Gone to the birds

Home two days, and work is piling up. Almost immediately after finishing my next column for the River Journal yesterday, four more story assignments signaled an end to my laid-back life of the past couple of weeks. The day before, I talked to an advertising man in Spokane about another rather involved writing assignment to promote a Priest Lake resort. So, it looks like the old saying of "no rest for the wicked" is once more appropriate.

The assignments involve some fun stuff----a Western Pleasure adult horse camp, five more profiles of business owners who've hung around Sandpoint for a few decades, a new display soon to appear at Hope's Sam Owen Campground dealing with David Thompson and the local Indian tribes, and the sport of birding. I came up with the idea of writing about birding after one of my classmates, Terry Gray, introduced a few of us to the sport last summer while we trekked up the Mickinnick Trail during our class reunion.

We stopped and listened a few times for birds, but that hot July afternoon may have been a bad time to spot any wildlife, let alone rare winged creatures. Terry demonstrated some whistles he uses to attract the birds, and I was amazed to learn that if you make the right sounds, you could expect to have an up-close-and-personal encounter with some curious two-legged species. That's about all I remember from our primer that day, so I'm looking forward to contacting Terry as an expert for this story.

He's one of the resident bird gurus down in the Moscow-Genessee area, and Bill was impressed enough with his dedication to the subject that he asked him to speak at the Family Forest Landowners Conference in Moscow next month. Terry has a website, featuring hundreds of photos of his bird encounters: (http://www.flickr.com/photos/terryandchristine/).

I'm looking forward to learning more about birding because I've read that it is one of the fastest growing pastimes for baby boomers. And, it makes sense that it would be---it gets you outside into pretty areas, it presents a pursuing challenge and it forces you to use your senses with a more heightened awareness. Besides that, I like birds---most of them, anyway.

We've got about half a dozen bird feeders around the place, including one right next to one of our big living room windows. The deluxe feeder, crafted by our neighbor Bernie Pederson, allows us to see the cute little chickadees pigging out on sunflower seeds virtually every day. I've thrown out cracked corn for the geese and ducks who might show up any of these days and hang around as long as the pond water does. We've got lots of woodpeckers of varying sizes and species who like to do their pecking here. And, of course, the grackles and starlings fly in regularly to steal the catfood on the front porch.

How could I forget the pigeons, who've taken up residence in our hay mow over the past couple of years. Right now, nine regulars occupy the hay-mow rafters. I must admit that pigeons and I have not always been the best of friends. Family members love to tell the story of the summer day I came out to help with the hay at the Upper Tibbs Place where we were living at the time. That was back in the '70s before I had kids and when I still had long hair.

I'd just washed my hair that day and had just shown up to help move a few bales. As I bent over to lug one off the elevator, I heard a thud and felt a blow to the back of my head. My immediate reaction was to reach back and see what had happened. Within a split second, I knew my immediate reaction was one giant mistake. A pigeon from above had dumped its more-than-ample load right square in the back of my head.

Now, I don't know how many readers out there have ever fondled pigeon dung, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It's pasty. It's like cement. It doesn't come off easily. Those uncharitable souls witnessing the bird attack thought it was pretty funny. They chuckled a lot as I attempted to get the dung off my hand by shaking it really hard. No dice.

I ran from the hay mow, back to the house and spent twenty minutes washing the stubborn crap out of my hair and from my hand. Upon returning to the barn, but not the pigeon loft, I met with more laughter. They all thought it was really funny, and they still do. Over the years, I've secretly wished for just one of those fiendish souls to have a similar experience. So far, they've managed to avoid the air drops----partly because my brother cleans out the pigeon population in the Colburn barn every time he comes to town.

Now, the Love Barn pigeons are pretty safe here because you can't discharge a gun in the city limits. I'm hoping, however, they've gotten the message from their ancestors to stay away from me. Nonetheless, every time I go up there to feed the horses, I look toward the ceiling a lot and move around the mow very carefully as they warble away with their pigeon talk.

Speaking of avoidance, I found myself moving quickly and quietly last summer after making the mistake of moving a baby crow from the barnyard. All the experts told me this was not wise, but I didn't want the horses to kill the poor thing. I paid for that crow humanitarian gesture for at least a couple of weeks---every single time I went outside the house. Within seconds, Mom and Dad Crow would fly from wherever they happened to be and pursue me with passion and irritatingly loud, chastising cackles. Eventually, something lured them over to the Gooby's field across the road, and they finally left me alone.

So, even though my birding experiences haven't been all good, but I'm still looking forward to learning more with the upcoming story assignment.