DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — Now that I’m getting comfortable hosting my photos with Gallery, I’ve put up an index that lets you browse photos by type of organism and by topic: photo index. The index will grow and fill out as I continue adding photos (and as I continue moving photos over from my Flickr account).

TEXAS:

• Northern Cardinal - seven males in June’s Bradford pear
• Field Sparrow
• Dark-eyed Junco
• Ring-billed Gull - flew calling over June’s
• Eastern Phoebe - one singing as I filled up my tank
• Great-tailed Grackle
• European Starling
• Rock Pigeon
• Black Vulture
• American Kestrel
• Turkey Vulture
• Red-tailed Hawk
• American Crow

OKLAHOMA:

• American Crow
• Red-tailed Hawk
• European Starling
• Black Vulture
• Turkey Vulture
• American Kestrel
• Pileated Woodpecker
• Ring-billed Gull
• Double-crested Cormorant
• Mourning Dove
• Eastern Meadowlark
• Rock Pigeon

MISSOURI:

• European Starling
• Red-tailed Hawk
• American Crow
• Mourning Dove

ARROWHEAD STATE PARK, OKLA. — Just after ticking my 90th red-tail, I swung off the highway at a sign for Arrowhead State Park. I wanted a proper look at the cross timbers. I’d noted the rough, oaky hills on recent drives through this part of Oklahoma but needed to see more.

I drove around the park awhile first. Black and Turkey Vultures soared over the hills, and the lake was deserted. I finally parked by the visitor center and took Outlaw Trail down the hill.

The trees weren’t large — maybe only 20 feet. Their bark and the rocks at their feet were crusty with pale lichens, and I tried to be careful where I stepped. Tough twigs contrasted sharply with the deep blue sky, and my sweater was a little too warm for the sun.

Surely there was gaiety in summer, but for now, gray titmice moved close to the ground, almost silent, probably killing the insects who only wanted to sleep until spring.

I shook my sleeve in irritation at the droning of a fly — then immediately repented. This perhaps was the only creature who remembered a day when these trees were young. These trees, living in the stones. They might have lived through fire, ice and the coming of the white man.

ATOKA CO., OKLA. — The sun’s maddening daggers in my eyes drove me to seek refuge, but west was the only way to go. It had set before I reached Boggy Depot, so my plan didn’t work at all.

There wasn’t much to the state park there. I wandered round the cemetery, and I thought I heard a grunt. I looked up to dozens of cormorants whooshing softly overhead, and as they disappeared over trees, I heard another grunt. Was that … you?

It wasn’t a hostile place, but I did not belong. As I drove back toward 69, I scanned the trees. Never had picked up that hundredth red-tail.

A silhouette — no red-tail!

The Barred Owl resented my abrupt attention, and it flew from the fencepost to a safer tree. I could see it still, streaks, eyes … but I supposed I should clear the road.

The southwest was lit just dimly and strewn with wildly scattered clouds, as if the sun had burned itself out in a fury and all that was left were these darkened wisps. Venus shone high above the chaos, and I suddenly thought of Tolkein’s starfolk. There, in Oklahoma. And the image didn’t go of me, despite Southern gospel on the radio.

OSAGE CO., OKLA. — All the other birders had gone, leaving the two of us together.

She kept her head turned away, only occasionally swiveling her white face toward the road. Her deadly bill was almost concealed in soft white feathers, and she squinted her eyes nearly shut. Her body was heavily barred, and the fallen tree beside her cast its shadows across her bulk.

Why do we long for fellowship with creatures so different from ourselves? I wanted to see the places she had seen, and see them through her eyes. I wanted to travel with her, to see the journey she had taken, to feel the drives that had pushed her so far from home. But perhaps my wishes were too dreadful.

Meadowlarks and Horned Larks foraged among the cow paddies between her and me. When I’d first arrived, the friendly birder who pointed her out had casually mentioned Smith’s Longspurs. What? I kept hoping they’d appear.

I’d moved down the road a bit and was refocusing my scope when I heard a sweet twittering behind me. I whirled. Smith’s Longspurs? I had no idea what they sounded like, but maybe that was it!

No buffy passerines. I looked up into the blue, hearing the sound again. Bald Eagles. Three of them, circling together in the sunshine. Twittering. Wow.

I looked back across the pond, wondering whether I’d have spotted her on my own. She blended in beside the log, so different from the white garbage bags that had made my heart pound earlier that day.

A flock of little birds landed in the mud beside the water. I whipped my scope in their direction, scanning the edge and trying to focus at the same time. They blended in perfectly; I couldn’t see a thing. Then, just as I made out the outline of a small brown songbird, the whole flock took to the air again and disappeared over a rise.

I found it difficult to leave the Snowy Owl. She looked my direction one more time, and I wanted to believe that she saw me. She looked the other way, then resumed her original posture. Indifference? Exhaustion? I was not privileged to understand.

COPAN LAKE, OKLA. — A Bartlesville birder had advised owlers to swing by Copan Lake and see the White-winged Scoter. My northeasterly course took me on through Bowring and right past Copan, but the gate to the park was closed. The reservoir was fairly large, and I couldn’t imagine how I would see the scoter anyway.

But a pull-off on 75 looked inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation, I swung in. Still sitting in my car, I scanned what water I could see over the treetops. Gulls … and something black. OK, better get out of the car.

I set up the scope, and, scanning across a handful of goldeneyes, found the black duck. I strained to see what details I could, and I could almost imagine a tiny white eye patch and an orange bill. But perhaps it was just that — imagination. I wish birders with a better scope would show up.

It wasn’t immediate, but it wasn’t long either. A little pickup pulled up, and I saw the occupants looking through the windshield with binoculars. When they got out, I quizzed them about their intentions and their optics. I told them I thought I’d found him.

The man brought over his scope, which had a digital camera neatly mounted over the eyepiece. He offered to let me find my bird. The first dark bird I saw was decidedly not a scoter. It was then I realized I’d forgotten to consider other options, like cormorants.

As my stomach sank, I looked up to scan with my binocs, and I was relieved to see that the scope was pointed too far right. Panning left, I picked up the bird. “Aha!” I said in triumph.

They both had a look, and they let me look again before I left. I had to be on my way.

I’d seen white-wings on Cape Cod, but the snowy was a lifer. I was tempted to stop for ice cream, but that tradition isn’t much fun alone.

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.