The Spotting Scope

Recently, a kind friend loaned us a spotting scope, I believe partly to keep me occupied while my shoulder was healing from surgery. Michael set the tripod where we could view the Catalina Mountains. The very first time I looked in the viewfinder, a fledgling Cooper’s hawk awkwardly landed on a neighbor’s roof directly in the scope’s sight. Each feather, each bar on his chest, his talons, all were clearly visible as he teetered and hungrily eyed the doves and quails at our feeder. I was instantly captivated and a few days later when my son invited us to go on a hike around Parker Canyon Lake, I asked if we should bring the scope. He happily agreed as he’s recently developed an interest in bird watching.

It is a cool day, perfect for a walk. Right off we take turns viewing the many kinds of waterfowl through the scope and binoculars. Michael’s lot is to carry the scope on the tripod, as my arm is rendered useless by doctor’s orders for assisted movement only. We meander along exclaiming, “Look, it’s got red eyes”; “Could that one be a plover; see how long his legs are?” and “Darn, I can’t find this duck in the book.”

Michael’s tells this part best:
I am not a “birder”, but I do like birds. I have several feeders around the house both in Cleveland and in Tucson, and I feed them every day despite Virginia’s chiding. I think birders are an altogether committed lot, admirable in their dedication to seeing and identifying every feathered creature on planet Earth. I admire their focus and determination, but I find them very amusing. I especially like the way they travel in groups and tend to set up their equipment or move it, in unison, the way birds flock then fly at some undetectable que. And the hats they wear! That said, here I am marching along the shore of the lake with Virginia and her son, a birder, complete with equipment, hat and books, pointing and identifying like a pro. Then comes the glitch. Bird books. If you have ever looked for them in bookstores they proliferate faster than they can be put on the shelves. An anonymous bird cannot possibly exist; yet try to identify one in the field by looking in a bird book. Scrutinize the bird in the scope, memorize it’s every marking and habit, quick, look through the color coded book—think, think, riffle, riffle, search, “Nope, not that one…. nor that.” Another book. “This bird doesn’t exist!”

The day slips away and suddenly the terrain gets steeper. Happily absorbed, we suddenly realize that a couple of hidden inlets we had walked around made what originally seemed a reasonable walk around the lake into what was swiftly becoming a daunting trek with still more hidden inlets now visible. My arm, newly out of a sling, begins to complain mightily. My son has a worried look when a side trail that promises an access road peters out on a rocky outcrop. We retrace our path and decide to go back the way we had come. Michael hails a friendly young man fishing on the bank who had waved to us when we first passed. “How far is it back to the boathouse?” He said it was about three miles, but the access road up the hill was shorter. He might have heard a note of desperation in Michael’s voice, because he said, “I’m through fishing for the day and I was just going up to my truck. Why don’t you follow me and I’ll give you a lift. The gifts of a sober life: a trusting friend wanting to loan an expensive piece of equipment, sharing an adventure with loved ones, and a stranger doing a kind deed. In the drinking days, seldom was an adventure not ruined by alcohol, was a friend without a selfish motive, or a stranger without guile. Certainly never would they have converged in the round scope of a single day.