Laura Erickson's For the Birds

I woke up early on May 11, 1975, filled with anticipation. Spring migration was at its peak. Two days before, I’d seen my first Baltimore Oriole, bringing my life list up to what felt like an amazing 26 species—I’d never imagined I could see so many in one season! Now I was headed out with my binoculars, field guide, and field notebook, hoping to luck into yet another wonderful new bird.

Right off the bat, in the shrubby open area near the railroad tracks between the Natural Resources Building and Baker Woodlot, I heard a distinctive mewing—a sound I’d never consciously heard before, but one that so clearly could be described as mewing that I instantly thought this must be a Gray Catbird. The bird was tucked deep into the shrubs, but I scanned every branch I could see, taking my time, and voila!

To count any bird as a lifer back then, before I knew how to take in a bird’s gestalt, I had to see every single feature pointed out in the field guide. My Golden Guide said: “No other bird is plain dark gray with rusty undertail covers. Note the distinct black cap.” It also mentioned that it “often flicks its long tail.” The moment I saw the bird hiding within the foliage, I could see that it was pretty much solid gray, and maybe a second later, I saw the black cap, but it flitted away before I could see the rusty undertail feathers. I picked up on it again when it alighted at the top of a bush. I saw it flick its tail, but the angle was wrong, and then, again, it flitted out of sight.

But I was bound and determined to see this bird’s private parts. It took at least five minutes—maybe ten—but my persistence was finally rewarded. Meanwhile, as I was searching for that one feature, I was taking in the bird’s slender shape, which gave it a handsome gracefulness accentuated by its large black eyes and slender black bill. The sheer elegance of this bird took my breath away. I was in love, and very proud to have found and identified, all by myself, # 27 on my life list. Ever since that triumph, I’ve tried to see the undertail coverts every time I see a catbird.

This summer I’ve had a pair of catbirds visiting my yard many times a day. They must be nesting somewhere nearby because I sometimes see them carrying caterpillars. I don’t usually follow nesting birds because the Peabody Street Blue Jays and crows often keep track of what I’m doing. I’d hate to tip them off to a nest!

Anyway, over two weeks ago now, one of the catbirds must have gotten into a tussle with a predator or got caught in something, and it lost its entire tail. Now the undertail coverts are very conspicuous, but it’s missing the long tail it’s supposed to be flicking, so I’d have had a lot of trouble figuring out what it was if I were seeing it as a beginner.

It was fun to see and photograph it, but now I’m suddenly starting to worry. Over the years, I’ve tracked a lot of birds who’d lost their tail feathers. If the feathers break off, the bird must wait until the next molt to replace them. But if the feathers are torn out at the root, new feathers start growing in immediately, so within days I should have been seeing a little stub, and by now, there should be at least an inch or two of tail. But as of July 30, I don’t see any evidence of emerging feathers.

This is clearly not impairing the bird’s day-to-day activities, and its mate seems just as accepting as before, but I’m concerned about it migrating. Maneuvering to elude unexpected obstructions is more difficult without a tail to help steer. It’s getting lots of practice now, but only for short flights.

It’s wonderful to be able to track individual birds, but scary, too—suddenly I’m invested not in catbirds as a cool and elegant species, or in the generic catbirds in my yard, but in one individual catbird.

Catbirds are doing very well in Minnesota and over their entire range, according to Breeding Bird Survey data and the Minnesota Breeding Bird Atlas, so losing one catbird wouldn’t mean anything at the population level, and because this bird seems to have young, its genes will certainly live on. That’s small consolation, so I’m clinging to hope, even if in this case hope is the thing without tail feathers.