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[image error]They’re everywhere. I went for a sunny winter walk yesterday (a rare thing, that, for Vancouver winters) along the dike that follows Boundary Bay in Delta. The general idea was bird watching and I did try, but soon became more interested in the serious bird watchers. I suspect they are a species unto themselves. They communicated with others via walkie-talkie and wore camouflage clothing. They easily identified birds by species and gender, knowing instantly that buff feathers on that particular hawk meant male then adding FYI about the  plumage that would have meant female. Most astonishing was the camera gear, with lenses the size of legs and such rapid-fire shooting that camera clicks sounded like the staccato pops of popcorn over high heat.

I didn’t mind being told that my ordinary camera was “no good” because the comment was stated as simple fact as it came from a friendly chap in an ear-flap toque who followed up by declaring his own monster lens inferior – when compared to the $10,000 model his friend was packing.

The most astonishing visual I saw wasn’t captured by any photographer, occurring as it did on the road out. A pair of bald eagles swooped in front of our car, one of them flipped under the other, and they locked talons. It lasted only a second or two, then they broke apart and flew on, leaving us wide-eyed and marvelling. That “photo” exists in memory only and that’s okay; I can retrieve it and enjoy again, anytime, anywhere. No batteries required.

If I go again I know people watching will trump bird watching. I love seeing birds out and about their lives, love that they are with us, but the stories? They’re all about us.