Bob's Gone Birding: It Pays To Be Lucky

Following a snow plow toward the Santiam Pass

Bend, Oregon
Sisters, Oregon
February 19-20, 2014

Pygmy Nuthatch at Sawyer Park in Bend

I arrived in Bend late on Wednesday afternoon. I grabbed something to eat and decided to visit Sawyer Park. It was close and daylight was limited. I saw no maps, brochures or directions, so I followed some bird sounds near the parking lot. There were Pygmy Nuthatches in the trees, happily singing their little hearts out. I watched them for a bit, saw a few people walking down what looked to be a nature trail, and I followed it. Unfortunately, those nuthatches were the only birds in the area. I got back to the parking lot and decided to walk over the foot bridge that crossed the Deschutes River. I watched some Mallards waddling along the edges of the river, saw a Great Blue Heron standing on a log, and noticed an American Dipper disappearing into some vegetation that poked out of the turbulent waters. I crossed the bridge, walked up the hill, and saw nothing except a tent apparently being used by a homeless person. With the light fading, I decided to call it a day.

My reason for being in Bend was simple. Some very kind Oregon birders had sent me some specific directions as to where I might find my three target raptors. However, I had already found all three. So early the next morning I made the short drive to Sisters. What a charming place! Obviously the city fathers made the decision to honor the city's heritage as a frontier town. It was beautiful with consistent architecture, clean streets, quaint shops and friendly people.

My first stop was an impromptu visit to a little park that occupied one square block of the downtown area. The ground was alive with Robins and a few Starlings, the trees shook with the feeding frenzy of a group of Cedar Waxwings, and there among them was a gorgeous Varied Thrush. This bird had been #1 on my most wanted list before my trip to Alaska in 2013. I saw a few there, but never tired of looking at it. Now here was another, just as wonderful as I remembered it!

Calliope Crossing

I had heard that Pinyon Jays and White-headed Woodpeckers might be found in the woods behind the Best Western, so that was my next destination. I pulled into the parking lot and was immediately struck by an unusual sight. The hotel maintains a set of feeders, both seed and suet, at the end of the parking area with a couple of benches for quiet bird watching. The only activity I saw involved a few Mountain Chickadees, but just the idea of the hotel putting out so many feeders and keeping them filled was extraordinary. But the woods behind the hotel were silent, and the only life I saw was a small group of Black-tailed Deer, so I decided to move on.

The next place I planned on visiting was Calliope Crossing. Unfortunately the entrance road was snowed in. I parked on the highway, walked down to the creek, crossed it and walked up the opposite bank. I searched for the jays and woodpeckers to no avail.

Pinyon Jay

My third stop was Cold Springs Campground, just west of town. Again, the entrance was closed and covered with snow. I trudged in, eventually reaching the day-use parking lot and the trees just behind it. I searched carefully for my two targets, but failed again. I had to be in Corvallis that night, and the weather seemed to be threatening snow, so I finally gave it up. I was really upset. I had missed the Great Gray and Spotted Owls, and now I was leaving my last chance for Pinyon Jay and White-headed Woodpecker with nothing to show for my efforts. As far as life birds were concerned, this day was threatening to become the trip's first complete bust. I plowed back to the car, getting snow in my boots along the way, and turned toward Sisters. The plan was to grab a quick lunch and then cross the Santiam Pass.

As Lee Corso might say, "Not so fast, my friend!" I don't think I covered more than a half mile when a flock of about 25 or 30 birds flew across the road directly in front of me. Did I see blue? I hopped out of the car and instantly heard the unmistakeable chatter of Pinyon Jays! I had searched all over Sisters throughout the morning and found nothing, and now they seemed to have found me! And while I stood there in wonder, I heard a different sound ... a White-headed Woodpecker. There it was, high in a pine tree, ignoring the chaos of the jays below. Both of my targets ... both lifers ... in the same field ... and they found me. Sometimes, birding is just weird. Often luck is more productive than careful planning.

White-headed Woodpecker

After a terrific lunch of a hot meatloaf sandwich, soup and coffee at The Gallery in Sisters, I began the trek to Corvallis. The weather was fine when I started out, and the roads clear. But as I climbed up the Cascades, that all changed. At first the snow was light and melted on contact with the ground. Then the road took on a faint dusting, then an inch, and then more. When I reached the point where the road splits, I took the turn to Corvallis and immediately wished I were elsewhere. Here the snow was deeper and there was no evidence of any previous traffic. I shifted into four-wheel drive and kept an easy pace.

Once again, I proved to be luckier than I deserve. Within a couple of miles two snow plows turned onto the road ahead of me. A driver of a pickup truck and I tucked in behind the plows and followed them over Santiam Pass (elevation about 4900 feet). The photo at the top of this blog shows you what it looked like on the way up. Each twist and turn I made was freshly plowed. Under the circumstances, I could not have been safer. Eventually the plows did a u-turn and headed back up the mountain, plowing the other side of the road. Soon the snow changed to rain, the roads cleared, and the danger diminished. The rain followed me all the way to Corvallis -- the second time on this trip I drove into Corvallis through a heavy rain. I arrived too late to bird anywhere, and too tired to try. I ordered a pizza for delivery and settled in for the night. Today I had been lucky in so many ways, and tomorrow would bring new places and, I hoped, new birds.