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Earning my Kentucky



 Well, those of you who were at the Chapel Hill Bird Club meeting will
remember that I vowed to either get my Kentucky Warbler this spring (its
my third in the South) or else retire shamefacedly from the community. So,
out I went this morning, having practically tattoed the song on my memory,
so I could leap to it the minute one warbled from the dense
undergrowth. Its to Raven Rock that I was headed, spurred on by the
promise not only of a Kentucky but also a Swainson's. Hardly had I entered
the state park than Paul Hart tried to dissuade me from my mission by
enticing me with butterflies--and indeed the names were quite
alluring: commas, dashes and question marks, to say nothing of the scarlet
lady. But I resisted all of Paul's alluring traps and headed straight down
the trail; well not quite because the minute I hit Little Creek there was
an explosion of activity: Black Throated Blues, Summer and Scarlet
Tanagers, Indigo Buntings, and even a forlorn yellowthroat looking lost in
the thick forest. Yellowthoated Warbler songs cascaded from the heavens,
and then, from the undergrowth came the unmistakable song of the
Swainson's. And so of course I creeped down after it through ferns and
fungus. And it, of course, stopped singing. Every time I moved back up the
trail for the waiting Kentuckies it would naturally strike up again, loud
and clear. And thus we played hide and seek for a good half hour--I was
the loser. 
Little Creek abounded in Parulas (one even deigned to come down to eye
level) and Hoodeds in full song. I am amazed, by the way, every time I
hear the Hoodeds: they are sweetness itself. Crssing the wooden footbridge
I was all ears for the Kentuckies, but all that sang was a persistent
Ovenbird, and about a million Red Eyed Vireos. The river bottom abounded
in Redstarts and Hummers--but still not a whisper of a Kentucky. I sat by
the river and ate to the chirping of swallows (probably Barn, but never
saw them). And then trudged back towards the footbridge with dwindling 
hope. And then while a Summer Tanager flitted overhead, the Kentucky
sang
in a tangle. But even as it sang there came another song much like it but
one which I know so much better--that of a Carolina Wren.  The Ovenbird,
of course, was still going strong. ANd so, I stood there comparing the
three songs. There is no tape or CD that could do this for you, at least
not in a breezy wood where everything is fresh and new--except of course
the hope that one might actually SEE this warbler. So, now I know the
song. Not just in itself, but in comparison with the Carolina Wren's and
the Ovenbird's. I even reproduced the song for Paul Hart (the Park
Superintendent) who admitted that it was a good rendition, even though he
has defected to butterflies. What I still don't have is a sighting of a
Kentucky. So, I may yet slink away in disgrace. On the other hand if I do
see this bird it certainly cannot be said that I haven't earned it.

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SHANTANU PHUKAN
Lecturer in Urdu-Hindi & Indian Literature
University of N. Carolina, Chapel Hill
Curriculum in Asian Studies
Alumni Hall 413C
Chapel Hill, N.C. 27599

phukan@email.unc.edu
919-962-6825
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