Just Words

All I can amount to for now is words. Except for this…

Fall 2023 I had my first MRI, in my case an MRI of my brain. I thought it was a bit of an extreme action to address my infrequent but severe morning headaches. I rolled with it anyway following the advice of my primary care provider.

To say I was surprised to read I had a brain tumor was an understatement. 

Fast forward to January of this year. I scrambled to draw up some sort of will and asked my S.O. to smother me with a pillow if any life altering disability resulted from my surgery. 

January 16th came and went. I underwent a craniotomy. My brain was sliced open behind my right eye, tumor removed, and my temporalis muscle stitched back so tightly that as of this writing I still struggle with opening my mouth to eat. (Sorry boys, but you all know what is not on the docket for eternity.) 

I returned home post op day two, “gorked out” on pain medications and overcome with fatigue. 

SLEEP. 

And that is what I did… A LOT. 

I "recovered" at home for six weeks. 

Fearful of losing my sight and visual attention to detail, I turned to art. Re-honing my visuospatial skills that had been lying dormant long before my surgery. I birded some, gradually hiked some. 

I slept A LOT. 

I had a reckoning with who gave a fuck and who did not. 

The risks of my surgery were immense. Death at the top of list. 

I pondered about those who wished for my demise: my sister and so on... I realized my niece and nephew who I adored and spoiled with love throughout their entire childhood, the spawn of my sister, could not have given even half of a fuck if I died. Not a word from them even though my mother shared my situation with my sister against my wishes. 

I have accepted, like others in my life who have betrayed my devotion, that they are now dead to me. Life is short. I am moving on. 

I mostly cherished the great and small acts of those who cared. Gourmet chocolates and cards from casual birding friends, co-workers and such; orchids and plants from distant and dear acquaintances, the many meals prepared and delivered by Shawn, and the love and gratitude of my young nephews. The love of few is plenty. It is sustaining. 

During my down time, I became consumed with my orchids. They had long been neglected, dying, dead. Some remarkably thrived under years of minimal care. I continue right my wrongs against these beauties. 

I bird some. But it seems to have taken a back seat to my orchids. I have chased a few birds. But mostly, I simply open my senses to the moment, to my surroundings, not the dips, agenda and lists.  I simply do not have the energy. 

I am more irritable now and less inclined to hold my tongue. This is possibly a side effect of the anti-seizure medication. Or perhaps when faced with my mortality, I have simply grown more impatient with the bullshit. I have zero time for passive-aggressive conflict avoidance. I will call out injustice and battle to a figurative death on such matters. 

I am so tired of entitled egocentric people in all walks of life especially the inconsiderate free-roaming pet owners. I am at war with my neighborhood and beyond on this matter. 

Life is short and perhaps I should not waste my time on such matters. But why should we, the people whose enjoyment of nature is being infringed upon, stand idly by while domestic animals roam freely, consume resources, contribute to the decline of native species, spread disease through their feces and invade our private yards and public spaces. The irresponsibility of pet owners is ALARMING.

Our society has lost its empathy and ability to consider the perspectives and experiences of others. 

So here I am. ALIVE. Back to working. Functioning with a literally numb skull. 

I prepared to die, but I am still alive. 

Lessons of May (Censored)

Black-throated Blue Warbler, Marshall Park, Dane Co, WI May2023

May, the month of hope and great anticipation

Rushing in like heroin filling my veins

or so it once was... 

the highs of mid-month
were supplanted 

by insult, abuse, and Death...

Birding among the masses

transformed beauty 

into a malignancy

the less-than-zero

Came barreling at me with its cancer

And when I turned to the 19th,

May brought more Death

crashing in on my dear Siobhan.

With Dee already gone

then there was one,

the Monkey in the middle 

I was looking toward June

for our reunion

which never arrived 

because Cancer got there first

But it did not steal 

My one last truth

because Siobhan

with her soft lips 

understood she was my dear love

And in the shadow of Cancer were cautionary tales of

places I never need to go again.

Whispers nudging me to change course

Alter focus.

Grieve for my fragmented collective memory

Redirect.

Join the butterflies dancing on the wing,

nectaring upon the spring ephemerals.

The orchid, Calypso, beckons me to play hide and seek

In and among her petioles 

to find the cover and solace I seek

and to never encounter the monster again

Verdigris Magic

My days have centered around agendas, tasks, gardening, constant gardening, projects, fixing, rescuing...

Letting go of responsibilities and relaxing has grown increasingly more difficult in recent months. However, a couple days ago I abandoned my never-ending of list of to-dos that spiral around in my brain in lieu of short car ride to see if I could spot a Juniper Hairstreak in western Dane County. 

Timing is everything amidst the losing and stealing. Thus, being right on time can be damn magical.

As luck (and a little experience) would have it, my eyes were graced with a single fine green and copper specimen. The green butterflies are among my favorite with Juniper Hairstreak currently at the top of its class. Nature certainly chose a divine and complimentary palate for this one! What's not to love?!

2022 In Three Words: Part 2 of 2

DEATH. REGRET. REFLECTION. 

Perhaps the dying part was the easiest to bear of three. The never-ending reflection and regret seem a penance to bear for a lifetime… or so it feels like it anyway.

My twelve years of private catholic schooling prepared me well for the stages of grief. It seems that was an important lesson my Catholic high school wished to impart on its students. Or perhaps it was an artifact of having a high school religion teacher who was also a death and dying counselor. I should know the seven stages of grief by memory. They were drilled into me. And as life unfolded, I became intimate with the stages of grief. Death and dying both literally and figuratively. Failed relationships, tragic deaths, expected deaths have taught me lessons upon lessons in resilience leading up to my recent YEAR OF HELL.

Nothing in life prepared me for coping with the GREED brought on by the loss of a parent. Those sibling squabbles are real and unfathomably painful. “That won’t happen with us.” THINK AGAIN. GREED is ever powerful. It has transformed grieving into a dark web of pure hell.

I could elaborate on the minutia of my situation, but it would be a rabbit hole of mind-numbing blackness I would rather not relive.

Suffice to say, months beyond the loss of Dad, I continue to cope with ongoing guilt and recurring musings, “Did we give up too soon? Was Dad rebounding, regaining physical functions but too aphasic to tell us? Should we have done more?” But even more so, I am mired in dealing with a greedy manipulative sister who competes with me for the affections and trust of my mother. Meanwhile she relentlessly works in the shadows, pedaling her false narratives that cast me as some villain. She is thoughtless and egocentric. She thinks nothing of dropping irrational bombs on my mother at the slightest whim of her misguided emotions. She wishes to render my mother a helpless grieving widow that she can manipulate through veiled caring gestures. 

I. AM. SICKENED. 

I want to walk away. Preserve myself and my sanity. Things are things and I could not give one fuck. I have my memories, stacks of them, especially over the past decade. I ever-increasingly made time for my parents knowing that my time with them was finite and rapidly shrinking. I was the one who regularly made trips to both the northern and southern borders of the United States to be with and be there for my parents. 

My sister has only shown up now with her fear of missing out on possessions. Now that Dad is out of the way, she has arrived to take, meddle and manipulate.

Therefore, I cannot walk away. I cannot ignore injustice. Such HOLLOW intentions shall not prevail. Over my father’s dead body, I will fight to protect his legacy from my sister’s self-serving intentions. 

As much as my sister lies dead to me, her existence and torment remains alive through my relationship with Mom. It is frustrating to realize that though life has taught me well how to execute heartbreakers in my mind, I cannot shake this family anchor that may very well drown me.

So THIS is my life after death. 

My bedtime grows later and later. One then two, now three a.m. 

Alcohol. I try to temper my analgesic indulgences. 

Every day I flash back to watching Dad die in that hospital room. EVERY. DAY. 

I think back to the disagreements I had with dad before his death, the moments where I could tell Dad believed I was stealing his independence. I did apologize. I never stopped telling him I loved him. I hope he felt that. I hope he knew.

The Yin and Yang of love sure is a bitch.

April 2023

I ushered in April with a nasty fall on the rocks at the Pheasant Branch creek corridor. I injured the entire right side of my body and both knees resulting in extensive bruising, scrapes and bleeding. It seems I often have some type of fall or illness in April, right before the pinnacle of birding each year. Grace has never been my strong suit...but it was my nickname dubbed by my dad. I have been accident-prone since my first year of life when I took a tumble down our basement stairs.

Big Brown Bat, Pheasant Branch, Dane Co, WI 

Despite my fall that day, I was fortunate, as I often am in early April, to find bats flying through the creek corridor. This latest experience probably tops all others! I am told these are likely Big Brown Bats which are listed as threatened in Wisconsin. 

Mid-April, I traveled down to the Lower Rio Grande Valley to continue settling my late father's affairs. I also returned to continue my work on planting natives in my mother's yard and to continue to help her de-clutter her place. Of course, I managed to squeeze in some birding and butterfly time.  

Mexican Bluewing, National Butterfly Center, Hidalgo Co, TX 12Apr23

Spring is definitely slower for butterflies in the LRGV. However, a slow butterfly day in far south Texas still beats most butterflying I have done in Wisconsin. I managed to find a Ruby-spotted Swallowtail at the National Butterfly Center. Apparently, this species has not been seen at this location in four years. I have only observed this species once before. So, it was a treat to see a Ruby-spotted again. Even better, I managed to find a rare butterfly on my own!

On the birding front, I focused my trip to Texas on three objectives: 1) Visit Santa Margarita Ranch for Brown Jay and Red-billed Pigeon 2) Take in some of migration at South Padre Island. 3) Catch up with the Elf Owl at Bentsen State Park. 

Elf Owl, Bentsen Rio Grande Valley State Park, Hidalgo Co, TX 14April2019

While the third objective, the Elf Owl was a total bust, I made good on the others. Sadly, after an eight-year stint nesting in the power pole at Bentsen State Park, the nest hole was confirmed to have been taken over by a Golden-fronted Woodpecker. According to Bentsen Park naturalist extraordinaire, Roy Rodriquez, this meant only one thing, something grave happened to the female of this Elf Owl pair be it predation or something else. 

On a more positive note, after a multi-year hiatus for this species in the United States, a family group of Brown Jays was discovered in Starr County, Texas earlier this spring. Possibly more than one group??? 

 

Brown Jay, Santa Margarita Ranch, Starr Co, TX 

Though I have seen this species twice before, once in Starr County, TX and once in Zapata, I took the opportunity to take a guided tour to Santa Margarita Ranch to behold this drab yet dazzling corvid. 

Townsend's Warbler, South Padre Island, TX 17April23

Also, while in Texas, we made the trip to South Padre Island for two days to behold early spring migration. 

 

Blue Grosbeak with Indigo Bunting, South padre Island, TX 17April23

This was my first trip to South Padre without Dad. His eccentricities and commentary were noticeably lacking. The sense of his absence was immense.

 

Western Tanager, South Padre Island 17April23 

Having witnessed minor fallout conditions twice before at South Padre, the trip this time was underwhelming in comparison. It was not the same as before on all fronts. Birding was OK. Pier 19, Dad's favorite restaurant on the island had succumbed to fire and the ocean. And Dad was gone too. 

Yellow-billed Cuckoo, South Padre Island, 17April23

However, do not mistake my birding comment as some sort of complaint. Even without a fallout, watching birds on South Padre Island during spring migration remains rather face-melting. 

  

Least Tern, South Padre Island, 

I returned to Wisconsin for the remaining ten days of April. Fortunately, I had dodged missing any rare birds. I was mostly concerned with Dane County and my 7.5 mile radius birding patch. I worried my trip to Texas would cost me Louisiana Waterthrush, possibly Pine Warbler and perhaps some less common wading birds. 

None to worry though, the birding gods handily rewarded me in one fell swoop. My friend, Andrew had found a Yellow-throated Warbler at Pheasant Branch April .  Though the chase that day was unsuccessful, the following morning the bird was refound at a different section of the corridor, near the same bridge where a yellow-throated warbler was found last year. Same bird?

Yellow-throated Warbler, Pheasant Branch, Dane Co, WI 

Yellow-throated Warbler and Summer Tanager, Pheasant Branch, Dane Co, WI 

So, I hustled to the creek corridor with my 6-year-old nephew in tow. Not only did we see the Yellow-throated warbler, but a Summer Tanager flew in, landing in a shrub about five feet away while we observed the warbler! 

Even better, when Dylan and I headed west down the path, I saw, then heard a Louisiana Waterthrush. 

It was a brisk almost winter-like day, so the birds were down low, including a couple of Pine warblers. 

And just like that my angst about missing certain early spring migrants due to my Texas trip was assuaged. 

The final days of April continued to gain excitement between state rarities and local Dane County rarities. 

Painted Redstart, Spring Green Preserve, Sauk Co, WI 25Apr23

In nearby Sauk County, a Painted Redstart was found by Ashley Olah on April 23rd. I caught up with the bird a couple days later...I also enjoyed the spontaneous reunion with old birding friends. 

The following day, a Dane County Loggerhead Shrike was confirmed by Gail Smith. What a great reward for someone who volunteers her time with various bird conservation projects. Apparently, she discovered the bird while tending to her bluebird boxes in the nearby area.  

Loggerhead Shrike, Dane Co, 26April23

Later that day, a migrating American Bittern was found using Strickers Pond as a stop-over. Word quickly spread about its appearance, and many enjoyed seeing this usually secretive species.

American Bittern, Strickers Pond, Dane Co, WI 26April23

April 28th, a Eurasian Wigeon was sighted on the Yahara River at Cherokee Marsh. I attempted to see it the following morning. In typical fashion, I missed it by minutes when the ducks spooked due to Bald Eagles in the area. 

Later that day, it was refound on the north side of the Yahara. I made the slog through the deep, wet cattail marsh to eventually catch up with this duck. This was a Dane County lifer for me and by far the hardest I have worked for a bird in a long time. The guys who left the area before me, both sank down to their knees and needed to help each other get to higher ground. I was solo and took great care not to end up in a sinking situation with no help in sight. 

American Wigeon, Yahara River, Dane Co, WI 28April23

And finally, on April 29, a Flame-colored Tanager, was found in Milwaukee County at Sheridan Park. Its presence is considered a big deal among many birders since this Wisconsin record is the only record outside of the limited records in Arizona and Texas. This bird is considered an American Birding Association (ABA) Code 4 species. To put this in perspective, Code 6 birds are those that are considered extinct. Code 5 are those species for which five or fewer records exist in the ABA area. Code 4 birds include birds observed six or more times in the ABA area but not annually. 

This was not a lifer. However, the last time I saw this species was over fifteen years ago. It was a stunning male at Madera Canyon during my first trip to Arizona. The Wisconsin bird was a female. Since I was working in nearby Brookfield the day after it was reported, I stopped atop the bluff to be dazzled by this beauty. 

I was fortunate enough that the bird was being seen at eye level upon arrival. I had heard others made multiple attempts and searched for several hours for a look at her. 

The chill and rain may have felt more like winter on April's final day, but the birds utilizing the Michigan lakeshore told of different story. The warblers, vireos and kinglets were surely hinting of spring migration getting underway. 

April 2023 Fun Facts

• Patch Lifers: Loggerhead Shrike, Brewer's Blackbird
• Wisconsin Lifers: Painted Redstart, Flame-colored Tanager
• Total ABA Area Species Observed for April: 270
• Total Wisconsin Species Observed for April: 137
• 2023 7.5 Mile Radius Birding Patch as of April 30: 150
• 2023 Total Species Observed in Dane County as of April 30: 206

2022 in Three Words: Part I

As I perused the internet on New Year’s Eve, I read many nostalgic and hopeful posts about the year soon to be behind us and the year ahead. The headline “2022 in Three Words” stuck with me and sent my thoughts spiraling into unsettling yet familiar contemplations  Three words: Death. Reflection. Regret. 

As 2022 was slipping away I eventually found my way into a tearful slumber with mixed emotions about leaving the year behind. It was the year I shared my last memories with my dad. The last year we shared in a Rio Grande Valley Bird chase. The last year we visited the National Butterfly Center together. But most gravely, the year I spent three days in a hospital room watching life slip from Dad’s feeble body following the removal of life support on the heels of a massive stroke…

Snowy Plover excursion with Dad, La Sal del Rey, Hidalgo Co, TX 5Feb2022

This whole passage-of-time-business associated with the New Year seems rather arbitrary and symbolic…a symbol system to measure time by seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, centuries and so on. We mark the ending and beginning. And then what?

I woke in 2023 feeling just as sad as 2022, just as unsettled and just as haunted as the day before.

Rewind to early July…

After a couple months of my dad insisting he was driving north this year to Michigan with or without my help, I agreed to fly to Texas to drive my mom and him from the Lower Rio Grande Valley to Wisconsin and then onward to “the Cabin” in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I had hoped my parents would not insist on returning to their prior Michigan home that was now owned by my cruel sister. But dad had his sights on returning. 

I had closed the door on that place and its memories during the Fall of 2021 after a series of family breakdowns and the maltreatment of my parents surrounding their agreement with my sister about them living there during the summer months. Yet here we were poised in July to return. (REGRET).

July 13th we arrived at “the Cabin” with little light remaining to open up. A disagreement about the plan of action leading up to our arriving resulted in Dad exclaiming, “Why are you being such a bitch?!” because I went against his suggestion for the order of our stops in town. My decision was logical, avoided back-tracking and the wasting of precious daylight. Dad had insisted on a different order. Calling me a bitch was highly uncharacteristic for him. My 20/20 hindsight tells me now this episode was one of the many foreshadowing events leading to his death. Clues. Warning signs I missed. (REFLECTION. REGRET).

Dad and I spent the following day, July 14,  getting the water and generator running. This day, as many others during the month of July, was shadowed by Dad perseverating on his grievances surrounding how my sister and her spouse had treated him the preceding fall. Coming back to the cabin bore those wounds re-opened. As much as I wanted for this migration of sorts to be a happy time for my parents, the family drama of 2021 painted everything black…

Dad’s hand turning on the water

July 15th, Peter, my nephews and their mother arrived for a long weekend spent enjoying the treasures of the Pike Lake cabin and the nearby southeast shore of Lake Superior. In other words, we indulged in what had been for most of my life, MY HEART. The boreal forests and bogs had been my playground since I was preteen. They were my first love if ever there was one…

During our long weekend, Dad had a fallen by the boathouse. Though not too severe, Dad’s face was bleeding from an abrasion. It was enough to warrant a break from working and attention to his injuries. However, he resisted my help to gain his footing and insisted on trying to continue tinkering in the boathouse. I begged through tears for him stop, “Stop! Please stop. You’re bleeding.” He finally stopped and retreated to the cabin. He looked defeated. He appeared dejected. I could sense he felt like I was treating him like a child. This wasn’t the first struggle we had had in recent days. This was Dad’s fight to maintain his independence. It was also likely his struggle with cognitive decline brought on by what I now know were clots being thrown to his brain, clots that eventually occluded one of his cerebral arteries. HINDSIGHT. REGRET I did not do more, did not insist we go to the hospital to have him examined, did not nag him enough to take his blood thinner… He had been skipping doses, especially while we traveled from Texas to Michigan. I learned of this when I reminded him upon arrival in Wisconsin to take his medication. He informed then he had not taken anything since we left Texas! What?! I had backed off on nagging during our travels because he had spent the night before leaving Texas carefully setting up his medications. He also expressed being focused on taking his Warfarin because he needed to get his INR in range. Then why skip? When your blood was already dangerously thick, why skip? IF ONLY YOU DID NOT SKIP YOUR MEDS DAD. 

We finished our long weekend together with a trip to Vermilion Point. Dad immersed himself in his usual nature photography as did I. We lingered on the pristine beach along Lake Superior. The nephews played and swam with Uncle Peter. Mom and dad sat and picked around by the makeshift driftwood shelter. I searched the shore for agates. Life was good. 

Dad hiking back from Vermillion Beach July 2022

Back at Pike Lake, Dad enjoyed what would be his last time fishing off the dock with his grandsons. He also got in his last hugs with the kids, something I often encouraged. I keenly recall standing in the kitchen at the cabin encouraging the boys to hug Grandpa stating “We never know when our last time with Grandpa will be.”  I was often  mindful of this in recent years. I cherished every moment with my parents, especially my dad. In their advancing age and with Dad’s declining health, I often reminded myself just how FLEETING and FINAL any passing moment could be. I wish now I would have taken more photos of those final hugs. The memory for now is quite saliently etched in my brain: tender, loving and disarming to a Grandpa that had often become grumpy. I fear the day those memories fade…

Dad fishing with Kelby, July 2022

July 18, we departed back to Wisconsin…

Three days later I was amid a chase for my Wisconsin lifer Limpkin, closing in at approximately thirty minutes away when I got the call from my sister telling me Mom found Dad down by the boathouse frothing from the mouth. An ambulance was on the way. 

Limpkin, Racine Co, WI 21July22

I felt that all too familiar visceral response: my body was overcome with shaking chills in the heat of July. I had felt this when Dad had his massive heart attack and then again when my parents were hit by a drunk driver and rushed to the hospital, Dad with an open head injury. Adrenaline. Sinking. Shock. This time, this news, I knew DAD WAS GONE. The day I had feared the most was upon me. 

I was seven hours away from Dad, on the tail end of a two hour rare bird chase. Dad’s outcome was out of my control, so I went for the Limpkin. The memory of the Limpkin and the birders I encountered feels surreal. REFLECTION… I was detached from the bird, from the birder’s, from the fate ahead of me. I went. I saw the Limpkin. I made small talk. I made superficially yet personally revealing talk about my dad. I left the Limpkin. I drove two hours back home, packed my bags and headed back north to Pike Lake having just left there a few days prior.

I drove seven hours in the darkness arriving in the wee hours of Friday morning at the small rural hospital, Helen Newberry Joy. I saw Dad, intubated, lifeless. He had thrown massive clots to his brain. Our options were to transfer him to Marquette for further care or remove life support. We decided the latter knowing Dad never wanted to live out his days incapacitated and confined to a nursing home. We were assured the stroke was severe despite despite no MRI. One of the CAT scans had shown extensive clotting occluding one of arteries feeding the brain. 

I spent that night alone at Pike Lake, in that cabin filled with SO MANY MEMORIES. MY HEART. Once MY HOME. Mom was staying with a neighbor. I remained awake into the early morning. Intoxicated. Trying to numb the indelible pain. 

Mom and I returned to the hospital the next morning to remove life support. We said what we thought would be our final goodbyes to my lifeless, sedated dad. The respiratory therapist removed life support. I don’t know why I expected dad to immediately go, but I did. I work in healthcare and should have known better. The breathing tube was removed and dad persevered. In fact, with simple nasal cannula oxygen support, he rallied and fizzled for a heart wrenching two and half days. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, mom and I sat with Dad, feeling and watching his every coarse and progressively more congested breath. I swabbed his mouth. He suckled the toothette, even responded with reflexive swallows. Saturday, he showed additional reflexive responses in his feet and toes. His feet were always sensitive, so he recoiled and wiggled them when I stroked the bottoms. Was he rallying? Did we make the wrong call? Doubt set in, a doubt I have gone over again and again in my head since his death…But he never roused to talk to us. And when they moved him, he showed complete lack of head and trunk control. His head flopped atop his body when moving him. 

Saturday evening, July 23rd, my sister and nephew, dad’s eldest of three grandsons arrived. We grieved and hugged at Dad’s bedside. I continued to sit at Dad’s side holding his hand, checking his pulse, watching him breathe. Oddly, my sister captured a photo of this on her phone. WHY? WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO REMEMBER SUCH A MORBIDLY HAUNTING EXPERIENCE?! She shared this photo with Mom. So to this day, when I am helping Mom with her phone, I stumble upon a memory of Dad I would much prefer to forget…

When we left Dad Saturday night. I hugged dad and told him in his ear that we would be back tomorrow. Colleen and Tyler insisted Dad nodded in acknowledgment. I was buried in Dad’s neck but doubt he had the strength or control to produce such a response…or perhaps it was his last hurrah…It would feel comforting to know Dad heard and felt my final “I love yous.” I DO NOT FEEL COMFORTED.

Sunday, July 24th, we gathered around at Dad’s bedside late morning. My brother and his family were feverishly racing to get to Dad’s bedside before he passed. Dad’s breathing had deteriorated. It was more shallow, more coarse than the prior day. He was hot to the touch coming in at a temperature of 105.1 F. I resumed my perch next to him, holding his hand, swabbing his mouth. I had even brought frozen Coke to swab his oral cavity. Coke was his favorite. He drank this in lieu of water… I abandoned the plan to give him Coke upon realizing he did not appear to be swallowing. I played Buddy Holly radio on Pandora for Dad. We visited with each other around Dad’s failing body. We giggled while reminiscing about various family events…Expected yet unexpectedly, among the din of music and laughter, Dad’s breathing went silent…and so did we. Smiles left our faces. Then tears, lots of tears in a week long marathon of tears. DEATH was upon us. 

My brother and his wife arrived an hour or so later with their 5 and 9 year old boys in tow. This was our family’s visitation. There would be no embalming, no other gatherings around a corpse that barely resembled our lost loved one. This was it. No embellishments. My curious nephew inquired if Grandpa was sleeping. Would he wake up? “No, honey, he’s not going to wake up. He’s dead.” 

RIP Pink Fairy

 One more look back at 2021...

On November 27th, Benjamin Leigh Douglas found an immature Ross's Gull at the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix Rivers along the Minnesota and Wisconsin border. 

Ross's Gull was the last of the holy grail North American bird species I wanted to see. It graces the back cover of America's 100 Most Wanted Bird Birds book I was given many years ago in my infancy of birding. Its fairy-like pink plumage and delicate features are tantalizing to many a birder. 

Opportunities to chase this species have come and gone on past occasions. The Red Rock Reservoir, Iowa bird in 2013 involved a hefty 10-hour round trip drive for a very distant look. I decided I would pass. 

But when the Ross's was found this past fall, it presented an opportunity for face-melting views as well as a shot at a world and Wisconsin state lifer. The travel was still a dandy at eight hours round trip. My fatigue stood as a barrier. However, I could not resist the exuberance I heard in the voices of my friends Tom and Aaron when they talked about seeing this bird. And then there was this familiar message from Tom, "You going tomorrow? Do it!!"

So I did. It was every bit as magical as I thought it would be. I first viewed it distantly from the Minnesota side where it was reported to be most reliable. My plan was see it first no matter what state it was in, then focus on the tic for Wisconsin. Shortly after I arrived in Minnesota, it was apparent it was seemingly favoring the Wisconsin side. Therefore, I quickly headed over to Prescott, Wisconsin to get better views. However, just as I arrived, I was told the Ross's had flown from the river...No worries as it was quickly refound close to where I parked, up the riverbank behind Geister Ink. 

Within minutes though, it left for Minnesota. I was definitely not going to play the game of driving back and forth across the river trying to view the bird. Instead, I staked out a spot on the Wisconsin side of the river waiting its return. 

Patience rewarded me. After two plus hours of watching the bird from afar, I was treated to breath-taking views as the bird swam toward me. 

Bliss. Pure gold. Dainty, frail, blush, beautiful...

Unfortunately, not unlike my last lifer arctic gull, an Ivory Gull at Canal Park in Duluth, Minnesota, this bird's health was compromised. Even more so than I suspected...

Ivory Gull, Canal Park, Duluth, St. Louis Co, MN 5Jan2016

Subtle behaviors hinted at compromise during the time I spent with the bird (the parking lot landing was a clue). I hoped I was wrong in my concern. But by the time I reached home that evening, word on "the socials" was that those who had followed this bird for multiple days believed its behavior had changed for the worse. By the following morning, reports of the bird appearing dead or near dead had surfaced and a hatched rescue plan spread across the birding community. 

Revive it? I would like to see what gull CPR looks like. 

Shortly after, a firsthand report confirmed the bird expired in transit to wildlife rehabilitation.

I instantly felt moral conflict in rejoicing at seeing this bird. Is it morally just to celebrate around a suffering creature that traveled far from its range to meet its demise?

Guilt and regret overshadowed my jubilance of the prior day...Another one bites the dust...

But the more I have reflected on this experience and the near certain death for most vagrant arctic gulls who travel afar to perish sometimes most obviously (the face-melting ones always do), other times more obscurely, the less ashamed I feel. Though these experiences feel utterly bittersweet, what better way to honor these creatures than with a glorious swan song that celebrates their existence and perhaps even sparks interest in birds and bird conservation in those less woke to the grandeur of Nature? 

I will close with this sentiment posted to the Minnesota Ornithological Union's listserv.

For those thinking about the recently deceased Ross’s Gull, I offer the following excerpt from “A Year on the Wing: Four Seasons in a Life with Birds” by Tim Dee, describing a vagrant in Europe:
The yellow-browed warbler I saw … had made a mistake, and it is probable that no amount of nurture on Fair Isle could truly rescue it. Vagrancy is a death sentence. Almost all of the rarities that arrive on the island (and almost all vagrants anywhere) will have the same fate. They are wonderful treasures from far away that we cannot keep and cannot save. There is very little evidence that vagrant birds reorient themselves and correct their journeys. It seems likely that the yellow-browed warbler, having gone southwest where it should have gone southeast, would continue this aberrant direction and fly on west out over an ocean that has no refuges, no green skirts, for thousands of miles. That would be the end of it. It would soon be homeless. I was watching a lost child at death’s door.
Perhaps somewhat morbid but sadly true. On the flip side, vagrancy is a naturally occurring pattern that sometimes has different results. Think of Cattle Egrets…
Good birding,
Andy Forbes, Dakota Co.

Rest in peace sweet pink fairy. You were a most delightful finale to 2021.