Plop.
It wasn’t a loud plop. In fact it was hardly a plop at all. More a “thowp” or “fwop” than a plop but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to begin a story with “thwop.”
Anyway and all semantics aside, what I was hearing, what distracted me from my intense scrutiny of the woodlands around me, was the sound that adult male Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers make when they bind to a tree.
You say they don’t make any sound at all. You say “I’ve been birding all my life and seen hundreds of sapsuckers and their landings are about as audible as a dandelion seed dropped into eider down.”
Yep. Most times they are. From the distance most birders get to enjoy their views of this woodland woodpecker. But if silent is how you characterize the landing of a Sapsucker, then it probably means that you’ve never had one land within three feet of your ear as this one did.
A turn of my head, executed with near glacial speed, narrowed the distance between my left eye and the bird to two and a half feet–reading glass range.
I could see every feather. Hell, if I’d had my reading glasses on I could have seen feather lice.
The bird was regarding me with alert curiosity. As I watched it began accepting its tribute of sap from the tree I was sitting in.
Sitting in?
Sitting in. Twenty feet up. Dressed in full camo (except for the blaze orange cap required by New Jersey game regs). It was the third day of New Jersey Firearm Buck Season and I was enjoying the kind of intimacy with birds that I never get while just plain birding. In fact one of the things I love most about deer hunting is the supernatural proximity I get with forest birds.
Over the course of the two previous days, I’d been eyeball to eyeball with chickadees. Watched Brown Creepers hitch their way past my nose. Tufted Titmouse
In season’s past I’ve had chickadees (and Tufted Titmice and White-breasted Nuthatches) land on the barrel of my gun. I’ve had creepers (and Flying Squirrels) climb my pants legs.
The day before a Pileated Woodpecker landed in the tree just above my head. White-breasted Nuthatch
I couldn’t see it, of course. My colleague, World Series of Birding Teammate and hunting partner Don Freiday (who was hunting in a stand below the ridge) told me later how close the bird was. He said “three feet.”
But it was certainly the closest I have ever been to a Pileated. When it started excavating I could feel the thump of its bill vibrating through the tree, the tree stand, and me.
I’ve seen scores of Pileated Woodpeckers. Loved every encounter. But I’ve never been percussed by one while birding (and only once while hunting).
Now here’s the big question: Couldn’t I get this kind of intimacy while birding? Couldn’t I just wrap myself in camo, hitch myself into a treestand and leave my gun in the car?
Sure I could! But somehow I never do. I doubt that you would either. What I do, what you do, when you go out in search of birds, is walk along trails and snap identify chickadeestitmicenuthatcheskingletsbluejays one, two, three.
Or I stand on some beach or some ridge top. Scan the horizon for little specks that I strive to pin name to.
It’s just the opposite of intimacy. It’s just the very antithesis of “thwop.”
The closest I ever get to seeing birds as close as I do while hunting is watching birds coming to my feeder. Three feet of intimacy. Separated by two panes of glass. Marred only by the plastic contraption I use to lure the birds close.
It’s very intimate. It’s just not very natural.
But this… This Yellow-bellied Sapsucker at two and a half feet completely nonplused by my presence is as natural as natural gets.
It is communion.
And despite my primary objective, despite the fact that there were two fresh buck scrapes in the snow below and it was still prime-time for deer to be on the move, I gave the bird my full attention for thirty, maybe forty seconds.
Which is a long time when there are two fresh scrapes in the snow below.
Then, with thanks and regrets, I turned my eyes back on the woodlands.
Just in time to enjoy the sight of an immature, male Sharp-shinned bounce/glide ten feet in front of my face (and about two point three seconds before the woodlands below erupted in a cacophony of alarm calls).
Yep. The Sharpie was hunting too.
I wonder how he did?