1 of 5
Paul Sundberg
352bird
David Brislance chats with a local chickadee.
2 of 5
Paul Sundberg
A Bird in Hand
Norris, perched on the author’s shoulder.
3 of 5
Paul Sundberg
A Bird in Hand
A young friend, Sophie Ford, feeds Norris.
4 of 5
David Brislance
A Bird in Hand
David’s many hanging feeders attract his wild neighbors.
5 of 5
David Brislance
A Bird in Hand
My “bird whispering” began about 10 years ago, by accident, when my wife, Mary, and I built our retirement home on what we call Cedar Ridge, close to Lutsen, Minnesota, overlooking Lake Superior and the adjoining Superior National Forest.
I am not sure the exact day it happened, but I went out to fill our bird feeders and black-capped chickadees began landing on my shoulder or hat, waiting for sunflower seeds. They showed no fear.
Days after in the forest to shoot photos, I paused at a small clearing on my trail. I’d whistle the black-capped chickadee song a few times, and in minutes, an undulating flock of birds would fly down the trail to meet me.
It’s not that I did anything special. I believe they just became comfortable with my frequent visits and I always tried to have sunflower seeds to offer.
Even from afar, by their flight pattern, it was easy to discern them as black-capped chickadees. The leader of the flock was first to alight in my hand for seeds, with the remainder perched on my shoulders, camera strap, hat and surrounding brush waiting their turns. Chickadee ranks seem to have a definite pecking order.
It wasn’t long before two red-breasted nuthatches took to flying down the trail, too, on the same flight path. The female usually arrived first, followed by the male. I fondly named them Noreen and Norris. If chickadees occupied my hand, Norris would barge in and abruptly chase them off. He is intolerant of sharing or taking turns, even with his mate. He’s a true feathered curmudgeon.
When Norris flies off with his seed, his mate and the chickadees take turns pecking seeds from my palm. The chickadees usually take two seeds in their bills, while the nuthatch takes only one.
On cold days, the nuthatches will first eat a couple of hulled sunflower kernels whole before take others, one at a time, to a cedar, birch or spruce tree and pound it into a crevice of the bark. Cleverly, they will pick up a piece of lichen and cover the stored seed. This scene has been re-enacted almost daily for the past five years, during which time my little friend has survived subzero temperatures, blizzards, ice storms and predators.
Through the years I have enjoyed these private, daily hikes in the forest. I usually walk, stand, listen and watch for hours, so there have been many humorous escapades provided by my feathered menagerie.
At nesting time, chickadees have landed on my jacket collar and tugged strands of my gray hair. The first time this happened, I couldn’t believe a less-than-one-half-ounce bird could pull so hard – or could want my hair for their nests.
I can always tell when a fledgling or “rookie” chickadee lands in my hand for the first time. They will invariably peck on my fingers before they dare take a seed. It seems that the different texture and temperature of my fingers compared to the standard twig confuses them.
At times, various species of hawk predators fly in, namely the Cooper’s and sharp-shinned hawks. Of course, this is not a humorous occurrence to my chickadee and nuthatch friends. They go into a robotic chirping frenzy and take cover on branches close to tree trunks. Three different species of hawks have tried to take a chickadee out of my hand, including a very large northern goshawk. The hawk came out of nowhere, missing my hand and the chickadee. I could feel the wind of his wings as he slammed into a dead spruce tree a few feet away. In the ensuing chaos, the chickadees were screaming and the hawk was stunned on the ground. Finally, he flew up into a tree seemingly undamaged, except for his pride. I captured a nice image of a northern goshawk.
I once had a white-breasted nuthatch follow me and my flock of chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches into the forest. The white-breasted newcomer would never come to my hand for seeds, but watched from a short distance to see in which tree Norris hid his seeds. When Norris flew back to my hand for the next seed, the white-breasted nuthatch would find and pilfer the previously hidden seed. These antics went on for some time, but were soon stifled when Norris caught the interloping nuthatch red-handed in his act of thievery. Norris chased him through the brush and trees and eventually out of sight. It seems that the law of the north woods is swift and just.
Over time I have taken my hand-feeding of birds for granted. I never thought much about it until visiting friends marveled at the tameness of my birds. I received requests from many of them to hike up my ridge to meet and hand-feed my birds. The last few years, individuals as well as wildflower and photography classes have enjoyed the interaction with my birds.
The most endearing meetings are when families meet Norris and his entourage. Mary and I have brought our grandson Will to feed the birds. Jean, my eldest son, accompanies me into the forest each time he visits. He at times resembles a bird aerodrome with all the birds landing on him.
My friend and fellow photographer Paul Sundberg joined me one day to photograph the birds. A few of them were present in the yard when he arrived, so we didn’t have to travel far for photos.
Paul had such an interesting time shooting the different bird poses, he brought his neighbors, the Fords, and their children over to feed the birds. Sophie, Lucy, Palmer and their parents hiked up my ridge and got acquainted quickly. First Norris showed up and then a few of the chickadees joined in.
I always watch the eyes of children the first time birds land in their hands. Their smiles of amazement affirm this as a cherished moment that will last a lifetime in memory.
It is difficult to put into words the sanctity of these interactions I and others share with my birds. Why such a tiny creature exudes such joy and grace landing on an outstretched hand defies explanation. Perhaps I see, deep in their eyes, the truth of John Muir’s observation that “in God’s wilderness lies the hope of the world.”
Wildlife photographer David Brislance grew up in southeastern Minnesota, but has been photographing the Lake Superior shore for a decade. His images recently appeared in Minnesota’s Outdoor Wonders (Nodin Press) by naturalist Jim Gilbert.