Non-stop flight

Welcome, buffleheads! Greetings, bobolinks!

Manitoba hosts bird species galore. Behold dark-eyed juncos, marbled godwits, goofy-gaited screw-eyed wingnuts.

Maybe I made up that last one.

Joining birders at FortWhyte Alive to count our feathered friends, I asked what to do. They explained, “Go like this: one, two, three….”

We discovered 50 nifty species — in Winnipeg! I then asked the group, “Hey, what would 10 pounds of feathers weigh?”

Thick clouds of raucous birds at Lakeland astounded Margie and me. An agitated farmer explained, “Them’s those dang blackbirds stealin’ the corn!” So, they’re not always feathered friends.

During migration, discover Delta Marsh’s bird bedlam or Whitewater Lake’s honking hordes of snow geese rising with black-tipped wings into silvery, swooping masses. Marvel at Oak Hammock Marsh’s wall of birdsong. Hearing a boisterous overhead flock, a three-year-old exclaimed, “What’s going on up there?” And Churchill drives birders berserk with over 250 species including snowy owls and ptarmigans. As they say, “See them ptime and ptarmigan.”

Watch Lockport’s pelican population compete with buoyant fishers for the Red River’s bounty. Look for strikingly homely, carcass-eating turkey buzzards. And spotting a distant bald eagle always thrills Margie. (They’re usually planes, pigeons or plastic bags.)

Sixteen raptor species converge at Pembina Valley Provincial Park. Officials also call the park “a songbird auditorium.” And weary vacationers know the arousing squawks of otherwise attractive Wasagaming magpies, Whiteshell blue jays and those Gimli gulls that are so full of surprises.

East of Brandon, a sign announces “Welcome to Douglas. Home of the Yellow Rail.” It displays a bird too. I drove into Douglas to see this golden track. A Railway Street sign shows a silver track. Bewildered, I asked at the General Store, “Your rail, it’s a train track? And yellow?” The woman replied, “It’s a bird.” So much, once again, for the English language.

She explained, “Folks come from all over to see rails. But they’re hard to see. They hide in our marsh. You only hear its call — like tapping stones.”

A sign at the marsh says Douglas enjoys among the continent’s highest densities of yellow rails. Douglas hosts a major transcontinental railway. The sign warns against trampling into rail habitat. Maybe that’s why yellow rails are hard to see.

On the coldest days, cars and people won’t start, but sparrows and chickadees sure do. When I heard sparrows riotously chirping in our hedge in March, Margie said, “They’re mating! Don’t look!” And Margie adores Birds Hill Park’s Cedar Bog Trail for sweet-tweeting chickadees that swoop to her hand and tickle — or sit on her head. Never on mine. Just saying.

The free-range parading peacocks of Souris vigorously scratch on windows to ward off their reflection — images that defiantly stand their ground. Gaggles of Winnipeg turkeys get their laughs attempting Knock Off Ginger and riling up dogs. La Rivière celebrates area turkeys with a nine-foot-tall monument called Tom the Turkey, plus an annual Turkey Fest with, yes, a rubber-duck race.

The so-called “Thompson Turkey” is the North’s supersized black raven. Revered for cunning perseverance, they flip lids off garbage containers, then lift and drop bags for bountiful buffets. A resident told me they sit atop streetlights once they turn on — for warmth. Another insisted one crossed the street once the light turned green. I skeptically replied, “Have another drink.”

A friend’s new boat came off the lake, luckily with fish. Next morning, he shockingly found a hole in a seat. His children pleaded not guilty. Later, he noticed a Thompson Turkey at the scene. Aha! Pickerel-scented seating.

Another family awoke to unbearable daily cawing. Finally, the dad hosed the loudmouth. The dad became the summer-long target of dive-bombing sorties and relentless, disparaging heckling from a nearby fence. No else in the family. No one else in Thompson.

On Winnipeg’s Main Street, Margie yelled, “Stop!” Seeing a string of ducklings ahead, I braked. Margie jumped into traffic. Barefoot. I shockingly activated flashers to alert vehicles. Margie dashed into the other lane, stopping four SUVs and a dump truck.

She shooed nine ducklings to the boulevard. Two somersaulted. One couldn’t jump the curb. With cupped hands, Margie coaxed it. Not one driver honked. Folks waved.

Margie was just giving back to duckdom. A duck’s quack, without fail, makes her slap her leg and laugh uproariously.

And, ahh, the loon’s yodel. Here’s a poem I finally memorized to make Margie swoon: “Hear the loon, under the moon, soon.”

For lakeside fun, I challenged her, “Whoever predicts closest where the loon surfaces, gets to name it!” One lucky afternoon, I named my Falcon Lake loon “Loo.” I explained, “With two Os.” Next day, Margie won. She named her loon “Lorenzo” She explained, “With two Os.” And who was likely Loo.

Along the Mississippi Flyway, Canada geese offer cautious optimism that spring might come. Officials post, “In Winnipeg, we are fortunate to have… geese to co-exist with us.”

But 70,000 migrating geese cause migrating headaches. They nest on rooftops, restaurant patios, airport runways. Officials suggest deploying strobe lights, flags, scarecrows or scare-cannons called “bangers.” That’s co-existence. And at Kildonan Park, they hiss at me. Not Margie. Just saying.

For Manitobans, life is a flyway.

gordmackintosh9@gmail.com