GREGG CO., TEXAS — After a successful English Nerds Reunion and an abbreviated visit to graduation, Lynn and I headed west on I-20. I’d charted a course back toward the Metroplex that, I hoped, would let us experience remnants of the Texas that used to be. We started our journey among the tall pines of East Texas, but we would not spend time with them today.

Turkey Vultures wheeled over the highway; another flapped awkwardly against the cool air. A Great Blue Heron, neck outstretched and pale shoulders gleaming in the sun, startled us. What if that’s a … a … that’s a Great Blue Heron.

WOOD CO., TEXAS — The pines had thinned by the time we passed reached Lake Holbrook. They had thinned, but they weren’t gone entirely. Oaks clung stubbornly to their curled brown leaves.

For several years, I’d seen the East Central Texas forests on ecoregion maps. Drier, dominated by hardwoods, they stretch between the lush pineywoods of the east and the prairies of the west. Or, stretched.

We were having trouble finding them.

We saw cow pastures. Hedgerows. Houses with trees in the yard. The forests have been cleared.

My atlas showed a park on Lake Holbrook, but we couldn’t find it. A little sign pointing to a recreation area led us through a neighborhood where hunters lounged by their trucks and a Red-headed Woodpecker drank from a puddle in the road. The “recreation area” was a tiny parking lot overlooking an empty section of lake.

We went back south on 1799 and pulled off at the bridge. We tried to avoid the bright red mud as we walked down toward the shore.

Diving ducks peppered the water, and there was a grebe. I did not see any scoters in the raft of Ruddy Ducks. A tern flew over the lake in the distance. I think Forster’s Terns are the only ones that stick through the winter. This one certainly looked light, but it was very far away. Yellow-rumps chipped in the brush.

VAN ZANDT CO., TEXAS — Dozens of vultures roosted below the dam, some blacks standing with wings outstretched and others wading in the shallow trickle of water. The Turkey Vultures seemed to stay higher up, and some were airborne. A few sparrows moved around in the brush, and I heard a goldfinch.

We were on the edge. This was the county line, but more important, this was where the forests, what little was left, ended and the Blackland Prairies began. We couldn’t tell that by looking, of course. Nature’s transitions often defy our best attempts at classification, and besides, the enormous dam in front of us had changed this land inestimably.

Behind the parking lot, a large bird flew just above the trees, flashing white patches … a long white neck. “Caracara!” we exclaimed together. It flew across the road and over the dam, finally dropping down out of sight. Wow, we said. We didn’t expect to see one of those today. Have to check Sibley’s map….

But first we walked toward the oaks, and these were alive with chickadees. I heard a nuthatch, and then we saw him, inching jerkily along dead limbs in the nuthatch way. He disappeared into a hole. A moment later, his lady appeared, and he started to call. Didn’t expect you either.

Back at the car, we checked Lynn’s Sibley. Caracara was expected, and so were nuthatches. Nothing notable about either sighting. What was notable, as Lynn realized first, was that we had seen them together. Nowhere else in this country do their ranges overlap, or so it appears from the maps.

We were on the edge, and so were they.

LAKE TAWAKONI — We stopped twice to scan the lake, noting Mallards and shovelers near the shore and scores of Bonaparte’s Gulls over deep water, too far out for a really good look. There was a snipe on a concrete edge, and one Spotted Sandpiper flew along a muddy water line. Two flocks of peeps let us glimpse them only from a distance, but I was reasonably certain that only leasts would still be here.

Silently, I kept hoping for pipits, and once I thought I heard one. Finally, I spotted a distant little bird on the mud at the water’s edge. After some confusion, Lynn found it too, and then the little bird began working its way toward us, closer and closer, bobbing, feeding, and preening. It passed us and continued on, finally leaping into the air with a loud cry.

As we crossed the long bridge on 276, bonies swooped by just outside the windows, but there was nowhere to stop and watch.

HUNT CO., TEXAS — Northwest of Greenville, we turned down smaller and smaller roads as the daylight began its retreat. The land was flat and plowed, rich black soil exposed to the sky. Finally reaching the intersection of 1116 and 1119, we pulled off the road to park.

Another black field stretched away to the right, but on the left, a dense tangle of brown grasses and forbs rolled toward the horizon. It was this we had come to see, this never-plowed remnant, the Paul Mathews Prairie.

We plunged in, scaring up a flock of meadowlarks as we went. The vibrant herbaceous life had retreated underground, but the skeletons of rattlesnake master, asters, goldenrods and other composites remained among the grasses. I had fantasized about Smith’s Longspurs and Short-eared Owls, but the meadowlarks were the only things we saw.

Of course, flushing short-ears is no fun anyway, and as we watched harriers gliding over the prairie, I hoped desperately that the owls would join the dance that night.

Meanwhile, flocks of blackbirds flew overhead, and I knew by their calls they weren’t red-wings. I didn’t think they were rusties either, especially in this prairie and farm country. Finally, a lone bird landed on a power line, calling. We worked toward it, stopping every few paces to see what we could see. The bird appeared to be all dark — no streaks, no wing patches, no yellow eye.

I looked behind us and saw a whole flock of the birds settling down on the wires, and three more birds joined our first. We noted a contrast between one much blacker bird and the others, and then they all took off, flying to join the larger group. We worked slowly toward them and after agonizingly slow progress could finally distinguish the yellow-eyed, glossy males and the duller, browner, and dark-eyed females. Brewer’s Blackbirds.

The birds kept calling as they shuffled about, and I tried my best to let the sound sink into my brain. They were joined in a tree by female red-wings and a handful of cowbirds. A harsh scolding in the fencerow belonged to a Bewick’s Wren, who hopped up long enough to let us get a glimpse.

As darkness came, harriers flew across the prairie in greater and greater numbers. We had first seen three or four, but now there were 15, maybe 20. Did they circle, or did they keep on coming? Who could say? Maybe there were dozens.

I scanned and scanned, seeing only long tails and dihedrals … until — “Yes!” I exclaimed. There was the flight, the unmistakable flight and the bulky head. But the bird quickly disappeared, and Lynn hadn’t seen it. Then I picked it up again, even farther away. It dropped low and disappeared again.

We walked south as I worried that the owl would not come back, never giving Lynn a chance to see it. I’d tried to explain that we might not find them at all, but this would just be cruel.

Ah, but there! Two owls, harassed by the larger harriers, in front of the distant tower. There they were. And they put on a show for us then, as one bird flew toward us, closer and closer, looking straight at us from haunting yellow eyes, head remaining still for an instant as the rest of its body veered away. They moved away; they came back again, sometimes diving into the grasses without warning. I felt too thrilled to stay silent but too moved to speak.

Short-eared Owls hunted the prairie.

ydhttmwfi: On the Edge

THE METROPLEX, TEXAS — I sat down by the back door to eat my cereal this morning, and I was shocked to see that the seed bell was no longer hanging where it had for weeks. The paper clip chain was shorter than usual, so I suspect that a fox squirrel leapt onto the bell, breaking the chain and sending the bell (and the squirrel?) down three stories to the ground below. It must have been a sight.

When I finished eating, I stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the railing. I could not see the seed bell anywhere. Perhaps a maintenance worker had already carried it away. Well, it’s a good riddance, I guess. I will not make any further attempts at bird feeding while I live here.

I noticed, while on the porch, that our resident pigeon has made a horrible mess on the pavement. I immediately constructed a pointy hat of tinfoil for the light fixture. I hope the piebald bird will take a hint and move along.

I ended up doing a lot of driving today, trying to tie up some loose ends for my PNG visa application. Coming up 1382 just after four, I saw hundreds of cormorants streaming toward Joe Pool Lake in large, irregular V’s.

As the sun set, I pulled into a parking lot at River Legacy. Three egrets had flown over on my way in, and gulls were leaving the landfill, headed who knows where. A red-tail flew low over the field, and a cardinal and a Carolina Wren carried on in the brush.

A Song Sparrow barked somewhere ahead of me, and then a large sparrow flew into view with a high, thin call. It didn’t sound like a Song Sparrow, I thought as I lifted my binocs, but perhaps that was a flight call.

But there was the sooty face and pink bill of a Harris’s Sparrow. And a another! The pair didn’t stay still for long, but I watched them until they disappeared.

I trudged around through the crunchy brown vegetation, seeing a few Song Sparrows as I looped back toward the parking lot.

An insistent call pulled me toward a brushy area, and in the fading light, I just barely saw a bird fly up into a small tree. White-crowned Sparrow. Gorgeous.

I took a few steps closer. More birds flushed.

On the left, two striking white-morph white-throats. Then a Harris’s. And, was it? Yes, the white-crowned was still in its spot to the right. Incredible. First the Melospizas, and now the eastern Zonotrichias.

The Harris’s barely gave me time to be excited, quickly flushing deeper into the brush.

I stayed by the edge, tantalized by movement, rustling, and calls. But the light was too far gone. A woman showed up with her dog, and I headed for home, aware that my sweatshirt wasn’t quite enough to fend off the evening’s chill.

Now when the cold December breezes blew,
November’s final colored leaves did lose
Their grip upon the scaly-limbèd trees,
And all the ponds and streams began to freeze;
The chickadees fluffed up their feathers bright,
While grouse and grosbeaks feasted ‘gainst the night —
Then birders from across the sea and land
Converged to make a journey (what a band!)
To Michigan, the home of Cindy M.,
Because they hoped that she would welcome them.
“Let’s story as we travel on our way,”
A bright young man was heard ere long to say.

The first to speak was Amy of WildBird on the Fly. She told a tale of her pilgrimage to hear a renowned Grail Bird seeker, who showed his audience wonderful things during the Ivory-bill keynote speech.

Then Vicki of Outside In spoke of another woodpecker, a pied dame who raises her children each summer and tries her best to build them a castle. Vicki had pictures of the lady a-feasting, on a Saturday Sabbatical.

The Yuletide season was not far away, and a Wise Crow told his companions about three legendary Christmas Bird Counts, inviting the Northerners to escape the bitter winds and join him in Texas if they could.

Dani of Danielle’s Den remembered a recent Tuesday’s Events; she had celebrated new arrivals to her yard but also mourned the loss of an unfortunate visitor.

“Cruachan!” cried an Aussie, Duncan of Ben Cruachan Blog. He had journeyed to magic mountains, and the other travelers’ eyes grew bright as he told of the exquisite flowers and delightful birds he’d seen Up on the Moroka.

Mike, a seeker of 10,000 Birds, recalled an encounter with some special blackbirds — and plenty of other feathered winter residents of the mighty city he calls home. Right on Rusty!

A scholar then began to speak, inspired by a recent feast. An learner and an writer too, John publishes A DC Birding Blog. He taught the crowd many things that day, of Turkeys, Wild and Otherwise.

Cindy M. of WoodSong sent a message to the travelers, telling them of her love for Northern Cardinals, the “soul-warming red birds.” One of Cindy’s own deeply beautiful photographs illuminated the letter.

Call, author of The Clog Almanac, creates spectacular pictures with his words, and when he finished speaking of his encounter with Hooded Mergansers, the birders sighed with delight.

On moonlit nights in Firefly Forest, a pair of mighty hunters prowls. Beth produced her stunning pictures of the fearsome birds of darkness: Great Horned Owls in the Treetops.

Then in a peculiar juxtaposition, Pascal of Research at a snail’s pace presented a breathtaking picture of his own. A dainty lady perched upon a thumb, waiting quietly: A bird in the hand.

“The holidays approach,” someone said. “Oh what shall I get for my friends who bird?” But the Keepers of the Birding Gear Big Board did not let him despair too long, piping up in quick succession with over a dozen grand ideas: Holiday Gifts for Birders - Books.

Peter of B and B spoke up next and began his tale. He had traveled to the winter home of one of North America’s rarest and most magnificent of birds, and there he watched the Whoopers put on a show that few others will be ever be privileged to see.

A wandering minstrel began to sing; his name was Dave of Bird TLC. He sang of a beautiful, legendary bird who was stricken from the skies one ugly day and found help in the hands of a healer. Maimed, he lives, giving life — One Wing’s Gift — to his brethren.

Birding is not a crime!!!! told of high adventure in the Land of the Rising Sun. From a shrine to some restrooms, from the garbage cans to a garden, a parade of colorful lifers presented themselves: From the Field: Birding Tokyo at the Meiji Jingu Shrine.

Rexroth’s Daughter of Dharma Bums was the next to speak. She presented a perennial mystery — and one solution — in pictures and in words, and the birders looked with her through Novice Eyes.

From the far land of India had come Ami, of Frozen in Time. Ami’s tale concerned a day at the lake — and the newly discovered joys of birding. His pictures of many strange and beautiful birds aroused the wonder and envy of the travelers, but it was all in a day’s Birding @ Pashan for Ami.

Traveling with the company was Lynn, a fervent damsel whose revelations are For Elect Eyes Only. She spoke of a recent Lesson in Listening, and she rejoiced in new birds seen on an unusually warm winter bird count day.

After a thoughtful silence, Clare of The House & other Arctic musings stepped forward. He recalled a particularly vivid encounter with a showy woodland enchanter, and he reminded his listeners why it’s sometimes such a wonderful thing to be Birding Alone.

With a heavy heart, Pamela of Thomasburg Walks spoke of tracks in the snow, tracks that told her The Last Chapter in the tale of a family of Guineafowl.

Charlie of Charlie’s Bird Blog tossed out a challenge: Are these names fake or real? Then one by one, he provided answers, conjuring images of fantastic birds from all across the globe. Quiz #1 was a show not to be missed!

Another traveler began to speak, Rusty of Mokka mit Schlag. He’d been to fair Geneva, and he had tales to tell, of a hairdresser and delightful birds, and a lifer at a castle. There was more to his tale, but he didn’t tell it all just then: Birding Geneva, Part 3.

Chris likes to spend his time Birding in the Arivaca Cienega. He told the birders of a morning that started off quite cold but warmed as he glimpsed a very special bird — a lifer and a rare find in the Arivaca Cienega.

Gwyn of the Bluffs and Valleys tells her Bird brained stories! to all who’ll listen, and she had a special tale for the birders that day. Although her Dreams of boreal species never came true, she had a memorable encounter with a wanderer from even farther away: the Arctic tundra.

Nuthatch of Bootstrap Analysis warned of a black plague that had begun to creep across the land. It kills trees, but its impact does not stop there, for sudden oak death = fewer birds.

As the birders grew silent, YC Wee, a fellow of the Bird Ecology Study Group, took his chance to present a priceless photograph, and to tell a captivating story: Pink-necked Green Pigeons 3 – Sharing of duties.

David was the last to speak, as he often is. He talked of Merlin … a Merlin … the Merlin, the gray lady, who winters at a hospital and serves as a reminder to hope.

Your host next time is namèd Cindy M.
To her or Mike send all your links by when?
December 20, that’s the deadline day,
And do you want to miss it, friends? No way!

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — Sleet and freezing rain sent us home from the office about lunch time. It’s currently 27 degrees with a windchill of 16, and it’s headed downward from here. Yes!

The Bradford pear outside my apartment window is radiant, but I fear this weather will finish off the brilliant pennants one by one. A jay hopped among the branches, startlingly blue.

It’s sleeting harder now. I hear the soft sound of ice against the leaves. Then, movement. A cardinal! A flash of blue. And three Yellow-rumped Warblers.

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — I and the Bird #12 is on the way, and it’s going to be a lot of fun. Don’t miss out! Send me your links by Tuesday, Dec. 6. If you have bird-blogging friends, pass the word to them, too!