The waitress brought me my crab cakes, setting them next to my binoculars. I asked her, "What do you think of the crowd out there?" Do they ever come in to eat?"
"No, they don’t come in much. The first day, there was a big bunch of them parked, and I thought it’d be real busy. But they were all looking for that bird. We were trying to remember what it’s called. A Stemp or something?"
That would be a Red-necked Stint. It’s an Asiatic species that ought to be on its way to New Zealand. This bird made a really wrong turn somewhere, and ended up in the tidal bay across from the 3 Crabs Restaurant near Sequim. It is the first time the species has ever been seen in Washington State.
When I arrived with Elly (my mother-in-law), there were a half dozen spotting scopes and several expensive Canon camera lenses pointed to the water. The bird has been around for nearly a week. It arrives at the same time on the incoming tide to the same area of the bay, hanging around the Canada Geese. But not today.
Tourists would approach the group. "What are you looking at?" "We’re waiting for a rare bird," someone would explain, as though that would make us look sensible or something. Two women I talked to were from Kansas: "We were wandering sorta north and west, and here we are." "From Kansas?" "Oh no, we flew into Seattle. Is that the ocean?" Another woman was from Minnesota, and knew all about the Great Gray Owl invasion there last winter, though she never went to look for them herself.
I went into have lunch with Elly, who was parked at a window table with a view of the proceedings. She had a glass of champagne and her open journal and was quite content. After the meal I left her to her writing and joined the wait for the bird.
The woman next to me had wanted to come several days before, "but my wedding anniversary got in the way." The bird was not showing, and she seemed to be again regretting her priorities. Everyone out here appeared to know each other—it was something of the A-list of Northwest birders. While conversing we scanned every flock of peeps that flew by, looking for one that might be different.
The woman was getting restless. "Maybe we should check the pond again." I noticed that another group of birders, 10 yards down the beach, were suddenly intent, looking through their scopes all in the same direction. Someone ran down to check. Thumbs up: they had it.
It took me several minutes to locate the bird. "Look just to the left of the Killdeer," someone suggested. I saw several Western Sandpipers beyond the geese, and then one that looked different. A heavier coloration on its breast. If I imagined hard, it could be red. The other sandpipers chased it away. On my own, I never could have called this bird. At best, I would have labelled it a Pectoral Sandpiper. I helped someone else locate the bird, then looked through my neighbor’s scope, a Swarovski. I had instant scope lust. The scene was enormously brighter, and the bird had an unmistakable red wash on its throat and breast. I could see that it had a slightly shorter bill too than it ought to for its build. These were subtle field marks that were beyond my birding skill to find without help. Nonetheless, I was happy.
Elly noticed the change in demeanor of the group, and came out. I found the bird in the scope for her, and for some other civilians milling around. I packed the gear, feeling fulfilled at the tick on my list.
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