Monday, May 30, 2005

Dendroica striata

The metallic "tsst tsst tsst tsst" song of the blackpoll warbler greeted me this morning as I left the house. Numbers of warblers just passing through are dwindling, but these old buddies of mine have paid me a longer than expected visit--I've been hearing them all month. The other day I was treated to a serenade (okay he probably wasn’t singing to me) from a male perched just 3 feet above my head. His throat rippled as he sang.

Blackpoll warblers are remarkable:

  • "The song of the male blackpoll Warbler is one of the highest-pitched of all birds.
  • Part of the fall migratory route of the Blackpoll Warbler is over the Atlantic Ocean from the northeastern United States to Puerto Rico, the Lesser Antilles, or northern South America. This route averages 3,000 km (1,864 mi) over water, requiring a potentially nonstop flight of up to 88 hours. To accomplish this flight, the Blackpoll Warbler nearly doubles its body mass and takes advantage of a shift in prevailing wind direction to direct it to its destination" (Cornell Lab of Ornithology 2005).

Two summers ago I spent seven weeks crawling through young spruce fir forests searching for blackpoll nests as part of a research team. Their nests are about the size of half a biscuit. The females are silent, striped, and brownish green. Unlike many species they do not spook when you come close to their nests--they freeze and just blend into the foliage. The only way to find them is to search every tree. Hmmm. Let's just say that the mosquitoes and black flies had the most success that summer.

So, does the "tsst tsst tsst tsst" cause me to shudder, or smile? Smile of course; it's a pretty high quality problem to have to spend your days looking for birds. Biting insects build character (!).

Tonight I heard the work that I do equated with a religion, and not in a positive way--in a contemptuous way. A contemptuous and careless rejection, delivered in an off-hand manner by someone who I wish could respect me. "The environmental religion." No matter how many degrees and accolades and qualifications are in my toolbox, some will forever write off the work that I do as anything but science, anything but thoughtful. It will always be childish and naive. It doesn't have to be a contemptous comparison: there are parallels between what I do and what a devout person does--it takes a lot of faith to push against a tide. I aspire to have the strength to dialogue about this one day with people that I fear. Put me in front of a class or an audience or in front of a computer and I'll happily debate the hours away in person and on paper. But with some people--oof. It's so dangerous, human, hopeless to crave respect--rejection catches me off guard and makes me retreat, snail like, into a constricted shell.

The annual spring migration is coming to an end. Next up: a little sunshine, a little thunder, and summer.

Addendum:

It turns out the misery I felt while writing this entry was the result of a misunderstanding, thankfully resolved through the miracle of email. Offense was felt on both sides, though neither meant to offend. It seems that exposing sore feelings can in fact lead to mutual understanding--perhaps next time I'm in this situation I'll remember that.