Birders are an interesting species. You run into them on marsh trails and lookouts all over the state. Sometimes in a sun hat, sometimes knee-deep in icy muck, but always quiet, always still, and never far from their binoculars and their notebook. I believe in “take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints,” but next to a birder I’m a rowdy tourist.
The more time I spend around Oregon birds, the more I get it. What looks like fussing is usually survival. Every head tilt and every chirp means something, and once you start reading them, the personalities show up.
This robin has plenty of personality. It’s the middle of winter and well below freezing, and he’s puffed up, eyes narrowed, staring down the lens like he’s daring any mammal to handle the cold as well as he does. He’s handsome, and he knows it. Meanwhile I’m standing there in a coat and boots, shivering, watching a bird.