The Big Yard: Birdwatching in a Time of Quarantine

Or: The Evolution of a Pajama Lister

Once an early 20th century homestead and “cow camp” owned by the Foster family, the San Pedro House became part of the 40-mile San Pedro Riparian National Conservation Area in 1988.

Day 307 of the Quarantine (January 15, 2021)

The water truck has delivered another 4000 gallons, the fifth tank filling in so many months.  Less than an inch of rain has fallen since last August.  La Nina.  The trough of the Pacific Ocean’s southern oscillation.  Meteorologists say not to expect much moisture until April, which, I note, is the start of our foresummer drought.

            The Covid fountain is going to be very popular at distracting the local wildlife.  If we don’t run out of water.

After a ten-minute drive to the San Pedro House, I hike to the cottonwood-choked river to try to find a rare Pacific wren frequenting the logjam where I spotted the waterthrush three weeks ago.  I’ve seen the bird before, but never in Cochise County or even Arizona, so it would make a nice addition to those lists.  I mask up at the parking area, although no one else is here, feeling a bit silly, like when I’m driving down the road with my mask on.  No matter.  I don’t care about wearing my bleeding heart on my face.

Common Ground Dove, one of the more “uncommon” doves you’re likely to see at the San Pedro House.

The Song Sparrow is a very common year-round resident along the San Pedro River.

The House Wren, another regular inhabitant of the area seen all year long.

This one, the Green-tailed Towhee, forages in the river’s dry, brushy margins in the winter months.

            I stand in the warm sun just upriver from the logjam and scan the tangled bank for movement, holding my camera between my knees and lifting binoculars to my eyes.  Song sparrows dart among the grasses and drop to the dark water for drinks.  Gila woodpeckers call from the cottonwoods as if playing with squeaky toys.  When a wren materializes out of the fallen branches, I grab my camera.  The right look, I think, enlarging an image, but too gray.  Probably a house wren.  I check the iBird app on my phone to be sure.

            Then, while I’m looking at my phone, I catch a glimpse of cinnamon shooting through the tangle.  I wait, holding my breath.  Nothing.  I go back to my iBird app, look around to see if other birders are nearby, and play the call of a Pacific wren.  A tiny dark wren pops out and poses on a blanched log, looking straight at me with one beady eye.  I turn off the recording and snap dozens of pictures while it stands its ground with cocked tail and raised beak, an attitude that says, “I may be puny but I’m adorable.”

            I discovered the effectiveness of recorded bird song years ago when I’d occasionally encounter a birdwatcher at some hotspot who would ask my permission to use it.  That’s when I learned about iBird and the protocol.  Ask in the presence of others, play only snippets, be aware of places that ban playback.  It’s a powerful tool, luring shy birds into the open with the call of a potential rival or mate.  And it’s controversial.  Even “pishing” (making a sound with your mouth and lips like a scold or alarm call to attract birds) and mimicking bird calls—I’ve noticed how tooting like a pygmy owl drives titmice batty. 

The debate stems from questioning how much impact we should have on wildlife.  How disruptive we want to be as we do what we love.  Sitting quietly behind a window watching a goldfinch-clustered thistle feeder may not have the same impact as hiking into the woods and broadcasting the territorial song of an elegant trogon.  But fundamentally, birdwatching disturbs birds. 

            I think about this on my way home, stopping first at Tractor Supply to pick up more birdseed.

Preferring wet and shady places, the Pacific Wren was recently split from the nearly identical Winter Wren of the eastern US.

The San Pedro River is important to more than its hundreds of species of birds. From black bear to beaver, coati, ring-necked snakes, and ringtails, the river is home to more animal species than the entire Yellowstone National Park.

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