Reflections on the First Week of Spring – Robin Safari

3-4-18 Robin 6

 

    Boots thudded on the porch steps. The porch gate scraped across cement.

    Spence had left five minutes earlier for a day in Cleveland. Why was he back?

    The front door swung open, and Spence stepped inside. “Half a dozen robins are on the garage bank. You might want their picture.”

    “Ooooooooooooo.” In the past, robins arrived at Wells Wood in March, not February 21. Maybe the balmy temperatures, rising to 62ºF (17ºC) that afternoon, encouraged robins to come early. “Did they find any worms?”

    Spence adjusted his beret. “They hopped and flapped their wings. They’re males staking out territory.”

    “Thanks for coming back.”

    He winked and closed the door behind him.

    I pulled on a sweatshirt and boots, attached the zoom lens to my camera, and hurried outside. Wind whipped my hair, clanged all four wind chimes, and drove clouds across the morning sky. Deer Creek roared in the valley.

    Eyes scanning the grassy bank by the garage, I walked through the north garden and inhaled fragrance of humus. No robins. Not a single chirp or cheery-up cheerily. Maybe they flew to the south garden?

    I turned around.

    Behind the house, a robin hopped off the tractor path and disappeared between the old pine stand and the evergreen nursery.

    I hustled down the tractor path. Mud oozed onto my boots.

    The robin, on the ground below a white pine, spotted me and flew into the tree.

    I pointed the zoom lens.

    The automatic focus motor wound up and ground down. It couldn't focus with the robin behind twigs.

    I stepped to the side for a view with fewer twigs.

    The robin stepped behind a clump of needles.

    The lens wound up and ground down.

    Read the Nikon handbook and learn how to choose manual focus.

    Wouldn’t help with all the intervening branches.

    Lazy.

    Hush. I’m busy.

    The robin and I continued our slow dance three quarters of the way around the tree until I got an angle of him behind a single branch.

    I pointed the zoom lens at the robin and pushed the shutter release. The lens wound up and ground down, wound up and ground down, wound up and ground down. The camera couldn’t decide whether to focus on the branch or the bird. Sheesh. “Take the picture already,” I whispered to the camera.

    The shutter release clicked, and the robin soared to a maple at the edge of the woods.

    Eighty feet up amidst a slew of branches? No chance for a picture. Besides, I didn’t want to discourage the robin from choosing Wells Wood for his summer residence.

   When Spence came home later that night, I opened the single picture of the robin on my computer screen. “It’s not very good. I glimpsed the robin’s eye through the lens, but the automatic focus wouldn’t settle.”

    Spence squinted at the photo. “The red tummy’s obvious. But you’re right. The photo isn’t good.”

    For the rest of the week every time Spence opened the door, I said, “If you see a robin, let me know.”

    Thursday he said, “Okay.”

    Friday he said, “Do I have to come back right away? Can I tell you after my walk?”

    Saturday, he said, “If I see one, I tell it to fly over and tap on your window while you quilt.”

    Sunday George sneaked outside when Spence fetched firewood. Spence turned to me. “George said he has to go out and look for robins for you.”

    The following week, temperatures dropped to the fifties and high forties (9º–14ºC). I didn’t ask Spence to watch for robins, but I searched―in vain. At the end of the week, the temperatures dropped to freezing. Even though we’d never seen a robin in February before, I gave up on a robin story and roughed out a blog about our son’s birthday celebration.

    Placing a period for the last sentence, I glanced from my computer to Spence writing Rhino!↑. “Do you have time to listen to my story?”

    He tapped keys. “Give me a minute.”

    I looked through the sliding glass door into the sunny south garden. A black silhouette, the shape of a robin, scooted across the grass between the asparagus patch and the strawberry bed.

    Robin?

3-22-18 South Garden Robin 1

    I set my computer on the coffee table, threw on a jacket, and slipped my bare feet into boots. Grabbing my camera, I said, “I’ll be right back,” and dashed out the door.

    I tiptoed down the porch step―hard to do in boots, but I didn’t want to scare the bird.

    My boots crunched snow on the tractor path behind the house. So much for a quiet pursuit.

    The bird cocked its head over its shoulder and stared at me. That beady eye had to be a robin’s. If only I could see its breast.

    Keeping twenty yards between the bird and me, I focused and pressed the shutter release. Click. I inched through the garden.

    The bird adjusted its stance to keep its back to me.

    Sheesh. I giant stepped ahead of the bird and saw a bright red breast. I took a flurry of photos while I circled the robin and kept the twenty yard distance.

    It hopped under a fir tree.

    I stepped toward the tree, and another robin screeched a warning. It’s mate? I backed away. Maybe these robins would stay. Besides, I had a photo for a robin story. Start writing a story over again, or save the robin story for next week?

    Duh!

    I could save the robin story for a week. [See “Skunk Cabbage Birthday” March 4, 2018]

    But the next week a four hundred pound bear visited. [See “Sign of―Bump, Thump, Clunk―Winter’s End” March 12, 2018]

    Then we went to the Flower Show. [See “Escape to the Flower Show” March 18, 2018]

   And spring arrived.

   Spring? Perfect time for a robin safari.

    So Thursday, the second full day of spring, I bundled for the 34ºF (1ºC) sunny weather, and asked Spence, “Do you want to walk and look for robins?”

    “Sure.” He jumped off the sofa, jogged to the coat stand, and slipped into his boots. On the porch he said, “I’d look for robins by the garage.”

    I’d looked there before but followed his advice. My boots thudded against solid ground―too hard for worm snatching―then squished in grass―perfect for worm hunting.

    “There’s one.” Spence pointed to the yard behind the garage.

    The robin stared at us.

    “I’ll pretend I’m walking to the wood pile.” I held my camera in front of my chest. “You walk to the garage. We want the robin to think we’re not interested in it.”

    I walked to the wood pile, and Spence opened the basement door of the garage.

    The robin kept its beady eye on my zoom lens.

    From the wood pile, I angled back toward the yard.

    The robin hopped behind hazelnut trunks.

    I stepped.

    It hopped.

    Sheesh. Had the February 21 robin returned? After ten minutes of futile inching, I changed tactics. “Let’s search in the south garden.”

   Two robins flitted in the path above the old pepper patch.

   I inched toward them. One flew to the ash tree at the end of the garden. The other disappeared in the brush near the blueberry bushes. I baby stepped through the brush to flush the robin out. No black back. No red breast. No chirps. Determined, I walked to the ash tree. Spence followed, and the robin flew to the swale beyond the south garden.

   I inched after it.

    Keeping its back to me, the robin hopped away.

   Maybe this was the March 4 robin. I sighed. “Why won’t it turn it’s breast toward me for just a minute?”

    Spence chuckled. “Always leave an escape route.”

    I raised the camera to my eye and waited.

    The robin hopped.

    I took several photos.

    The robin looked at me and turned sideways.

    I took several more photos.

    The robin turned tummy toward me and glared.

    I took photos until a hawk shrieked in the sky.

    The robin zoomed to a hawthorn tree.

   Unlike the February 21 robin, this robin should stay―if I didn’t harass it any more. I put the cap on the lens and motioned for Spence to walk with me along the road. “This robin’s had enough stress for one day.”

3-22-18 South Garden Robin 4