Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. John Lennon is credited with that pearl of wisdom.
As I stood on a small trail at a small park near Long Island Sound this week, I thought about that great quote. A ruff — a European sandpiper sometimes found in the U.S. — has continued to be seen at the small park over the past several weeks. I’m not the type of birder who normally chases rarities, but this was close enough to make the effort.
It was about mid-tide when I arrived at the coastal river in the late morning. I was immediately struck by the large numbers of busy American robins, song sparrows and common grackles. I love the spring tune of the song sparrow, so I had already deemed the effort worthwhile before stepping foot on the trail.
In the distance I heard the squawks of nesting monk parakeets. A minute later an osprey flew onto the scene, uttering its loud piercing chirp, while hovering above the river. A red-winged blackbird sounded off in the nearby reeds.
I also heard a closer song, one that I didn’t recognize. It was coming from the opposite side of a fruit tree in full magnificent, aromatic bloom. The bird was maybe a dozen yards away. Instead of stealthily creeping to the other side of the tree with camera ready for a shot, I ambled full speed along the trail and flushed a male orchard oriole from the pink-blossomed branches.
Oh well, I thought, I guess I’ll have to wait even longer for my first photo of an orchard oriole.
A snowy egret — the handsome, small, white wader with black legs and yellow feet — interupted the moment, which was a good thing because I could no longer dwell on the missed photo opportunity. As I watched the egret’s frantic hunting movements I noticed dozens of yellowlegs on the mudflats.
The yellowlegs occupied my time for the remainder of the visit. The large shorebirds with long, bright, yellow legs (hence the name) were here, there and everywhere. They hunted in the mudflats, they hunted at the receding water’s edge, they hunted at the south end of the park, they hunted at the north end of the park.
I tried not to take the view for granted, which would have been easy since there were so many of the birds there. Throughout much of the year, yellowlegs would be considered a solid bird sighting, so I soaked in the moment.
Besides, yellowlegs will always hold a special place in my heart because they are one of the few shorebirds I’ve seen during my trips to northern New Hampshire. I’ll never forget the yellowlegs I saw in Pittsburg, N.H., in late fall. Second Connecticut Lake was mostly drained and wildlife was scarce to say the least. The loons and ducks were gone for the year, and the moose were hiding in the woods. Suddenly a yellowlegs appeared out of nowhere and entertained me on that dreary, cold afternoon.
There are two types of yellowlegs: greater yellowlegs and lesser yellowlegs. As you can probably guess, the birds are similar except for size. Yes, the greater yellowlegs is the larger one.
I never did find the ruff, although my effort was admittedly half-hearted as I enjoyed the other birds on the scene. The next day I checked Connecticut’s rare bird alert and, sure enough, other birdwatchers had found the ruff there. At first I felt a tinge of disappointment and wondered when my next opportunity to see a ruff would be. My disappointment in not seeing the rare bird quickly faded, however, as I recalled the oriole, song sparrow, snowy egret, yellowlegs and other birds I had seen and heard.
With all apologies in the world to John Lennon and his fans, I hereby offer an alternative to his famous quote mentioned at the top of this column.
Great birdwatching is what happens when you’re looking for that rarity.

Return to For the Birds archives.