This Offbeat Life
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Backpacking by Bus

Snowbirds

by Gail Boysen

December 23, 1999

The last, brown, frost-crusted leaf reluctantly let go its hold of the mighty elm and floated mournfully to the now snow-covered ground. The bare gnarled branches offer no solace for the weary late season traveler as he perches in the skeleton bough to gather his bearings. Did he forget his map? Did he take a wrong turn along the way that starless night two days past? "South is that way. Or is it that way? Oh, bother," he chirps to himself, "I'll never make it to Florida in time for New Year's at this rate!"

Official birders and true hobbyists will be horrified at this little blurb, for I am but a casual observer of our fine-feathered friends. However, a layman's view, though lacking the skills to identify the subtle differences that separate the Osprey from the Golden Eagle, is at least entertaining. Okay, okay - the differences are blatantly obvious. The birds just won't hold still long enough for me to get my bird book out and confirm that what I saw is what I think I saw. And who ever has binoculars in focus when you need them? Besides, Florida has a species unknown anywhere else - no binoculars required - not in any North American bird chronicle on my shelves. Even Audubon never documented this unusual species in his fine paintings. Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself.

The Ocala National Forest is a haven for annual migrators as well as those here all year ëround. Warm weather, bright sunshine, lots of bugs (I mean LOTS of bugs), seeds and berries to eat. A plethora of ponds and lakes to fish, shorelines rimmed with pines, palmettos and tall grasses. It's a perfect vacation get away from the harsh winter months of the North. At least that's what the travel brochure promises. Our bird feeders are never unattended by a family of cardinals, all crimson for the winter decorating of our crepe myrtle tree, or a flock of grackles as they dance from feeder, to ground, to oak, and back again in a unified, choreographed ballet. The early morning mists hold the soulful cry of a faithful pair of red tailed hawks as they ready for the daily hunt, which silences the soft cooing of the mourning doves pecking at the dew covered grass, wary now that hungry eyes have taken wing. A parade of quail with momma in the lead and youngsters all in line, skitter across the yard and finches light upon the feeder posts and litter the deck with miniscule thistle seed husks, (along with other less pleasant things).

One of the most fascinating observances of the forest flocks is a roadside "tanning salon" for our resident turkey vultures. Every morning, as day begins to break, they congregate in the trees and sun themselves, heating their black plumage. They all without exception, turn their backs to the East, stretch out an impressive 6 foot wing span, and wait. When the time is right they take flight and spiral effortlessly among the thermals in a cloudless sky while searching for one of the many unfortunate nighttime casualties where the forest meets the asphalt and hesitation is a fatal mistake.

Now, talk about turkeys! No, not the one in the cubicle next to you. I mean real trotting Toms. On several occasions as I sped through the forest on my way home in the evening from work, I spied the mad dash of wild turkeys crossing the road. (This is not a converted "chicken" joke.) They float, as if their bodies were not attached to the frantic legs that carry them. It is a sight to behold in the distance - the smooth gait of these giant birds as they run through grasses that are easily 2 feet tall. They resemble feathered ships effortlessly sailing a gently swaying sea of golden reeds. Turkey trotting is the perfect description. I never understood it until I saw them.

My favorite bird observations come when I cut our grass. The dew sparkled hours of the morning are the only time the Florida heat allows a sane person to cut the lawn. Not that I claim to be sane, but the entertainment is well worth the early rise. Cattle egrets, all lacy white plumes with yellow and green stalk legs, will play with me as my mower scares up an "all you can eat" breakfast buffet. The dance of moths and grasshoppers back lit by the warm glow of the rising sun, combined with the flowing plumes of the egrets is beautiful. They light in the wake on the newly cut lawn, flitting and floating as they feast. Egrets, always elegant waders, even in feverish hunt, are graceful and whisper soft in motion, almost angelic. Winter slows the growth of the grass, so we don't get to play much. Come spring they will return, much to my delight.

There is a majestic fowl that clatters its arrival with loud arrogance, flaunts its brash calls and flinches for no one. Sand hill cranes swoop in small flocks or pairs upon our yard, often stealing the dried corn left for squirrel winter gathering. Now, I have two Great Danes who love to chase and run, but even they will not approach the towering cranes standing at least 4 feet tall from crest to claw, donned in formal gray and red. They are the most accommodating birds, allowing me to see them up close. Cool eyes staring, inviting me to come in for a look, taunting me as a dragonfly teases its pursuers, safely - just out of reach. They are here all year, but I have seen them in Alaska as well. I'm thinking it's typical that when you live in Florida, you're always inundated with winter visitors, no matter what species you are.

Florida does boast a sacred bird, seen no where else, that flocks here annually for the duration of the mean season. I can tell when winter chill is seeping in up North. They start to arrive in early September and linger easily until April. Snowbirds, we affectionately call them. Well, maybe it is not so affectionately. Some of them fly here on silver wings, but the majority make the long trek on the ground, slowly - painfully slow. If you have ever driven I-95 on a Sunday in December, you know this all too well. However, there is a battle ritual on certain nights where the mere thought of winning brings out the warrior in the most retiring of the species. All memory loss is momentarily in check and worn and weary limbs are young again, as well seasoned snowbirds track 10 cards at once and manage to jump to their feet shouting the victory cry, "Bingo!"

Snowbirds usually have gray or white crests, though some males have very little that is useful on top, thus the rather odd adaptation some researchers have called the "comb over". Females, on the other hand, are known to have an occasional blue crest, but it is generally a temporary condition that is attributed to a chemical imbalance. Their winter plumes consist of a wool sweater or two, polyester pants and white tennis shoes, though this does vary greatly depending on mental age and who dressed them in the morning.

Now you understand why these unusual birds are not recorded in my bird books. Each is unique, bearing the trophies of their age and the markings of life. Wise and laughing eyes adorned with crow's feet and wattles that are the envy of every self-respecting turkey. As in bird watching, I have found that if I spend time living among these wonderful creatures, overlooking the little messes they may leave and get to know them; letting them share with me just in their being themselves - my life is a bit richer for it.