I described to Robin the bird we were about to see. A Tropical Kingbird has landed in Magnussen Park, and the birding listservs are abuzz with the news. "Oh, a pecho amarillo. We saw those all over Costa Rica." Ask a local there what the name of a bird is, especially if it’s yellow. "Pecho amarillo," they’ll answer. Yellow chest. All yellow birds are pecho amarillos.
But I’d never seen one in North America. I have a bird list. I keep a count, at least on this continent. I try to maintain a humble attitude, in public anyway, about it. I claim to not know how many birds are on my list. I’m above all that. I list, but I don’t care that I list. Yeah, right. It’s really a way to be superiorly snobbish. What did I do the first thing when I got home? I opened up my Excel spreadsheet, with the official ABA list of North American birds, and ticked off Tropical Kingbird (Tyrannus melancholicus) with a checkmark. Come to think of it, I haven’t updated that list to include the 47th AOU supplement of North American birds. They split a couple species (Blue Grouse into Sooty and Dusky the most notable) so I may have an armchair tick coming.
But back to the Kingbird, blown in from who knows where. They’re an occasional vagrant in Washington, usually on the coast. I’ve been wondering when all these storms were going to blow something interesting our way. To see one, and count it on your North American list, one typically heads to Nogales, Arizona, and hope the bird hops across the border. What a treat one landed a mile from my house.
We parked and wandered behind Building 11 at the old Navy base on the north end. I spied some sparrows, and started working through them. Two women, with a spotting scope, headed my way with a quick, hopeful step. "Nope, I’m looking at sparrows. Haven’t seen it." I didn’t need to be any more specific than that. They knew why I was there, I I knew what they came for. From the other direction came another pair of birders. "It flew this way. It’s across the road." A moment later, we spied it, conspicuous on a snag. Thank goodness this is a kind of bird that likes to be seen. I looked at it through a scope. "Yep, there’s the notched tail. I sure wouldn’t have ever seen that on my own. I would have just called it a Western Kingbird." I never find rare birds on my own. The way I find rare birds is I look for suspiciously large groups of birders.
One of the artists from the craft fair next door came by. "What’ya looking at?" A bird that doesn’t belong here, we answered. "How’d you find it.?" Robin explained to him the process of how people find rare birds. "You look at birds and go, usual suspect, usual suspect, usual suspect, wait. That’s different." It was the most concise summary of the process of birdwatching I’d ever heard.
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