Rubythwart

Sometimes, the birds win. We don't like losing, rarely do it gracefully. Sometimes though, you've got to hand it to them.

Last night after dinner, we went up to Hutch for the wheatear and the rubythroat, but mostly the rubythroat. My stress level was solidly in the red zone, for my experience with rubythroats out here is basically uniform across the board: they're bitch birds. We'd found out right before dinner--the worst possible timing so, consequently, the slot when most birds are found.

I'd eaten at Trident with the group to maximize efficiency. Turns out I didn't even have to pay the $20 because we had a sulker that stayed in the van. He'd wanted to skip dinner and go straight to the bird, but in a group majority rules and he'd been outnumbered. I ate his dinner for him. Didn't even enjoy the halibut though, thanks to anxiety and the fact that I more or less swallowed it (and the scalloped potatoes and the recently-frozen brussel sprouts) whole. I'd bypassed the crab linguine--every move was being made in the name of efficiency.

And now we were at Hutch, cresting the hill. I'd tried to scheme a plan, as always, there were a plethora of factors: wind direction; the habits of the bird; the mobility of the group. Rarity-oriented guiding is a much different game than the Kirtland's tours I used to lead: higher stakes and high-complexity strategies. In a strong south wind, the bird would be hunkered on the north side, probably low and in the rock gardens and celery at the base of the hill.

I was wrong.

Our heads were still in the wind when a small brown bird shot out to my left, dropped into some rocks in front of me.

"BIRD! RUBYTHROAT!"

A few of us saw it, but most of us did not. Someone saw it in front of where it'd gone in, running on the ground. Frantic directions ensued.

"It's in front of the rock..."
...we were in a rock garden...
"...with the orange lichen on it."
...like all of the other rocks in the garden.

I thought of two things that we could do. We could push forward fast, flush it again--maybe it would fly up and be gone forever. Or we could wait and hope it popped out again. We tried the latter.

It didn't work.

So we edged forward. Into view, at, past where we'd last seen the rubythroat. Fucker had slithered low through the rocks away from us, fitting for a bird that's more or less Satan's spawn when they show up out here. Those bitch rubythroats.

We hatched a few plans and acted on most. We swept and scoured and squinted through the bright green terraces that will soon be covered by seals. In the process we found the wheatear, a few Wood Sandpipers, Pacific Golden-Plovers and Ruddy Turnstones, and an Eastern Yellow Wagtail. Not the rubythroat.

Some of us wanted to stay, some of us wanted to go, and the hill needed us to go. I spoke on behalf of Hutch--
"We've combed it over. It needs a breather. We can sit and watch, but we're not walking it any more tonight."

There was dissent, which I'd expected and affirmation, which I hadn't, but none of that matters, because in the end it was my call. And my call was to let the bird win because sometimes, that's what you've got to do.

Postlude: The next day, we went back, and more of us won. Twice. Because I'll lose a hand but not the game.

The view from Hutch

Arrival

Bar-tailed Godwits, Salt Lagoon

"Welcome to St. Paul. If this isn't your stop, feel free to get off the plane, but you can leave your bags," the PenAir flight attendant announces over whining props.
I know it isn't St. Paul because there are trees, a lot of them. Unless the island's undergone dramatic change since I left 6 months ago, we don't have those here.

"This is DILLINGHAM," someone at the back of the plane pipes up, quickly following with "Didn't mean to put you on the spot, Savannah."

That's one of the pluses of PenAir--most everyone's on a first-name basis with the crew. The drawbacks of PenAir, though...they're numerous. In light of this, the first thing I did yesterday morning was pack defensively: bins on, boots on, sourdough starter & Bailey's in my carryon (that's right, there's no security). Turns out this was oversight. At the gate, the only unhappy people were those bound for Dutch Harbor, socked in with fog. I felt their pain. It was rumored the St. George leg of our flight might not happen either--too windy.
"Well if they cancel George, at least our bags will have a better chance of coming out with us," Scott mused.
Because of the perils associated with flying a small plane over the temperamental Bering Sea, PenAir has strict weight restrictions and sometimes, your body ends up on the island well before your bags do.

We take off from Dillingham and cut out over the water. I'm here on the plane with a bunch of seasonals and St. Paul residents. In front of me is Claudia, another guide. She's going over peep identification and has a tab open that reads "Thai Cashew". I smile, for I'm doing the same thing: looking at Rare Birds of North America and furrowing my brow over a shopping list I'll be taking to a store that never has what I really want.

Across the aisle is Caitlin, who's about my age, a newly sworn police officer and St. Paul resident. We could be friends. There are also two female techs sitting somewhere behind me. We could be friends, too.

This is my second season out here, and I love St. Paul the island. The people who call it home love it too. I don't want to love it separately from them. I want to love it with them, together. For me, it's been a hard community to break into and that is one of my biggest regrets from last year: I used the island for its birds without investing in St. Paul the community.

The Saab Turboprop's landing gear locks into place as the Bering Sea comes closer and closer. I look out my window, it looks windy down there. The island comes into view, and I can see dust trails from cars heading to the airport. Flights are kind of a big deal out here.

"I'll do better this time," I silently promise St. Paul. We're on the ground and stepping off the plane; I almost get blown backwards by the stiff north wind. Yep, feels like home.

Inside the hangar, I see familiar faces. Dennis gives me shit for getting stuck so many times.
"This year, we got a special tow truck just for you. Says Alison on it!"
"TDX needs to make a special position then, too--just to pull me out."
That's something else I can do better at this year.

Paul smiles, Barbara gives me a hug, Z says,
"Beer-thirty this Friday!"
"I'll be there!" I grin.
And I will. I promised to do better.

We make our way into town: Gray-crowned Rosy Finches, Rock Sandpipers and a Bar-tailed Godwit on Salt Lagoon. I'm cautiously evaluating the status of the Sequoia. Engine's not knocking, windows are okay--and good, the brakes seem to work too.

At A-dorm, we spend just enough time to deposit our stuff, gear up, and deduce the fridge has had a rough winter. Now, it doesn't just howl intermittently: it's added Willow Ptarmigan and Barred Owl sounds to its repertoire.

We're all excited to get out and see what birds are waiting to be discovered. Our first stop on Salt Lagoon reveals a flock of Bar-tailed Godwits and a sharp adult Black-headed Gull. We visit Pumphouse, Antone Lake, and Weather Bureau. At Tonki when we get out into the wind to scan the ocean, it starts to spit rain. Oh we're definitely on St. Paul.

In Anchorage everything was warm, pleasant; there was actually a dawn chorus. Now it's like we've gone back into winter. Rotting snow, brown tundra, that unceasing north wind. No more tap beer, trees, dogs, mosquitoes, or phone service.

We swing by Charles' house to eat reindeer steak and warm up. We talk about the dearth of produce and Biff's rent-a-wreck (going rate $1500/month) and the time I wore the skirt to the bar here. The meal is delicious, the friendship nourishing. It's so good to be back, even though knowing what to expect out here doesn't necessarily make what I do easier.

After dinner we drive out Northeast. Last year when I came out, these places were just names, names I often couldn't remember. Now, they have memories attached to them: Polovina Hill, where Brandon finally got his Willow Warbler. Hutch Cut, which still has yet to impress me. Nova Stoshna, where we saw a Bristle-thighed Curlew last year...and, as a burly shorebird flashes in front of me and shows its buffy rump, it's where we saw a Bristle-thighed Curlew this year, too.

St. Paul, we're going to be friends this year.

Bristle-thighed Curlew, Nova Stoshna