Mystery Bird—Part 1

Identifying most of the birds who inhabit our locale has been a reasonably straightforward task. Everyone knows what a crow looks and sounds like—as well as an owl, or a whippoorwill. Other birds are not at all shy; they perch proudly out in the open—birds such as the cardinal, the chickadee, and the titmouse—so they are also easy to identify. A few others may stay pretty much out of sight, but they have a distinctive enough call that they can readily be identified—such as the wood thrush or the peewee.

Then there are the challenging birds to classify: those who keep out of sight and have a call that is not very distinct. They’ve tested me, but after a few years I managed to figure out most of them—such as the brown thrasher and Baltimore oriole. But the biggest challenge of all for me has been the Mystery Bird—who first appeared about five years ago. Well, he did not visually appear, but his attractive song floated through the clearing one day, and I knew immediately that this was a new bird for me, and one that I’d like to get to know. The Mystery Bird called from somewhere back in the woods. I tried to sneak towards him, but he’d stop calling and then wait for an hour or so, before beginning again. For a few months we played song tag—as I frustratingly tried to get closer, with no success.

In an attempt to identify him, I’d listen to my birdsong CD. Although his call sounded unique to me when I was outside, it was rather complex, and I’d quickly get confused listening to all the dozens of recorded songs that might be candidates. His seeming uniqueness quickly became buried in a mass of confusion. My frustration grew.

In the following year I got my first glance at the bird, from quite a distance. It was small—about the size of a titmouse. OK, that narrowed it down some—at least it’s not something the size of a crow. With this hint, I returned to my field guides, hoping to find some small birds that would fill the bill (no pun intended). But I was still stymied. I just didn’t have enough information to nail this bird down. My Mystery Bird remained an enigma. He kept singing away, almost as if taunting me.

Cruising yet once more through my recordings, I came upon the call of the indigo bunting. I’d once seen a bunting in the area, so they are around here and are the right size. The more I listened, the more I felt that the Mystery Bird had finally been revealed: it was a beautiful indigo bunting. But I still hadn’t gotten more than a momentary glance from a distance. Was the mystery really solved?

Well, not quite. Last year the bird seemed to be growing bolder and was coming even closer. One day I saw him land in a nearby tree and commence to sing out. That’s him! But wait a minute: this bird did not appear to be a dark bunting blue at all. In fact, he seemed to be dark brown, but he quickly flew off before I could get a good look.

Then this spring—after about four years of chasing after this bird—he became even more audacious. I spotted him in a nearby tree one day (his song once again clearly identifying him) and this time I could see no hint of blue. He was dark brown on top, with a brown-streaked, cream-colored breast. I ran for my field guide and looked up the indigo bunting. Was I wrong? Was it another species? Could it instead be a sparrow? The book showed me that the female bunting is not blue—in fact, she looks rather like the bird I had just seen. But how can this be? A female singing? I know that some female birds do call, but usually only sparingly. This bird was anything but sparing in its singing. Did the female indigo bunting sing? The puzzling questions seemed to multiply. It seemed as if I was back to square one, in my attempt to discern who this songster was.

Mystery finally solved next time…