Darkness and silence enveloped the world outside my tent. A sound roused me from deep sleep. I lay still in my sleeping bag, listened, heard a faint hesitant “chirp” followed by a stuttering “chur-chur,” kind of like a musical motor trying to come to life. Seconds later a rich song filled the air; the clear, resonant, melodic, “cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up” of the morning’s first robin.

I checked my watch, 4:10, an hour and a half before sunrise and still dark outside. How did the robin know it was time to start singing? I unzipped the tent door, looked to the southeast and saw a thin, faint line of illumination lifting above the horizon, the first hint of first light, the robin’s alarm clock.

I lay back down, snuggled into my sleeping bag, and listened for a few more minutes. Another robin chimed in; two lilting robin sing-songs overlapping and intertwining. A catbird joined the chorus with a string of snappy song snippets. The picture of an orchestra conductor came to mind, waving her wand at musicians, layering in the sounds.

My plan was to “wake up with the birds.” I stumbled stiffly out of the tent, stretched through a dozen sun salutations, and sat down for a few minutes of meditation in the fresh morning air. Around me more layers of sound wove into the morning chorus; the whistled “whoit, whoit, whoit” of a cardinal, the clear “peter, peter, peter” of a tufted titmouse, the trill of a chipping sparrow. Illumination spread slowly and steadily. No sun, no obvious source, just first light growing magically, revealing shapes and colors and forms, defining the world around me.

Soon I was on my way. Waterproof boots on my feet to shield against the morning dew and a fleece to ward off the morning chill. Early June was a prime yet fleeting time of the year. The migrant birds were on their nesting territories singing their songs. But in a few weeks the baby birds would be grown, take flight from the nest, and the morning songs, no longer needed to guard the home turf, would fade away.

Colors floated into a light blue sky-dome above me; gray puffy clouds between strands of delicate pink, a splotch of yellow and orange on the horizon foretelling the sunrise. Mist floated and swirled along the creek-valley.

Stations of sound all around; a Red-eyed Vireo singing short, distinct robin like phrases, a chickadee calling “sweetie pie,” crows cawing, and a yellowthroat chanting its slow rolling “witchety, witchety, witchety.”

Shrouded in mist I walked within twenty feet of two deer attired in their soft tan summer coats. They stood still and calm and watched me quizzically with large soft brown eyes. Two starlings either on a nest or still roosting flapped in panic out of the branches of a bush as I walked by. The birds and deer seemed surprised by my early morning presence, as if I was breaking some unwritten rule about when humans should appear.

 

My destination was a little valley that I called Shangri-La that coursed for a few hundred yards along an old farm road. One on side of the valley stood a steep hill covered with second growth trees, on the other side an abandoned red shale quarry, a grassy field, and a patch of deep woods.   The valley angled to the Northeast, blocked the winter wind, captured the winter sun and provided protection from the elements. In winter when I walked through the valley I always saw birds; chickadees, doves, nuthatches, woodpeckers, juncos, and often a flock of overwintering robins.

I named the valley Shangri-La because it seemed to be a hidden, earthly paradise, a refuge for birds and animals. Perhaps I was also responding to some deep human urge to give names to wild places with distinct, meaningful, and emotion-stirring features. In the cold months I often thought about coming to Shangri-La in the warmth of spring to discover what birds and animals lived and bred there.

A spot along the grassy rutted road in middle of the valley seemed just right. The wooded hill was behind me, the small open field ahead, and the deeper woods to my right. This was edge habitat often the best place to see the greatest diversity of birds and animals. I sat down and began to look and listen.

Behind me mourning doves cooed a soft and steady welcoming chorus. The forest birds sang; a veery, an ovenbird, and from deep in the trees the flute-like “eee-o-lay” of a wood thrush. From across the field I heard the songs of a yellowthroat, a redstart, and the jazzy warble of a rose-breasted grosbeak.   High pitched “sreee, sreee, sreee” sounds floated down from the top of a tall ash tree, the songs of cedar waxwings darting in and out of the branches, snatching insects from the air. In the distance the telegraph key” tappity-tappity-tap-tap” of a yellow-bellied sapsucker added a percussion element to the morning chorus.

I inhaled the fresh smell of growing grass, not quite the late summer richness, but more of a fresh spring version. Dew drops clung to the long green blades of grass and sparkled in the sunlight.   So far Shangri-La was meeting expectations as a nature utopia.

I looked to the horizon and saw foamy pillow clouds down low and white cotton-puffs up high. Both types of clouds scuttled silently along on a high west wind. Above me strands of thin clouds and patches of bumpy clouds flowed across the sky. Altogether, four different kinds of clouds sailed across the high blue sky.

A loud stomping sound came from the road to my right. Turning, I saw a big deer, glaring at me, stomping its hooves, seeming annoyed that I was blocking its normal morning route. When I gazed back, it looked down, turned slowly around, and walked away. I was almost sure I read a hint of irritation in its posture.

A catbird landed in a tree right behind me. I listened to it sing. I had never been so close to one singing before and took the opportunity to study its song. I heard a melodious, rambling series of song snippets, chirps and squeaks, some copied, some original. A truly impressive and entertaining performance I thought.

The catbird flew to a tree at the edge of the field and resumed singing. A small bird, most likely a warbler, flew right over me, so close I could hear its fluttery wing beats. A pair of blue jays landed in a tree beyond the field, called loudly and flew on. Two doves winged over me. I glanced down the road and saw the leaves of a poplar tree shimmering and shaking in a gust of wind.

I suddenly felt surrounded by, immersed in movement. The clouds, the birds, the deer, and the leaves all in constant motion – nature a ceaseless matrix of motion Motion resonated within as well; heartbeat, breath, and even a gurgle from my stomach. Nature is constant dynamic motion I thought, the frozen view of a landscape painting an illusion.

A dove perched at the top of a tall dead maple. Another dove landed nearby and then suddenly flew at the first dove chasing it away. Two robins pursing two small brown birds barreled out of a thickly leafed tree. After chasing away the intruders, the robins rested in the branches of the tall maple. Next a blue jay landed in the tree, called, and flew on. Then a catbird landed for a brief pause. The old maple seemed to be the Feng-sui tree in Shangri-La, the “just-right” spot where all the birds paused.

From the far edge of the field I heard a rich rapid warble ending with a lilting “vee-vee.” The song was simultaneously exotic yet familiar. I listened again and again, wracked my brain, scanned my memory, but couldn’t place it. In frustration I recorded the song on my phone to take home for further study.

Then, the bird flew into a tree right in front of me and sang again. Binoculars up and in my view I saw a small bright blue bird, luminous in the sunlight, a breathtaking beauty, the aptly named Indigo Bunting, one of the true “lookers” of the spring and summer woods. And then the song came back to me, a sweet warble with pairs of repeated tones.

Another small bird flew across the field and perched on a tall stem of grass in front of me. Binoculars up providing a close up look at a bird with a bright yellow breast, tan back and a vivid, jaunty black eye mask. It was a male Common Yellowthroat. I gazed spellbound at its vivid plumage and watched it sway gently back and forth on the tall stem of grass.

It seemed that as my designated hour wound down nature was throwing stunning visions of beauty my way, moments that would long linger in my memory. I wondered if this was my reward for sitting patiently, for dedicating time and energy to learning. Or was nature sensing my intention to leave and throwing spectacular bits of beauty at me, encouraging, even willing me to stay longer, to learn more.

I left and on my walk home saw more birds; a wild turkey, a bob-o-link, geese, ducks, killdeer, flycatchers, sparrows, more warblers, three kinds of swallows, altogether fifty-one species of birds singing their timeless songs. Somehow, it felt as if the mantle of the ageless beauty of Shangri-La was draped around my shoulders.

This sit spot session took place on June 9, 2018 in Dyberry Township, PA.