Last week we met Sandra's son, Douglas, and his lovely wife for lunch. We got to pick the place and since neither of my boys are in Portland and Leslie (Sandra's daughter) is on a gluten free diet, Douglas and Diane got stuck at Flying Pie on Stark. There are many Flying Pies scattered over the PNW, but this is the first of the bunch, the flagship, as it were, and they make the best damn pie anywhere. In my humble opinion.
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| One large Stromboli, please! |
The pie in question is a Stromboli, named for a small volcanic island just off Sicilia's northeast corner. This is a pie to die for, with big, manly crust, veritable chunks of spicy Italian Sausage and pepperoni, onions and green peppers. Yummity,yummity ,yum. Damn! I just love a Stromboli washed down with a slurp or two of my favorite beverage. Beer may be one of the few things that Brett Kavanagh and I agree on!
During our mid-day feast, Dianne told us about a recent trip they had taken to the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge. In Ridgefield. I may have mentioned this place before. It's about fifteen minutes north of our hacienda, once you get on the 205. It used to be a tiny burg with a slough and the refuge, where my father taught my brother and I to hunt ducks. Not to worry, my father was no Rollo Kuse. Not only did he not get his deer, but he rarely got his duck. But I guess we had fun putting out decoys, sitting in a blind and imitating mallards with our duck call. Quack, quack, quack.
Something happened. Clark County exploded and now Ridgefield, fifteen minutes north of the 205 bridge, next stop Portland Airport, is a sprawling bedroom community all built in the last fifteen years. As you will see, it now has not only countless citizens, but a Costco, a Starbuck's and an In and Out Burger. I tell ya, they took a fair piece of marginal agricultural land and Californicated it.
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| No matter how many Wood ducks, I refuse to call them dirt birds. |
That was two years ago, and this is now. Ridgefield is on the razor-sharp cutting edge of a brave new world and Dianne was telling us that they had the wildlife refuge to prove it. A visit was clearly in order...
So last Tuesday Sandra and I made the 20 minute drive north to the refuge. If you don't have one of a variety of passes, you have to pay three dollars to drive in. Sandra has a pass! It's a 4.2 mile one way driving loop around the refuge. Stop where ever you want, multiple signs encourage you to stay in the car, using it as a blind. And indeed, the birds were closer to the car. than one might have expected. On that day we started out with Blue-winged and Cinnamon Teal , Canvasbacks, a pair of Wood Ducks and some Canada geese. And, of course, the Great Blue Heron.
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| English Chickie buckin' for birder, you call her Daphne. |
At the halfway mark, the refuge lets you get out of your car and visit a blind. The trail to the blind is a little soggy and there is a wonderful patch of stinging nettles on the way. Knowing that Vanessa butterflies use nettles for a host plant, Sandra couldn't resist checking out the leaves for caterpillars. As a consequence, she spent the rest of the day researching remedies for nettle stings. Poor Sandra!
On the way to the blind, we met an enthusiastic young man who told us he had spent the last 45 minutes taking pictures of the Tree Swallows. One assumes he spent the next 45 minutes taking pictures of Great Blue Herons.
At the blind, we met a nicely dressed lady with a big camera and an English accent. On questioning, it turned out that she wanted to become a bird watcher and so she had purchased a $5000 camera and an app for her phone that tells her, if she is clever enough to record the song, what bird she is looking at, or, I suppose, listening to. She was really precious, so I tried not to give her too much of a hard time.
At this point we were joined by Al Pacino in the character of Lt. Colonel Frank Slade. The colonel was still accompanied by Charlie, late of the Baird School. The colonel was nicely dressed in green cammo. A pair of expensive binoculars hung from his neck inexplicably. As you will recall, he is blind, following an unfortunate incident at Fort Benning where he was juggling live grenades.
The colonel sidled up to me and whispered, "English chickie buckin' for birdwatcher, you call her Daphne. Hoo ahh."
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| Daphne got a good shot of the Yellow headed Blackbird |
While we were chatting with Daphne, I noted a pair of Black Phoebe's in the alders next to the blind. This is the bird that turned me into a bird watcher, on the marge of Jewell Lake in Berkeley, way back in 1970. So if you want to know who to blame, there's your answer...the Black Phoebe.
Daphne shared a passable picture of a Yellow-headed Blackbird, which we had missed on the way in, but her effort at the phoebe was blurry. I'm sure she'll get better and we'll see her work in Audubon magazine in no time.
For a few minutes, we watched the phoebes fly catching over the pond and then we moved up into the blind. At first, there was nothing to see. Suddenly (isn't it always suddenly?) I saw movement in the marsh plants near the base of the blind. Sandra was on it and we watched a Virginia Rail walk into the weeds. It was a good ten second look at close range What a treat.
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| The Virginia Rail sneaks back into the swamp. |
The rail didn't make any noise, so Daphne wasn't able to use her app. And she wondered, me not having an app, how I know what bird it was. I patiently explained that as a bird watcher, I once had the entire bird book firmly ensconced in my brain. And luckily, lo these many years later, the Viginia Rail had not yet escaped the friendly confines of my gooey gray matter.
We left Daphne to contemplate bird books and after checking out the nettles again, made it back to the car. From the blind, on back the only thing of note was another pair of Wood Ducks. I told my sweetie that no matter how many wood ducks we see, I refuse to call them Dirt Birds.
At the kiosk where one might pay, we parked and ate our sandwich. After lunch. I got out of the car and wandered over to the tiny hut that might be occupied by a ranger, had El Presidente not eliminated that unnecessary position. I noted a white board with recorded observations. Snipe and Sandhill Crane had been noted by worthy observers. However, no one had recorded the Virginia Rail. I took up a blue marker and wrote it down. Virginia Rail! That exclamation mark was well deserved.
To be continued, jeff
