CHEROKEE CO., KAN. — Why drive a road you’ve already driven when there’s still more of the world to see? Especially if the road in question is a toll road? I veered off abruptly at the last free exit on I-44, just before the Oklahoma border. Before I knew what was going on, I saw a sign welcoming me to Kansas.

I turned off on a small farm road and found myself among lowing cattle. I startled a flock of juncos and two meadowlarks, and I saw a Killdeer at the edge of a pond. A phoebe called.

Back on the highway, I crossed a river and turned off into a small park. I didn’t see anything on the river, but on the other side, I saw Bonaparte’s Gulls flying over a raised pond. Deciding I needed to check that out, I went back over the river and pulled up to the gate of the pond, which turned out to be a sewage lagoon.

Dozens of the dainty white gulls danced over the water, and I saw a Bald Eagle flying in the distance. When I stepped out of the car, I was hit with a blast of icy wind, and I startled a flock of Buffleheads from their position against the bank closest to me. Most of them took off and flew further out into the pond, joining dozens of Common Goldeneyes and Hooded Mergansers.

The wind was very cold, and very strong. I decided the scope wouldn’t help me much, and I couldn’t concentrate for long. I got back in the car and drove around to the other end of the lagoon. I saw some shovelers but decided to keep moving.

DELAWARE CO., OKLA. — A harrier flew over the short grass right beside the highway. I keep scanning the fields, but no Snowy Owls. Just lots of white plastic bags.

TULSA CO., OKLA. — I’d seen Surf and White-winged scoters, but I hadn’t seen a Black Scoter yet. But I checked the Oklahoma birding list before I left Springfield, and I saw one reported from Lynn Lane Reservoir near Tulsa. I decided to go for it.

When I got to the reservoir, I found a small parking lot and a set of stairs leading to the top of the dike. I got out of the car and felt the same cruel wind I’d fought in Kansas, and I watched a few tiny ice pellets bounce off my windows.

By the time I made it to the top of the berm, I was already freezing, and the wind had whipped my hair into a wild frenzy. The water came right up to the walkway, and a few Ring-billed Gulls knifed into the wind, sailing over dozens of ducks and coots. The raft of ducks closest to me was comprised mainly of scaup, though there seemed to be a few Redheads and ring-necks mixed in.

Far away, I could see scores and scores of other ducks, and my heart sank. The wind lashed the water into a choppy expanse of whitecaps. Birds bobbed up and down, up and down, disappearing and disappearing again.

I almost turned back, but I decided not to let a little wind beat me. I propped my scope against a post, realizing that it would be of little use under the circumstances. I could end up with a black eye if I tried to use it. I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked west, leaning into the bitter wind. After all, it’s a Black Scoter! What a story this would make, the story of my life Black Scoter.

To my surprise, the ducks did not much mind my presence. As I neared another raft, I could see many goldeneyes, and one Canvasback.

But no scoter. I tried, I really did. I noted the peaked heads of the scaup. I tried to scan a very distant, very large mass of duckish bodies. I even saw two eagles perched far across the water.

I finally turned back, scanning as I walked the way I’d come. A truck came by and stirred up the ducks. They streamed over the water by the hundreds. Incredible.

One Pied-billed Grebe. More scaup. Coots.

By then, my face was numb, but my hands were in serious pain and had turned an ugly red. I fumbled for the scope and hurried down the dike.

OKMULGEE CO., OKLA. — I was headed south on 75 when I saw a sign saying something about a National Wildlife Refuge and a boardwalk. I turned left at the next available street and started working my way back toward where I thought the refuge would be.

I noticed a burned field, and I hoped for longspurs. But as I continued down the gravel road, I realized that this had not been a controlled burn. Acres and acres were blackened. Small flames still burned in some places, and smoke hung in the air. Houses had been saved, but only barely by the looks of things. The radio’s classical music was a chilling soundtrack to the unearthly scene before me, and I shut it off quickly.

The parking lot for the boardwalk was in an area untouched by the blaze. Deep Fork NWR, said the sign. I didn’t see the refuge on my map. I didn’t see another soul anywhere, and I didn’t see any sort of headquarters.

The trail led into lowland woods, and I heard chickadees and cardinals calling. The boardwalk was very nice, but it was cluttered with fallen twigs and limbs, some of which were large enough to trip me. The whole place looked rather abandoned.

A Golden-crowned Kinglet called from somewhere, and White-throated Sparrows were abundant in the brush. Two Red-headed Woodpeckers were noisy, and I heard but never saw a Pileated Woodpecker. The crows were upset about something.

I was uneasy — my car was unattended, the trail felt surreal, and there was that terrible fire. I hurried back to the parking lot to be on my way.

A few crows scavenged the charred landscape as I returned to the highway. I wish I could come back in the spring to see the vibrant green life that will cover these scars.

THE METROPLEX, TEXAS — Why drive a road you’ve already driven when there’s still more of the world to see? Well, it’s a nice philosophy. But if you aren’t careful you will prolong your trip by several hours, and you may end up wandering helplessly around the Metroplex, tired, crabby, and ready to be home. But you will have seen more of the world, and you will have a story to tell.

SPRINGFIELD, MO. — I’d heard she was back, and I couldn’t leave Springfield without looking for her myself. I pulled off Fremont into the parking lot of St. John’s Regional Medical Center, and I started scanning the treetops as I crossed the asphalt expanse.

There, on a sawed-off limb near the top of that tree. It must be … yes, there she is. The St. John’s Merlin. The gray lady.

We first made her acquaintance three years ago. A physician-birder noticed her one day, and then everyone wanted to see her, this Merlin in the middle of the city.

That Christmas, the snow was heavy, and as the gray lady hunted sparrows in the parking lot, my grandmother lay dying inside the huge building. I took time once to watch the Merlin, and I felt guilty. Later my grandmother died, just a few hours short of 2003.

We could hardly believe it when the Merlin returned the next year, then the next, and now she is here to spend her fourth winter in the parking lot where the sad and hopeful people come and go.

She didn’t seem to mind my erratic driving beneath her, as I maneuvered for a better look. Her bill is dainty, but it must suit her very well. The strong wind kept her feathers in motion, her long brown flank feathers barred with white, and the white, dark-centered feathers that run along the base of her tail. She is pale and plain above, a prairie bird perhaps.

She stretched and launched herself into the wind, east, over the cancer center.

To see her stirs up my hope. Her journey, her return, these are a reminder — not an analogy — that this is not the end. I wait for things unseen.

GREENE CO., MO. — A loud shot cracked as I opened my car door. I was not encouraged.

I began to scan the lake, and I could see the duck blind on the opposite shore. Nearby, a decoy’s plastic wings rotated ceaselessly in the wind.

Great, I thought, there won’t be much to see — LOONS! Yes, there were two loons, bill to bill. They both looked like commons to me, but with reports of Yellow-billed and Pacific loons from elsewhere in the state, I decided to scope the birds.

The wind coming off the water was quite cold, and my body’s involuntary reactions to this shock complicated the scope retrieval and set-up procedure. When I finally did get it ready, the wind had begun to drive tears from the corners of my eyes. Combating these setbacks as best I could, I scanned the silver surface of the water.

No loons.

I finally relocated one, but it never stayed up for long. It was hungry, and it was diving.

Continuing along the shoreline, I got out of my car a short while later. A small woodpecker flew into a tree above me, and when I saw its slender profile and long bill, I thought it must be a sapsucker. Sure enough, a brownish immature popped from behind a limb. Farther away through the oak trees, I saw a young Red-headed Woodpecker.

A loon flew high above the lake, with its strange hunched back and long, trailing feet. Then I heard the red-head chattering and the plaintive mew of the sapsucker. Their voices were joined by the hearty chuckle of a red-belly.

Bluebirds and juncos were abundant, the latter scattering before my car as I proceeded slowly over the gravel roads.

Three small shapes caught my eye as they swam away from the shore. Horned Grebes!

I reached the east end of the lake without having seen a single duck. A sparrow hopped in the brush near the parking lot. It was a Song Sparrow. I waited a moment, and as the song flushed, a larger sparrow flew in. Gray head, bright reddish uppers — a Fox Sparrow! Though silent at first, the bird began to give its loud, thrasher-like call. I thought the sound was so sharp it echoed, but when the bird in front of me stopped, the distant sound continued. As the bird hopped higher in the brush, it called faster, then faster. I left it to its fussing and walked toward the water.

A pair of Hooded Mergansers was waiting for me there, along with 15 or 20 Pied-billed Grebes and a pair of goldeneyes. The mergansers were distant, but in the scope I could see the male’s golden eye. He kept his spectacular crest tucked modestly. The goldeneyes disappeared before I was able to scope them, and I could not figure out where they had gone.

The remains of a Great Blue Heron lay on the rocky shore. All I saw were the wings and part of one leg. I could not figure out what could have torn up such a large bird, snapping its bones and carrying the rest away. I hoped it hadn’t been a human, but it didn’t look like that. What about an eagle? I don’t generally think of them as being so ambitious. Perhaps the heron had already died?

I headed back to my parents’ house to help out with some yard work. By early afternoon, the sky was free of clouds, and the temperature had risen into the 60s. It hardly seemed like the same day.

Once I looked up and saw two cormorants flying over. That was a first.

I kept an official yard list here from Feb. 23 to Dec. 26, 2000. In those 10 months, I recorded 71 species — and my rules were strict. If it was a yard list, I reasoned, then the birds had to be in the yard. Not flying over. Not in the neighbor’s yard. In our yard.

The first bird on that list is Mourning Dove; the last is Northern Mockingbird. In between is the story of a birder’s genesis: Cedar Waxwing, Vesper Sparrow, Yellow-rumped Warbler, Bay-breasted Warbler, Black-billed Cuckoo. Harris’s Sparrow. Loggerhead Shrike. I didn’t count the Snow Geese, the Wood Ducks, or the oft-heard Great Horned Owls, and I couldn’t have counted the cormorants. They weren’t in the yard, you see.

But I don’t live here anymore, and today I moved the seed feeders from the spot where they’ve been since 1999, the spot outside the window of what was my room. I moved them to the back porch so my parents can enjoy the birds through the winter days, and as I did, I couldn’t help thinking sadly about my current “yard” in Arlington — and the still-untouched seed bell whose fruity odor has long since dissipated.

The chickadees found the seed and water before darkness fell. My mom called me into the dining room, and we watched chickadees and then titmice bathing, drinking, and gleaning the seeds I had scattered on the ground. A creeper inspected the base of an oak a little further out, and chickadees’ calls easily penetrated vitreous barriers as they danced just a few feet away. Dad came to watch too, and mom could hardly contain her excitement.

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — The Bradford pear outside my window has begun to turn a deep, dark burgundy. The breeze through the window is cool now, but the day will be warm. A tiny kinglet just flitted through the branches, only a few feet from me.

But the open road lies ahead of me today. By the time most of you read this, I’ll be on my way to Missouri, and maybe I’ll see a few birds there.

If you are staying where you are today, then I recommend taking a tour around the world with Clare, your guide for I and the Bird 11!

I’ll be your host for I and the Bird 12 on December 8. Submissions are due December 6 by midnight. Send me your links with a short summary, and tell me a little bit about yourself too.

TARRANT CO., TEXAS — About 1:30 this afternoon, I called the Drying Beds office to see if they’d open the gate. A man answered the phone right away and said he’d try to get there in an hour, but he was having problems at the plant. He must be used to dealing with birders, but I did appreciate his helpful demeanor. In the middle of a crisis, he was willing to take time for some nut who wanted to look at birds.

I decided to try birding the Fort Worth landfill first, and I found my way there without any trouble. I pulled in the entrance and looked for signs telling me what to do. I didn’t see any that forbade entrance, so that was encouraging. There was one that said all vehicles had to be weighed, but I didn’t have any interest in doing that, and I wasn’t planning to leave anything there anyway.

I turned left and knew by the smell that I was in the right place. There were Killdeer on the road — if that’s what it could be called — and I started seeing gulls in the air.

I found my way to a site with fresh garbage. Hundreds of gulls rested on the ground, and a cloud of starlings swirled around, kept in motion by the huge machines pushing garbage. The whole scene was an apocalyptic vision of what the earth could become — and is becoming, thanks to us.

Most of the gulls were ring-bills, but I did see a Franklin’s in the crowd. It rested quietly, sporting a dark half-hood. In addition to the gulls on the ground, dozens more filled the skies, some soaring at very great heights.

“Can I help you?”

I turned. “Oh, I’m just looking at the birds.”

“Well I’d appreciated it if you signed in.”

I apologized, explaining that I hadn’t known I needed to. “Where can I do that?”

“My boss is out of town till Friday.”

Oh. “Would you like me to go ahead and leave?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Great, OK. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t sign me in, but at least this was an adventure. On my way out, a harrier flew over the road.

I decided to give the Drying Beds man a little more time, and I turned in to the River Legacy entrance off 157. I followed the road all the way to the final parking lot and got out to walk.

In the distance, I could see the very location I had just evacuated, complete with huge machines and gulls. According to the sign, a wetland stretched between me and the landfill.

To me it looked like a dustbowl. Or perhaps that’s covered in the “dynamic and always changing” clause. I walked around a bit and had a nice encounter with a shrike and later with a Song Sparrow. Then I got back in the car, headed for the Drying Beds.

The gate is impossible to see in advance when coming from the east. My attempt to slow down and turn right was not successful, and I skidded to a halt inches from a street sign. But the gate was open, and when traffic cleared, I was able to back up and pull through.

I was not disappointed. Hundreds of ducks filled the ponds, and I took my time with them, studying and admiring their fantastic colors and patterns — shovelers’ blue forewings, Redheads’ orange-yellow eyes, a Ruddy Duck’s intricate barring, which I’d never seen before.

There were no whistling-ducks today, but three brilliant male Buffleheads made me exclaim aloud. Diving ducks were well represented, including one young Canvasback. I tallied a dozen species:

• Gadwall
• American Wigeon
• Mallard
• Northern Shoveler
• Northern Pintail
• Green-winged Teal
• Canvasback
• Redhead
• Ring-necked Duck
• Lesser Scaup
• Bufflehead
• Ruddy Duck

I drove around the beds on the eastern side of the complex, but they were all bone dry. A scrawny opossum foraged along the road, scampering down the berm and toward the woods when I tried to take its picture.

One red-tail made me stop the engine and hop out of the car. Its belly and underwing coverts were dark, but his tail was red.

Returning to the wet units, I drove slowly among the ponds. One small willow was full of blackbirds, but they were silent. That didn’t seem normal. I raised the binocs — and saw yellow eyes peering back at me. Rusty Blackbirds, two or three dozen of them!

I saw a dark shape in the grass on one of the dikes. A nutria? No, a bobcat! It looked at me coolly, yawning, and then disappeared into the grass.

A snipe fluttered up as I continued on, but it didn’t go far. I crept forward until I could see it, hunched at the water’s edge just a few feet away. It looked tensed for action and twitched whenever I moved. But it let me look, absorbing details I had never been able to see before, so close I could study individual feathers. Magnificent.