The Big Yard: Birdwatching in a Time of Quarantine

Or: The Evolution of a Pajama Lister

Our snowy, 1890s stone cottage under the oaks in the Mule Mountains.

Day 318 of the Quarantine (January 26, 2021)

            Today’s contemplation at the Covid fountain: It must seem to the birds that I am a bottom-dweller, a two-dimensional being, sculling under an inaccessible ocean of air.  That is, if the birds have any consideration of me at all.

            My eBird reporting streak has surpassed 300 checklists, 300 continuous daily submissions despite the travel days and hotels when I could only check off pigeons and house sparrows, despite the days spent remodeling my daughter’s Flagstaff kitchen when I counted mostly juncos and crows, despite the days of distractions that didn’t involve birds at all.  Call it an obsession.

            My yard list of late averages only 20 birds, Cassin’s finches being the only rarity among the thrushes, nuthatches, jays, and four species of woodpeckers.  The yard breathes a sigh of relief—as does my budget for seed, suet, and sugar.  One cold and lonely male Anna’s frequents the nectar feeder, which during fall migration might look like a beehive with as many as 12 kinds of hummingbirds buzzing and chirping as they vie for access to ports.

            But this morning the outside thermometer reads 28 degrees, and the hummingbird feeder is icy slush, reminding me to step up the sugar concentration.

The Cassin’s Finch, an uncommon winter visitor from western US and Canada.

Another winter visitor to the yard, the more common Hermit Thrush, whose summer breeding range extends into northern Canada and Alaska.

My favorite winter visitor, the Red-breasted Nuthatch, will stick around until late spring,

The White-breasted Nuthatch is a regular inhabitant of mixed woods though Arizona and most of the US. I generally see them in the yard only in winter.

One of the seven “woodpeckers” I see in the yard, the Red-naped Sapsucker only visits in winter.

Acorn Woodpeckers—all clown-faced and laughter—are in the yard every day, all year long.

Although common across the US year-round and Canada in summer, the Northern Flicker graces my yard only in winter.

A Pacific cold front drags in rain and snow, screaming as it were, breaking the five-month drought that has emptied my wells and water tanks.  Seven inches of snow fell yesterday evening while the wife worked at her office.  About midnight I got a text that she was on her way home.  When I asked about snow, she said she hadn’t been outside since 5 pm.

            “Better check,” I pecked into my phone.  “Might be stuck in the parking lot.”

            She figured she could continue working through the night if that was the case, but she found only puddles.  “Warm up the bed!” she texted.  “If I am not home in an hour...er...well...”

            After telling her to be careful coming up the mountain, I pulled on my jacket and boots and went outside.  No tracks marked our road.  Beneath a waxing gibbous moon, a silver-whiteness laid a path through the oaks to the highway.  No snowplow scraped blacktop in the canyon, at least within hearing.

            I grabbed my keys and a brush from the dustpan and began sweeping snow from the Forester.  Gusting wind blew ice crystals in my face as I climbed inside and started the engine.  My tires were new.  Hers were not.  I drove up the hill to the highway and waited, engine running, high beams pointed downcanyon.  The snowplow had piled a berm along the shoulder.

            Hers were the only lights on the road, and when she saw me and turned into the pullout, the Crosstrek fishtailed through the deep snow and slid up next to me.  She wasn’t going any farther.

            This morning she sleeps in.  Her car is a giant white mound by the highway.

The Anna’s Hummingbird is the only hummingbird in my yard brave enough to deal with winter temperatures as low as the teens.

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