campfire notebook.

It feels good to pick up the camera again. As I mentioned in a previous note, it had been a silent winter, punctuated by thick ice that stilled nature and made exploration challenging. Was it nature simply reflecting the chill of sociopolitical rhetoric of our time, or nature trying to cool the temperature of our humours? In either case, the freeze made it hard to see anything else.

But now, the dawn chorus has fully swelled. Outside my window are the usual suspects: American robins and song sparrows. A massive flock of cedar waxwings have evaded the lens but still are a marvel to see, the corps glowing gold in the sunset as they move from one maple to another. A yellow warbler has recently taken up residence alongside American goldfinches, adding to the daily concert. I was worried I’d lose all of these songs living in an urban space, but their voices are carrying strong over the low thrum of industry.

Beyond this main cast, I’ve noticed that each summer birding season seems to be demarcated by a particular species, e.g., always finding common yellowthroats or red-winged blackbirds wherever I go. Perhaps there’s nothing special happening other than psychology – paying attention to a particular bird means my brain is now on the lookout for said bird (i.e., the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, aka the frequency illusion). The feathered friend version of buying a certain car so all you now see are those same makes and models wherever you travel. This season, the illusory birds appear to be warblers; specifically, black-throated green warblers and American redstarts. The former migrate from the south/midwest US to the eastern US and Canada for breeding; the latter, from the southwest US, northern Mexico, or even as far south as Venezuela and Columbia. Both are forest-dwelling insectivores, making their homes in the trees.

I’d only seen the black-throated green warbler once in 2023 and at a distance. This year, though, they’re a constant presence on my hikes; one even buzzed my head while hiking Crystal Lake at Rockwood Park before settling on a branch to investigate me. Similarly, I’d only seen male American redstarts from afar and in one specific fishing hole Ben visits each year. Now? I hear their “sneeze-like” song on every venture into the woods – and both the males and the females (who are slightly larger and very pretty with their flashes of gold).

Perhaps more of them migrated to the area, or they’ve always been in these locations but I’m visiting them more, hence the increased sightings. Regardless, they’ve become comfortable companions on trips through the forest – these escapes from the screen and the world that lives through cyberspace. And, as I stepped over gnarled roots and breath in the fragrance of new greens, I pause to wonder if my attention can also be better focused.

Can I “Baader-Meinhof” myself away from the fire and ice of social tempers, to instead see more of the good still happening of the world?

Maybe the birds can show me the way.