went snorkelling, but when the boat was moving from island to island, sometimes for long stretches at a time, they were downstairs.

I said, “What about joining us on deck? It’s beautiful up here. The breeze is amazing. There are dolphins and frigate birds. We’ve come a long way for this.” What I didn’t say was:
we haven’t come all this way for you to spend so much time in a dark cave.

He said, “It’s too hot. You know I don’t like the heat. It’s March! It’s not supposed to be hot in March! Besides, I thought you wanted me to spend more time with my cousin.”

“You guys are down there with the air conditioning on?”

“Yes.”

I looked at him.

“So?” he said.

“I just think that sometimes it would be nice if you two joined the group. That’s all I’m saying,” I said. “And maybe get some fresh air.”

“We do join the group. Meals. Swimming. Expeditions to the islands. All the evenings with Jorge.”

“Okay, you’re right. You do join the group.”

“And we come upstairs regularly to get cookies.” He grinned at me. Cheeky monkey. They’d found a bottomless bowl of Oreos in the lounge, something none of the other mothers knew about. Maybe it was invisible to people over the age of eighteen.

Ben also spent a lot of solitary time while we were motoring at sea, but he chose the back deck of the
Alta
as his refuge. This was a cramped spot with two wicker armchairs, and he was usually the only person sitting there since it was extremely noisy and smelly from the diesel engine right below. He couldn’t explain to me in language I could understand why he preferred this spot.

The Galapagos Islands is a group of over fifteen islands in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Ecuador. They are bisected by the equator, which we crossed a couple of times as we sailed. The first time, we all crowded onto the ship’s bridge and watched as the navigation instrument moved to
0000
, and then were served a sticky, sweet drink, non-alcoholic for the children and the abstemious. The ritual felt a bit forced to me, contrived just for us Northerners.

The equator is not an arbitrary geographical designation, but it is invisible. It lives in our collective mythology as a romantic destination, although an awful lot of it goes through ocean or uninhabitable terrain. The Galapagos, for example, are barely fit for people. Most of the islands have no fresh water source, nor anything indigenous for people to eat, unless you count the giant tortoises. Not surprisingly, most are uninhabited — and, as a designated
UNESCO
heritage site, they will remain so.