Murder Birds

In which my love for birds almost murdered me, and other tales.

A couple days ago, my dear friend Michèle absolutely murdered me, but she was very nice about it and we went at my pace, so it was a slow murder.

The murder was my fault. Michèle invited me on a hike and told me that there were nesting peregrine falcons at the end of it, and I did zip, zero research after that. Not to look into the length of the height. Not to find out the day’s temperature, or how much water I should bring. And, crucially, not to find out how high we would climb. Nothing. “I’m in!” I told her, thinking of the birds.

This was a miscalculation. Michèle has been a Boy Scouts troop leader for — I think I have this right? — all three of her sons. At any rate, she’s been on many a Boy Scouts hiking adventure, from the time they were adorable cubs just learning the basics to week-long wilderness camps in inclement weather (on purpose!).

The hike was, therefore, no big deal to her -- the last time she did this same hike, it was during a sleet storm to prep for the real winter camping that she had planned with her two older boys. By the time they came back down the trail, she said, it was so covered in ice that she and the kids sledded parts of it on their butts.

Call me a wimp, but for me, a 1,000 ft. climb over 2.5 miles — even if it’s not covered in ice — is still something. Anyway, Michèle was very patient, like I say, and we jointly murdered me very slowly.

Locks on the bridge crossing the Potomac, like the Pont des Arts in Paris. (Which eventually had to have its locks cut off of it because of the weight, but that’s another story.)

Wild raspberries along the path.

And then I got to the top, and there, gloriously, were the peregrine falcons. We hadn’t even been sure we would see them because the Park Service had — wisely — blocked off the nesting areas, but the adults were hunting above us, lifted by thermals. I thought we could even hear the babies, chirping and calling for more food. And that’s when I discovered that the clasp for my camera’s battery had broken, the battery had fallen out, and I had been carrying a heavy brick up the side of a mountain.

Sometimes, that’s just how it goes.

Here’s some terrible video of the birds circling overhead, taken with my cellphone.

And a few pictures of the Potomac River and the village of Harpers Ferry down below.

We then walked the 2.5 miles back — first a bit of an uphill again, and then mostly downhill, murdering me in an excitingly new and different way — back into Harpers Ferry and a very late lunch and some ice cream. 

Possibly a fiery searcher beetle? It wasn’t very iridescent though, so possibly not.

Harpers Ferry, by the way, is a terrific place to visit — it’s gorgeous, clearly has all the hiking one could desire (and possibly more), and has played an important part in the nation’s history. At no time was this more true than during John Brown’s Raid.

John Brown was an abolitionist who, in 1859, tried to “initiate a slave revolt in Southern states by taking over the United States arsenal at Harpers Ferry, Virginia (since 1863, West Virginia). It has been called the dress rehearsal for, or Tragic Prelude to the Civil War.”

John Brown’s last speech, as given to his jailer, was: “I John Brown am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty, land: will never be purged away; but with Blood. I had as I now think: vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed; it might be done.”

It was an interesting place to spend the 4th of July.

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One other thing: I’ll probably write even more about this later because I think the book, Bitch: On the Female of the Species is quickly becoming about 47% of my personality, but oh my goodness it is so good.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the somewhat dubious pleasure of debating Oxford University’s Richard Dawkins’ evolutionary biology theories with a guy (it’s always a guy) in a coffee shop (it’s usually a coffee shop)? But if you ever have, and if they’ve ever hit you with arguments like Dawkins’ “The word excess has no meaning for a male” — a famous saying of Dawkins’, meaning all males are promiscuous by nature, while all females are evolutionarily predisposed to be monogamous — and you’ve thought to yourself, that is a ridiculous argument, I’ve seen any number of nature documentaries that contradicts this and hell my own life disproves it but I wish I had more scientific backing, then my goodness is this the book for you.

Lucy Cooke, the author of Bitch, studied under Dawkins, and even though the book itself is measured and even polite about pointing out all the problems with Dawkins, *I’m* taking a malicious level of delight as each male-eating female-spider, each bird that spends half its life as a female and then turns male, each sex-loving female-hyena, each animal with its complex and unique way of expressing sex takes down Dawkins’ reductionist and misogynist view of the world.

Part of the problem, apparently, was that women scientists — and they were mostly women scientists who were researching the behaviors of female animals — had a hard time getting their papers published until recently. I’m a third of the way through the book, and you can tell I’m freaking out by the notes I’m taking. “2007?!?” I’m writing in the margin.

Until 2007, it was assumed that no active genetic steps needed to be taken to develop the ovaries or female genitalia of any animal. Ovaries were the default position because, of course, females were passive, and practically identical evolutionarily speaking (or so the thinking went). The really interesting thing to wait for was if testosterone washed over the genes, changing ovaries to testicles — *then* you got differentiation, competition, etc. It took until *2007* before this was not a common assumption, and now the development of the ovaries has begun to be studied.

But still. 2007.

Hannah @hannahfinally

FYI, female animals like sex so much & will let the animal they’re pursuing know it to such an extent that the word for oestrus is derived from the Greek word for “a female driven to distraction by gadflies.” If you aren’t 100% sure, it’s not consent. (From this awesome book.)

Possibly sensing that *I* was about to murder someone — and not in a nice, patient way — Thomas Pluck recommended this documentary on foxes who live on the northernmost island in Japan. The entire hour is beautiful and a balm to all that might ail you, while the last scene features a vixen who, if she isn’t driven to distraction by gadflies, at least gets the happy ending she deserves.

Highly recommended for (nice) murderers, ghosts of hikers, happy vixens, and everyone in between.

Hope you’re having a wanderful week.