Anyone can be a bird-watcher. There are bird-watcher clubs everywhere, even in Westlake Village where few birds abide. It is a poor man's hobby. All you need is a bird book, a note pad and pencil, and a cheap pair of binoculars. On the other hand, I know people who have spent fortunes on photographic equipment or golf clubs with little to show for it. So if you are looking for a hobby involving a minimum of equipment and expense, you won't find one more rewarding than bird watching.
Bird watchers are called "Birders," much as people with a bag of golf clubs are called "Golfers." Those new at the birding game are "fledglings," just as new golfers are "hackers."
Not having a fortune to spend, I decided to join the Westlake Village Bird Watching Society. Westlake Village, I soon learned, was a town that respectable birds had little use for. They did not nest here nor did they stop by for a day or two on their migratory travels in spring and fall. It was understandable. There was little in Westlake Village to attract them or make them want to stay. The same might be said for the people who live here – but, as we all know, people will live anywhere.
Angela Wunderbar was the president of our Bird Watching Society. She was stout of limb, strong of wind, and keen of sight. She was, moreover, an expert, and made every fledgling feel vulnerable and insecure. But that's the way experts are in any business, and none of us resented her obvious superiority. Ms. Wunderbar, like cream, would always rise to the top in any competitive endeavor.
She would lead a group of us gasping and puffing into the woods every Saturday morning, our binoculars at the ready and our note pads poised. "Mind the barbed wire, Mrs. Sims...I believe you've caught the tail of your coat...and Mr. Pomeroy, please try to keep up. The birds won't wait for you."
Like an impatient shepardess, her constant prodding would drive us along. We would labor through underbrush and thicket, unaware that we were hip deep in poison ivy, each of us afraid to be left behind or accused of being laggardly.
Although a massive woman, Ms. Wunderbar was amazingly cat-like in the field. She never crashed through the brambles and briars as we did -- never cracked a dead branch underfoot. She would push on indefatigably, pointing out the rare ornithological specimens only she could see.
"Oh! What a treat," she would exclaim, "a Bar-Tailed Godwit, the last known sighting was in Moriches Bay in 1937!"
I dutifully opened my note pad, "Is that with two 't's, Ms. Wunderbar?"
"Oh no, you don't, Mr. B," (to my everlasting embarrassment she called me Mr. B) "you didn't see it, you don't write it down. It goes in my book!" That's how it is with experts. As a fledgling I had to be satisfied with the sparrows and grackles underfoot, while Angela Wunderbar was privileged to observe the rarest species of the bird world.
Bird watching is a Scout's honor pastime. By that I mean that the really important people in the bird world take you at your word--particularly if you're the president of a bird club. If you are only a member, they will ask you some pointed questions designed to trip you up. If you're a nobody, they probably won't believe you at all. They may even heap ridicule upon you much as the doubting Thomases guffaw at the gullible souls who claim to see strange lights in the sky over Lubbock, Texas.
I have been both blessed and damned with a doubting disposition. It's one that has rarely led me astray, but on more than one occasion, it has led to the loss of a tooth or two. I cannot abide those who claim to have abilities I suspect they don't have. Here in this town of Westlake Village where no self-respecting bird with its picture in a book has ever stopped to nest or feed, I had grave doubts about Angela Wunderbar's integrity.
So I studied up on Dickcissels. Dickcissels have rarely been seen by anyone, anywhere. A few have been spotted in southern Ontario in the summer, but the pitifully few that still exist spend the greater part of the year in Mexico. Westlake Village would be the last place on earth a self-respecting Dickcissel would appear. I will not bore you with their physical appearance, but they are sufficiently unique to distinguish them from what a bird-watcher normally encounters anywhere.
It was a fine spring afternoon. There were abundant robins and more grackles than I could shake a stick at when I informed Ms. Wunderbar I just identified a Dickcissel.
"Ridiculous!" she exclaimed, "There's never been a Dickcissel in Westlake Village -- don't write it down! It was a robin, just a robin ... nothing more." I could see the panic in her eyes; had I seen something she hadn't seen? She was edgy.
"You know what a Dickcissel looks like?" she asked me.
I was ready for that, and I explained in great detail its multi-colored appearance, its aggressive behavior, and its bewilderment at suddenly discovering it was in Westlake Village. "It's gone now," I gloated, "Too bad you missed it, Ms. W."
There is a cold light in the eyes of the great white shark as it opens its jaws for the kill, an expression of utter disdain for its prey. A protective membrane closes over its eyes as though they were no longer needed to see with. A chill ran down my spine as I recognized that same shark-like look in Ms. Wunderbar's eyes. I had delivered what I thought was a crushing blow to an expert bird-woman, and instead it appeared as though I would be torn asunder. She recovered quickly and turned away. But I knew I would not escape unharmed. As I expected, my name was not included on the membership list of next year's Westlake Village Bird-Watching Society. It had been a close call, and in retrospect, I considered myself lucky.
Another absorbing and frugal pastime is creative writing. Pencil and paper are required, but binoculars are superfluous. Be careful however, hovering over your shoulder will be Erato, that golden Grecian Goddess of the written word. Angela Wunderbar was a pretty intimidating woman -- but wait 'til you get a load of Erato!
(Copyright 1997 by Harry Buschman - No reproduction without express permission from the author)