In pursuit of the Northern Lapwing

Boarding the ferry, I questioned my purpose; towering clouds threatened rain, and biting wind taunted as it hissed through stacks of lobster traps. As one of just a few passengers on that November morning in 2012, I sought refuge in the cabin and claimed a window seat, my legs bouncing on the balls of my feet while my finger picked at a crack in the adjacent seat. The rumble of the ship’s engines signalled our departure, and my breathing constricted as the heavy craft laboured out of the harbour and into the open ocean, the 30-mile crossing from Hyannis to Nantucket scheduled for two-and-a-half hours.

While the northeastern United States reeled from the devastation that Superstorm Sandy wrought four days earlier, I embarked on a cockamamie quest in the cyclone’s aftermath. The prize I sought was the Northern Lapwing, an iridescent, sandpiper-like bird sporting a whimsical black crest. The species ranges through Europe and Asia, so Nantucket birders surprised everyone when they reported two vagrants—representatives that wandered outside the species’ usual range—on the island late in October 2012. The pair was likely sucked across the Atlantic by Sandy’s gargantuan wind field—it stretched to Scandinavia—and I, a scientific researcher in Boston, hatched plans to travel to Nantucket and view the exotic visitors. If they didn’t fly away before I arrived, then they’d be a wonderful addition to my life list, the collection of bird sightings I’d been accumulating since age seven.

Superstorm fallout had prevented earlier travel, but positive reports persisted and buoyed my hopes as I scrambled to complete experiments and clear my calendar. While all birds are beautiful and beguiling, vagrants elicit a particular excitement because no one knows where they’ll appear and how long they’ll stay. Chasing such transients is an exciting game; they can depart their discovery points at any moment, and the rollercoaster of triumphs and disappointments recalls the sinusoidal cycles of gambling or substance abuse, with dejected birders routinely swearing off chasing vagrants before jumping into the carat the next exciting report. As an alcoholic-addict, I couldn’t refuse a rare bird any more than I could a shot of Jägermeister, a line of cocaine, or a hit of ecstasy. Northern Lapwing possibilities strumming my serotonergic circuits while Nirvana’s Nevermind blared through my car’s speakers, I sped from Boston to Hyannis in the predawn hours of November 2.

Unfortunately, the ferry didn’t share my urgency. The boxy boat pushed through waves as efficiently as a 200-ton Twinkie, and I counted the minutes until our arrival, my fear of departed lapwings swelling each second. Great Point Lighthouse eventually came into view on the port-side horizon, and sweeping dunes rose from the waves as we inched toward the island and into the harbour, where the ship docked. I grabbed my backpack, disembarked, and hustled two blocks to the island’s bike shop under strengthening rain. With the local taxi service shut down for the winter and the thought of paying $300 to put my car onto the ferry never having been entertained, my preparatory research had revealed that a bicycle would be my best mode of transport. Opening the door and stepping inside, I saw a middle-aged man fiddling with a bike. He stood and wiped his greasy hands on a rag. “Can I help you?” he asked. I caught my breath and replied, “Yeah, I called yesterday about a rental.” “Oh, you. The bird guy,” he said. “I can’t believe you came in this weather. Are your lopwangs still here?” I didn’t bother correcting his pronunciation. “Hopefully,” I said. “They’ve been seen for the last three days, so there’s a good chance.”

“Well, let’s get you going. Take that one,” he said, pointing at a silver-framed hybrid bike. “It rolls great and can handle bumps if you go off-road.” I surrendered my credit card, adjusted the seat, and pushed the rental out the door. Thirty-three years old, I hadn’t biked since I graduated college in 2001, so I was curious how the remainder of my pursuit would unfold, especially with 25 pounds of gear—binoculars, spotting scope, tripod, camera, and telephoto lens—in my backpack. I mounted up and shoved off, raindrops tapping on my helmet as I wobbled along Broad Street.

Settled in the late 17th century, Nantucket grew into a major whaling centre in the ensuing decades. The decline of that industry coupled with a massive fire to depopulate the main town by the mid-19th century, and the island sat mostly forgotten until the mid-20th, when developers realised it would be an ideal getaway spot for mainlanders. Tourism has sustained the summer sanctuary since, and regulations prohibiting tall buildings and chain restaurants now preserve the island’s rustic charm.

Gaining confidence as I pedalled past cutesy boutiques, independent eateries, and weathered, gray-shingled cottages, I rolled out of town and into rural surroundings. Online reports indicated the lapwings moved around the southwestern side of the island, so I hurried toward Hummock Pond, a marshy area where the pair was seen the previous afternoon. Legs burning and chest heaving after four frantic miles, I turned onto a muddy track and sprinted the final 200 yards to a dead end at an elevated overlook. I dismounted, flipped out the kickstand, and shed my backpack.

Three days of anticipation converged as I excavated my binoculars. I took a deep breath to steady my shaking hands and lifted the optics to my eyes. My gaze sweeping along the far shoreline, I seized on two blobs at the base of the reeds. My heart thumped, and I scrambled to mount my spotting scope on my tripod for a better view. Pointing the scope across the water, I spun the focus wheel and brought two dove-sized birds into focus. Bronzy green above and white below, each sported a dark breastband, a buff face, and a black crest, the last feature punctuating the beautiful bird like a chocolate wafer on the top of an ice cream sundae.

Elation replaced angst in that sweetest instant. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I grunted through clenched teeth. Pumping my fists while stomping my feet, I didn’t care that I was splashing mud all over myself. Following two days of forced delay, 75 miles in the car, 30 on the boat, and a final four on the bike, this was an unlikely victory, one I’d recount for my birding buddies for as long as I lived.

Extracted from Birding Under the Influence by Dorian Anderson (Chelsea Green Publishing, £20)

Cover image: Andreas Trepte, CC BY-SA 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons