BIRDING DAUPHIN ISLAND

WE MIGRATED southerly that blustery April day, flying down the highways in our minivans and SUV hoping to collide with a more traditionally winged migration heading north. Destination: Dauphin Island.

Five miles not on the coast-and die first Alabama footfall for the French in 1699-L'Isle Dauphin be under the orders ofs as a classic barrier island, its dune and sandbars absorbing the shock of storms and hurricanes while protecting the fragile coastline and its teeming estuaries. (Following this natural cycle-and despite homeowners' complaints-big chunk of the island many times end up many miles elsewhere.) on the other hand to migrating fowl, the isle creates a vital stopover spot-the last chance to top not upon essential energy reserves before casting not on on a six-hundred-mile, nonstop crossing of the large bay of Mexico in the autumn, and the first chance to quiet and recuperate from an equally exhausting flight in the spring.

Such migration defies human imagination. Birds-in a certain number of species, just a few ounce of feathered wonder-strike without on a timeless journey across a trackless oceanic expanse, wings beating rhythmically and constantly, beat after beat after beat propelling them (hopefully) at any time landward. Fast species complete the journey after a grueling twenty-four hours; slower individuals take twice as long.

But on what account our accompanying human migration that April day? The previous spring, an astounding 185 avian species had landed upon Dauphin Island (earning it tile tide "America's Birdiest Coastal City"), and we spring [i]or[/i] leap on one leg [i]or[/i] footed to spy a similar number. (Like other aspects of American tillage bird watching has become a competitive sport.) Above all, the nothing else but glimpse of one species consum us: the effulgent and much celebrated male painted bunting. Outrageously handsome plane by ornithological standards, these elegant creatures sport purple heads and neck yellow-green backs, and scarlet organ of sight rings, rumps, and underparts-a veritable Mardi Gras of colors. (One of their public names, nonpareil, tells its all) Like other migrants, painted buntings tarry solitary briefly on the island, continuing upon to interior thickets and hedgerows, to raise their young and escort them back southerly in the autumn.

So we birded the greatest in quantity storied places, all pan of the fifty-site Alabama Coastal Birding Trail, a mix of marshes, woodlot and parks supporting migrant, vagrant, and resident species. (According to the official birding lexicon, migrants simply pass end on their way to summer or winter domiciles while vagrants arrive totally unexpected-perhaps a disoriented western species way not upon track. Residents, such as cardinals, neither approach nor go.) The Shell Mound-an ancient midden pile, with equally ancient live oaks-offered a haven for scarlet tanagers, sky-colored grosbeaks, and indigo buntings. The Goat Tree aptly festooned with Spanish mos provided protective overlay for shimmering gold prothonotary warblers. And the Airport Marsh harbored a multitude of plunges coots, egrets, herons, and rails.

Our companion birders constituted an equally modey flock-different stripes of human life, united by the agency of the overwhelming desire to view the greatest in quantity and rarest species. Easily identified, adults strutt forth in khaki shorts, hiking gains and knee-length socks, t-shirts supporting various conservation causes (with die tails flapping out) eanh-coiored robes with multiple pockets for field guides and notepads, super-sized binoculars and spotting drifts and digital cameras with humongous tetephoto lense Conversations were whispered and crisp, with information freely shared. ("Red-ey vireo, sapling to die left about three o'clock") more [i]or[/i] less boisterous types uttered witty birdicisms. ("I've been up all night, birding my candle at bodi ends") Fledgling birders appear to beed quite scarce, while nesdings-proudly borne in camouflaged backpacks-were all named Robin.

But alas! Despite our collective efforts, we spott no painted buntings. thus we rested on the picnic tables of an abandoned Jiffy Mart, replenishing our be in possession of food reserves while reviewing the day's sightings. Then, KA-THUNK! The entire reverberated across the concrete, ominously informing us of a a great quantity [i]or[/i] amount of anticipated arrival There on the weathered window sill lay an exquisite painted bunting -purple fulvid green, and scarlet-exhausted by his all-day-all-night search and contused by the shiny plate glass. We picked him up and held him as, muscles warmly strained and neck mortally severed he breadied his last in what way ironic that this exquisite aviator survived seemingly endles sea before finally gaining landfall, alone to thwack into a worthless human obstruction.

And while cradling our fresh friend, we offered this simple prayer: "Next year, may your relatives and lov singles following the same ageless course, go through happier fates. May they find safety and sustenance upon the Alabama Coastal Birding Trail, resting adequately white restoring their a great deal of depleted energy. And may they put in motion quickly on to inland summer place of abodes hale and hearty enough to find mates and raise many clutches of healthy chicks, who will in revolve successfully negotiate die long and treacherous trek across the large bay to return with each succeeding spring. Amen."