Full Tilt

35

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

There it is!

Deep within the thick woods of tamarack and black spruce there were flashes of gray throat and gray breast, of yellow belly.

Careful.

Dan Whitmore was a patient bird-watcher who knew not to be in a hurry to raise the binoculars to his eyes, or to page through the guidebook to identify his subject.

It could vanish on you.

Experience had taught him to focus on the bird, study its shape, its bill, its colors and markings. If the situation allowed, he’d lift his binoculars in a smooth, practiced motion while never losing sight of the bird. Then, when it winged away, he’d consult the book to identify it.

Dan watched for several minutes before finally looking through his binoculars. He was rewarded with a long, gorgeous view before the bird took flight.

“That was a Great Crested Flycatcher.” Dan turned to his partner, Vivian Chambers, who’d flipped through the guide and nodded.

“Yes, it had beautiful primaries.”

“That’s six more today, Viv.”

Dan noted the sighting, confident he’d hit five hundred on his life list by the time their trip ended.

“Let’s go over there,” Vivian said, “near the edge of that bog. It looks like a great spot for owls.”

Dan, a doctor, had retired from his family practice in Omaha fifteen years ago. He and Vivian, a retired elementary school principal, lived alone in the same condo complex. Each had lost a spouse and after meeting through one of Omaha’s birder clubs they’d become partners.

They’d gone out on many group outings but for the past five years, upon discovering how much they’d enjoyed each other’s company, they’d traveled alone together to different parts of the country to look at birds. Birding had given them a sense of order, and their relationship had helped them survive some of the hardest times of their lives. Their mutual understanding and respect for what they’d both endured had grown into a nurturing, healing kind of love. They counted their blessings and birds as they journeyed along the back roads together.

This section of the park bordered Manitoba and was the most isolated. It was dense with white cedar, jack pine and aspen trees. There were thickets of willow and alder. The hiking trails were rugged, but Dan and Vivian often ventured wherever the birds led them. As they neared the fringes of the peat bog, Vivian grabbed Dan’s arm and stopped.

“Listen,” she said.

Birdsong filtered through the distant trees.

“Tzeet. Kip. Tzeet kip.”

It repeated in a harsh, sputtering series.

“That’s a kingbird. I recognize that from my CDs,” Dan said.

“Eastern or Western?”

“Could be either, given our location.”

Dan scanned the forest for any telltale signs but saw nothing. After giving it a full five minutes, he tried again, this time with the binoculars, zeroing in on the area most likely to be the bird’s location.

“Anything?” Vivian said from behind her binoculars.

“Nothing.” As he lowered his glasses he glimpsed a low pale flash but lost it. “Wait,” he repositioned his binoculars.

“Something?”

“I think.” Dan hesitated, unable to find it again. “Actually, I think we’ve got company. I think I saw someone waving to us. I lost them.”

“Let’s get closer, say hello and compare lists.”

Stepping carefully through the thick woodland, they forged their way closer to the beginnings of the bog and to what Dan had reasoned was the spot where he’d last seen the person waving.

“There’s nothing here. Let’s take a break.”

A large fallen alder tree served as a natural bench seat big enough for both of them. He reached for his water bottle and Vivian pulled a small towel from her backpack. She was using it to pad her face when she froze.

Dan followed her gaze, which was locked on a sight in a clearing some twenty feet away.

At first he thought that what they were seeing was a trick of light and shadow.

Dan couldn’t believe it-it couldn’t be real.

Without realizing it, he stood.

He’d closed his eyes but the image burned before him, refusing to leave until Vivian started screaming.