Don't know how much of a blip this'll make on the cosmic radar, but given my impending move to Mongolia, I'm going to gently retire this blog. But lest my 2.5-3 readers find that this news dictates they be placed on Suicide Watch, be well comforted: I've begun another.

The new blog is called Dreaming of Danzan Ravjaa and you can find it here. It will cover religion, culture, adventure and, of course, the birdlife I encounter during my stay in Mongolia. I've already begun posting, to give some background to this crazy enterprise, but don't actually arrive until March 19 (in time for spring migration!)

I think Surfbirds is a fabulous site and I thank them not only for giving me this space for my inarticulate babblings, but for the others who shared their avian exploits in corners of the world I may never visit.

And if you ever find yourself in Ulaan Baatar (don't pooh-pooh it -- you never know, believe me), look me up and we'll sling on the bins and tromp the steppe.

Now, if I could just encounter lifer #500 (might be the Northern Shrike that was just reported 20 miles east of Flagstaff!)...

Internet queries had kicked up a guy named Chris who was willing to squire me about for a day of birding the legendary mid-coast Delaware refuges and environs. We did so yesterday, a freakishly warm day that seemed to hold such promise. The list of possible lifers was mouth-watering: Short-eared and Snowy Owl, Eurasian Wigeon, Snow Bunting, Lapland Longspur, Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrow, Sedge Wren, Clapper Rail, and a just-reported, super-rare Barnacle Goose!

Well, Caesar-like, I will reserve ornate descriptions only for my triumphs. Suffice to say I breezed by the description in the guidebook of these refuges' "lull in January". Even so, many of these species had been reported just days previously, but somehow we bombed on the lot.

Except Snowy Owl.

We started at a place called Port Mahon, along a road that parallels a vast marsh that recently was the site for a reported group of 11 (!) Short-eared Owls hassling a Snowy. A thorough scan produced about a billion acres of short reeds...and a distant harrier. A drive to the end of the road provided the added excitement of one juvenile Great Black-backed Gull.

On the drive out, Chris suddenly yelped and stomped on the brake. There, on a piling not twenty yards to our left, and regarding us with haughty disdain, sat a fabulously gorgeous 1st year female Snowy Owl. With the backdrop of the mists rising off the bay, it will be an indelible memory.

And that, bird #499, had to sustain us for the rest of the day.

I will say that Chris was a perfectly amiable companion, with the ardent zeal of the recent convert, and the little fishing and farming villages in that area are utterly charming. It was a fine day out, even if it ended with scanning thousands of Canada Geese against fading light, at an uncomfortable distance prescribed by private property lines, for an uncooperative Barnacle and what may or may not have been a Northern Shrike; I just think my next visit to the area will be when it's not in quite such a "lull".

Looks like I'm going to Mongolia for sure, with a working departure date of March 19 on a indefinite stay. So my little typing fingers have been busy with far-flung correspondence and mad research. I'm now at the point of recognizing I'll never be ready; I just gotta hold my nose, squinch my eyes and jump.

One cool outcome is contact from a dude named Axel, who bills himself as the Oriental Bird Club rep for Austria and Germany. A hotly contested posting, I'm sure, but he dropped a veritable crapload of high-quality intel on me from his extensive experience birding Mongolia. Invaluable. He gets a big ol' nomad bear hug from me.

So. In between dreams of Clamorous Reed-Warbler, White-backed Woodpecker, and Mongolian Lark, I've been doing a bit of birding here on a family visit to Maryland that I neglected when I actually lived here.

Squired by Brit-twitcher Stuart, I reserved yesterday to bird a classic route from Ocean City, MD up to Broadkill Marsh in southern Delaware.

Nearing the shore, got a drive-by pair of Mute Swans as ABA birds.

We began in earnest at the Ocean City inlet with Stuart quickly snapping up a life Great Cormorant posing on a pylon. Moseying up the jetty, the seaduck population proved a little thin. Nevertheless, I added American Oystercatcher and Ruddy Turnstone to my list while Stuart ticked Purple Sandpiper. Isn't it funny how bird flocks act so differently in various locations? The PUSA's I saw in Maine were nervous birds careening in tiny squadrons from one distant rock outcropping to another. Here at the inlet, they were virtually kicking you aside to get at the little mussels blanketing the rocks.

Both Stuart's and my crests fell a bit, though, as our most hankered-for species -- White-winged Scoter for him and King Eider for me, failed to put in an appearance, nor would they the rest of the day (nor any alcids, for that matter). But I made the comment to him that maybe those birds are too good and we don't quite deserve them yet. He knew what I meant.

Next stop was Assowoman Wildlife Area, just into Delaware. I had only one thing on my mind -- Brown-headed Nuthatch. I was always under the impression that they only occured much further south, but this was supposed to be a hotspot for them. The whole experience was marvelous, walking cool winter-pine woods, tracking the little chips and twitters that promise a mixed foraging flock. You know how it is. There's nothing there and then suddenly you're surrounded. Carolina Chickadees, Golden-crowned and Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Tufted Titmice, Cardinals, Brown Creepers, Eastern Towhees, Carolina Wrens, and Downy and Red-bellied Woodpeckers all competing for your attention at once. And then one bird alights and starts to corkscrew around a branch and you know you've got it. A gorgeously sunlit nuthatch, completing the set. Wonderful.

Proceeding to Indian River inlet, we were again puzzled by the sparse seaducks and grebes and I dipped on hoped-for Snow Bunting. But ~50 dark shapes out on a marsh revved my motor, and sure enough, there were my life Brants.

Tight on sunlight, we bagged Cape Henlopen and zipped up to Broadkill Marsh, part of Prime Hook National Wildlife Refuge. Main targets were Seaside and Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrow, but it was tough sledding. Light was waning and it was chilly; most of the sparrows were already hunkered down for the night.

But missing them was more than made up for by the unexpected spectacle of Prime Hook's roosting Snow Geese. Driving up to the beach, you pass an impoundment on the right and some open marshwater opposite. Cast across the surface of the impoundment is such a tightly-packed extravagance of geese that, at first, you literally don't know what you're looking at.

When we first arrived, there were, I guess, 20-30,000 Snow Geese floating and honking. But as we searched for sparrows and waited to see if a Short-eared Owl might commence its nightly hunt, thousands upon thousands more streamed in from their feeding spots, huge ragged lines strewn across every horizon. I can't even hazard a guess how many geese this location supports, but 100,000 wouldn't surprise me.

The most jaw-dropping moment came, however, when something disturbed the distant flock. We were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, scanning the vast short-reed marsh. Slowly, in a rolling crescendo, lifted a sound like what you would imagine from a capacity crowd at the Roman Colliseum, as two favorite charioteers thunder neck and neck, whipping their horses and each other around the final turn. But higher, more primal, like a host of angels registering some kind a cosmic surprise. Looking toward the sound's source, a far line of trees hid the impoundment. Geese crested the treetops in undulating ascension, billowing with graceful alarm until finally settling back, like a vast parachute freed from its undertension.

There are times when nature amuses or puzzles you, and then there are times when it overwhelms you with splendor. Never forget it as long as I draw breath.

Woke up this morning and had to brush fresh snow off my windshield so I could go get cat food for my little yowling girl. Sullen clouds obscured the hilltops all day until I finished my errands and meetings and could scamper out to the Sedona Wastewater ponds.

It's been bitter at higher elevations and I reasoned that since the lakes and ponds are reported to be frozen over, the cool waterfowl would be wintering here in the valley.

Approaching the first large pond, I saw a new bird for the patch, Canada Goose, believe it or not. But then a large, slumbering lump among the usual suspects caught my attention.

And there I was, squinting through the freezing drizzle at a Common Loon and for a split second I thought, "How the hell'd I get to Minnesota?" It's an excellent bird for the valley. The local guidebook says the last observation was '96, though there may well be other records.

I last saw one back in March of 2002 (I think. There may have been an intervening sighting at Ashurst in between) but it was roundly ignored because we had driven 3 hours to Lake Havasu to witness the stunning sight of a Yellow-billed Loon diving within 20 feet of the dock where we stood.

Departure would likely be May or June, starting in Ulan Bator and working west. I'd like to correspond with anyone who has experience birding these areas. I'd also appreciate up-to-date info on the best guidebooks, etc.

And fear not. I'll take my pooter and blog from the wilds!

My friend Gary and his partner Ingrid have just traded one artsy/hippie AZ oasis (Jerome) for another (Patagonia). Patagonia (and the adjacent Sonoita Creek Preserve) is, of course, one of the many legendary birding spots in Santa Cruz County, which borders Mexico.

In one (probably unrepeatable) episode last May, I picked up Violet-crowned Hummingbird, Northern Beardless-tyrannulet, Gray Hawk, Thick-billed Kingbird, Black-bellied Whistling Duck, Common Ground-dove, Neotropic Cormorant, Black-capped Gnatcatcher, Rose-throated Becard and Varied Bunting as lifers one morning before breakfast, also picking up Yellow-billed Cuckoo as a state bird. Can you imagine?

None of these birds are present this time of year, but I had good results nonetheless. Still full from Thansgiving dinner, the first order of business on Friday morning was speeding back to San Pedro House, since I wasn't with Tom Linda and his aura of kingfisher-repellent.

At Kingfisher Pond there were a couple of birders, including two photographers at the far shore, crouching over mammoth lenses. We circled around to them and one asked, "Are you looking for the kingfisher?" "You bet," I replied. "It's just on the shore here. You should be able to see it over this rise."

One of them tried to get the bird to flush back, but merely succeeded in getting it to some low snags in the middle of the pond. I gave the remaining photographer a wide berth and settled in a spot where I had a stunning, full sunlight view of the bird, watching it dive for little fish. The scarier-looking photographer came around and I said, "I am so sorry I spoiled your shot."

He fairly spat, "Well, when there's a rare bird, you don't go Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! and 'Hey, Gary, over here!' You circle around it and go slow!"

"You're right," I said. "I really apologize."

"Uh," he said, and stalked off.

And he was right. It was about the most thoughtless, inconsiderate thing I'd done in my birding career. I was so intent on seeing the bird for me, I lost sight of the scene around me. It was a hard lesson learned, and one I won't repeat.

Gary and I slunk off, and crossed the Coronado trail below the Huachucas to bird the San Rafael Grasslands on the way home. This is an amazing spot, in which I had previously seen my life Chestnut-collared Longspur and White-tailed Kite. We sought McCown's and Lapland Longspurs (seen this fall) and Short-eared Owl (seen last year). Dipped on those, but I had the most gorgeous look I've ever had at a perched Prairie Falcon near the border hamlet of Lochiel.

Yesterday morning, we birded the areas around Patagonia Lake itself. Birders flooded the zone to tick the lingering Black-capped Gnatcatchers on their ABA list, and no wonder. But we didn't have any particular targets, though Gary half-hoped to see the reported Louisiana Waterthrush, which would have been a lifer for that California boy.

No go on the waterthrush and we were preparing to leave when Gary peeled off to answer nature's call. I dithered near the reed-lined shore and was nearly forced into an involuntary natural act myself when a huge brown bird burst out of the reedbed.

"Holy cow!" I shouted. "Gary! Bittern!"

Turns out all he heard was "Holy cow!" and he thought I was goofing around because there were, in fact, free-ranging cattle milling about.

But he joined me in the hunt, and we managed to flush the bird again from a different reedbed, a gorgeous American Bittern, a lifer (I think) for Gary and a really smokin' AZ bird for me.

On the way home this morning, I dropped into Sweetwater Wetlands and pretty easily picked up the juvie female Chestnut-sided Warbler that had been seen by a few there. Another very good AZ bird.

Can't wait to return, esp. as I'm feeling fairly feverish as I approach my 500th life bird (the kingfisher was #494)!

So, since it was intermittently pouring yesterday, the only logical move was to go birding. Actually, the first plan to head up to the Grand Canyon area to take advantage of the Pine Grosbeak irruption was aborted by mental images of us slowly succumbing to hypothermia in a battered Nissan, an ignoble end. But try as I might to ignore a report of Lawrence's Goldfinches within striking distance, greater forces compelled me to strap on my galoshes and go.

Arizona rain often falls in waves, for which I was grateful. Meant I could dash about when it cleared. This I did, finding the CG thrush-rich. Cedar Waxwings, my favorite bird and one you don't see every day in these parts, worked on stripping the hackberries, while American Robins, Hermit Thrushes and Western Bluebirds haggled over the ripe junipers (odd not to see a Townsend's Solitaire among such riches). Woodpeckers aplenty (most Gila and Ladder-backed) cackled amongst the cottonwoods, but I shoved them aside in pursuit of a smokin' lifer.

Found the sycamore grove, just where the report called it, next to an ancient, and still working, irrigation canal. Goldfinches, in fact, were zipping here and there, pausing to nibble on the balls (oh, it's too easy). But I didn't see nothin' that looked like a Lawrence's. I lost confidence, though, not having seen one before, so I slopped back to the car to consult Sibley about whether they had a secret winter plumage I had missed. Nope, not really. Back I traipsed, squinting at every sycamore.

No dice. I don't think they'd be mistakable if you actually saw one, which I haven't, in like a zillion tries. However, to my more minor delight, most of the goldfinches revealed themselves to be Americans. I don't think I've seen an AMGO in AZ since a CBC in 2000, and here were a couple dozen. So the day wasn't a total loss. A nice bird for the area, an introduction to a fabulous new habitat that I'm totally going to scour this spring, and a rare chance to walk in my door and say, "Whew! I'm soaked!"

Might catch LAGO's this weekend when I spend Thanksgiving weekend at my friend's new house in Patagonia. They've also been reported in the Catalina Mountains NE of Tucson. Full report upon my return.

1. Eared Grebe
2. Pied-billed Grebe
3. Great Blue Heron
4. Black-crowned Night Heron
5. White-faced Ibis
6. Canada Goose
7. Snow Goose
8. Ross’ Goose
9. Mallard
10. Northern Pintail
11. American Wigeon
12. Northern Shoveler
13. Green-winged Teal
14. Canvasback
15. Redhead
16. Ring-necked Duck
17. Greater Scaup
18. Bufflehead
19. Ruddy Duck
20. Hooded Merganser

Got off a little later than planned Friday, the first stop being the Rousseau Sod Farms east of Phoenix, chasing reported Lapland and McCown's Longspurs. Neither of us thought we had been there, but when we approached, we realized we had just blocked it out as a coping mechanism. Some time last year, we had spent more time than grown men ought sorting through American Pipits, looking for a reported Sprague's. Now you have to understand, "sorting through" means scanning what seems like about 5000 acres of flat grass and irrigation pipes. Put in scientific terms, there were >1 zillion pipits, sprinkled with Killdeer, Least and Western Sandpipers, Horned Larks, Great-tailed Grackles and Brewer's Blackbirds. But no longspurs, despite about 2 hours' search. We grumped out of there and on to Willcox. Checked in at a Motel 8. For those of you overseas, this is funny because all over America is a chain called "Motel 6". So we reveled in being situated in a room that was 2 better. Sampled the local BBQ, the result of which was 36 hours of Krakatoan flatulence. In certain situations, that might be horrifying. For two guys on a birding trip, it was endlessly funny.

For years, I have read that ~20,000 cranes winter in the area south of Willcox known as the Sulphur Springs Valley. This year, I decided the only way to break my crushing post-election funk was to go see them. Following general directions, we cruised down Kansas Settlement Road. Hearing the sound, we stopped and there was my first magnificent handful. Feeling pleased, we continued on until we heard a louder batch. Stopped again. And here they came. And came. And came. At the height of the influx, at least 1000 cranes wheeled and trumpeted in the sky above us in this strangely orderly chaos, flooding my mind with indescribable pleasure. It hardly registered that I also picked up my life Chihuahuan Raven.

Reluctantly moving on, we aimed east toward the mighty Chiricahua Mountains, a towering sky island that provided the last refuge for Geronimo and Cochise. Our reason for going was more mundane, but compelling nonetheless. This is the only spot in the ABA area to pick up Mexican Chickadee and Yellow-eyed Junco. We found the first at Pinery Campground and the second at Rustler Park higher up (high enough even for a dusting of snow). The orangey-yellow eyeball on the junco, set against its black mask, gives it an unsettlingly homicidal look. We skedaddled. On the way down, after arguing over who would be Elton John and who Kiki Dee, we sang "Junco breaking my heart", "I couldn't if I tried..."

Down to the valley again for a closer inspection of the cranes at Whitewater Draw Wildlife Area. This large drainage is where the cranes loaf in the afternoon and roost at night. Nothing prepared me for the sight and sound of thousands upon thousands of cranes landing, launching, cruising about, and dancing. They lined the entire far shore, 5-10 deep. I was simply awestruck.

Further investigation produced an unexpected lifer, Cassin's Sparrow, and the amazing sight of a Great Horned Owl perched atop a snag next to a Vermillion Flycatcher. Taking a last look before we left, two whopping, dark gulls flew in. Scope inspection showed them to be an excellent state bird, Herring Gulls.

Off to the west, settling in Sierra Vista for the night. Up nice and early for a visit to the San Pedro House area of the San Pedro Riparian Watershed. This corridor follows the only river in America that flows south-north (update--AZ birding guru Mark Stevenson writes in to tell me the Willamette River in Oregon flows S-N. Perhaps there are others...). 350 species of birds have been recorded here, but we were after one little demon--the Green Kingfisher. Schlepped ourselves out to Kingfisher Pond, looked and looked and looked. Nada. The kingfisher had been one of Tom's top nemesis birds. Now, after three different attempts to locate one, it's becoming mine. Of course, the sightings book reported it each of several previous days. Next time I look for it, I'm leaving Tom in the car.

Ah, well. No birding trip would feel complete without at least one visit to a wastewater treatment plant. So we drove to Avra Valley south of Tucson, dreaming of the American Bittern, a very rare visitor to the state, that had been reported. As we tromped out, the sky cleared but a massive wind whipped up (wastewater ponds don't exactly produce "white"caps). Tons of waterfowl, including two state birds for me, Hooded Merganser and Greater Scaup, but all the windblown squinting in the world couldn't produce the bittern (hadn't been seen for days).

That wrapped it up. 99 species observed; 911 miles logged. Five lifers and three Arizona birds for me, some new habitats and a soul-cleansing for Tom. Can't wait to go back!

Full trip list in separate post.

What's the farthest you've driven just to dip on a bird?

My trip to SE AZ starts Friday morning, now accompanied by friend Tom Linda. We've agreed that seeing the Sandhill Cranes is a pilgrimage to assuage our souls, which are constricted in post-election grief. The longspurs seem to be hanging, and who knows what else? Full report on Monday.

The only bright spot this week is a planned trip down to mythic southeast Arizona this coming weekend seeming to coincide with excellent birds. On sod farms east of Phoenix, folks are finding Chestnut-collared, McCown's and Lapland Longspurs. The latter two would be lifers. And at the Avra Valley Wastewater Treatment Plant west of Tucson lurks an American Bittern, a really good state bird.

But that's merely icing. In order to cope with recent events, I'm giving myself marching orders to go see the thousands of Sandhill Cranes that winter near Willcox. I've never seen the cranes and I'm dying to. But I can't look at cranes all weekend. So the plan is to bird around the Sulphur Springs Valley south of Willcox and into the western slopes of the Chiricahua Mountains. Many more lifers are likely: Chihuahuan Raven, Scaled Quail, Long-billed Curlew, Yellow-eyed Junco and Mexican Chickadee, with Hail Maries on Short-eared Owl and Mountain Plover.

I've never been to the far southeast, even though everyone raves about the Chiricahuas (I'll have to return there in season for Buff-bellied Flycatcher and Short-tailed Hawk). Full report when I return.

It continues to astound me what birds will arrive almost at my doorstep here in Arizona's high desert. A commitment to do some work last weekend to remove He Who Shall Not Be Named from the White House, I couldn't hop on a trip with my buds who went down south to catch an extremely rare Ruff reported at a shrimp farm. Of course, while they were ruffing it, they also saw Black-bellied and Snowy Plover as well as a Vaux's Swift.

Yes, kids, that would have made a four-lifer trip for me. Well, yesterday turned my frown upside-down.

I made a late dash for the amazingly productive Ashurst Lake, startled along the way by a Northern Goshawk swooping in front of me. I was urged along by a morning report of nine Stilt Sandpipers, pretty respectable for AZ. Met my friend Tom and we scanned. The catch was strong: 20 American Avocets, six Red-necked Phalaropes, three Greater Yellowlegs, two Lesser Yellowlegs, a screeching horde of Killdeer, tons of coots 'n' ducks...but no stilts. Undaunted (but with light waning), we took a deeper, more careful look. Homed in on a bird that wasn't hanging with, or behaving like, the yellowlegs. Close inspection revealed it to be, in fact, a juvie stilt. Bam!

But then Tom squinched up at the scope looking at a little peep. I peeped it too. Dark legs, scaly back pattern, necklacy markings around the throat, short, stubby bill, almost no neck...well, damn! A juvie Semi-palmated Sandpiper!

Two lifers for an hour's birding...and Tom treated to Thai food later! Fabulous way to end the day.

Update -- Here's the Sanderling. Mr. Estis takes a hell of a nice photo, doesn't he?

Got caught behind an agonizingly slow Missourian going up Oak Creek Canyon but eventually braked in a cloud of dust at the lake's south end. Hustling down to lakeside, the first birds I saw were two Willets. Excellent birds, my first for the county, and I nearly kicked them aside to get in position for the other.

Scanning the lake revealed small knots of ducks, four White-faced Ibis, a Wilson's Phalarope and some distant terns, but not the prize I sought.

Then BAM! everything scattered. "What the hell," I thought, just as a Peregrine Falcon streaked in like a missile and terrorized the lake for a few minutes. It felt like concrete hardening in my chest as the "everyone's-going-to-have-seen-this-bird-but-me" fugue tuned up in my head.

I shambled away, thinking I'd just drive to other side of the lake and see if one of the terns was a Common, which I need for ABA. Next thing I knew I was in a cartoonish, eyeball-popping freeze. There, happily feeding on the bank, stood my bird: a juvenile Long-tailed Jaeger.

The bird was so fearless, I came within 10 yards and just drank it in--the complex plumage and the fact that it was even there at all. Checking in at the Arizona Bird Committee site, it seems that this is the 11th state bird seen in 9 sightings, three of which had been found dead. The last record was from 1996. A great lifer and a massive bird for Arizona.

But check this out. In Arizona, middle of the desert, no coastline, I have seen my life Yellow-billed Loon, Sabine's Gull, White-winged and Surf Scoters, Pacific Loon, and now the jaeger. I think this is #316 for the state, having lived here less than four years.

In my excitement, I didn't even look hard for another potential lifer that had been seen there today, a juvie Sanderling. But my friend and I will go back tomorrow morning early. Stay tuned...

I was in Flagstaff yesterday on business. What business, you ask? Well, interviewing someone for a magazine story I'm writing on alpaca ranching (really). But you probably already guessed that.

Anyway, my friend Tom and I arranged to zip out for a late afternoon scan of Ashurst Lake. Seemed quiet at first, save the ubiquitous Osprey and three interesting blobs at the south end.

Driving there, the blobs magically became very nice birds -- three Marbled Godwits. Admiring those, we watched a flitty flock make its way toward us from the north side. I should have known that the Eternal Axiom of Birding was in play -- after you see a lifer once, you see the bird everywhere. In this case, a delightful flock of 11 Black Terns, eventually joined in aerobatic competition by several Common Nighthawks.

I was really digging all this, kind of mesmerized by the feeding terns, lulled by the sunset, when Tom's voice shouts, "Dagnabbit!"

I turned to see him near water's edge, shin-deep in rich, black, volcanic muck and doing those moves where you try to haul a foot out but all that happens is you spring back to your original position. I wanted to help, really I did, but I figured what use would I be when I couldn't even see through my tears of laughter?

Tom made it out, his boots encased in three inches of cold mud. I tried to cheer him up by observing that once he peeled the mud off, he'd have the prettiest feet in Flagstaff. His look suggested that he was seriously weighing whether to drive me back to town.

But, as we know, karma is as karma does.

Scanning among the mobs of breeders, I counted 27 loafing Double-crested Cormorants (one of the funniest moments in my early birding career was proudly announcing to my housemate that I had just seen my first Double-necked Cormorant...) and then was startled by a mass of white. Closer inspection revealed ~75 Black-necked Stilts, flying and landing, flying and landing, as though they were being manipulated from above by a single set of strings.

Then, near the far shore (of course) I saw a patch of white on a snag. I could make out it was a tern, somewhat small with a black cap and white body, leaving really only two likely choices.

So, what did I do? Got down to the nearest point to it and waited for it to fly. For an hour. And then quick as a wink, it did. I scrambled up and tracked it along the shore, alarming some domestic geese into raucous honking, and then I stopped and concentrated. Really staring, I was trying so hard to pick out the salient details that I barely registered a rush of wings, an audible grunt (I swear) and thwack! something the size of a ping-pong ball hit the front of my right shoulder.

For the first time in my birding life, I'd been dive-bombed with bird poop. I whirled about, but the culprit had disappeared (though, by the looks of its missile, a duck). By the time I regained my composure enough to check back for the tern, it had returned to its inscrutable perch. I'm fairly sure I heard Tom's laughter on the wind.

Thirty minutes later, the bird got into motion again, and I determined it was a Forster's Tern, not the Common I need for a state bird. But still. Some nice sightings and a story that made me chuckle all the way home.