Squawkers and Gawkers

Our feathered friends carry on, unaware of and unaffected by our pandemic. For the past few years, I've led rides to behold the spectacle of their rookery; this year, I set out on a solo ride, as group activities are still prohibited in our county.

As much as I would have enjoyed it, I avoided taking the scenic route along the Bay; trails are crowded, these days, with inexperienced, unpredictable, and careless cyclists. The roads, on the other hand, would be empty. I followed my old morning commute route, with a twist. It was tempting to use the empty overpass to cross the highway directly, but I stayed with my plan to explore one short trail link that was completed after our team was moved to a different town.

With the campus shut down for months, would the birds be less comfortable with humans gawking at them?

Were there fewer nests, this year? Or had I mis-timed my visit? It took patience to capture a good shot of this Snowy Egret, who was intent on preening (not posing). There weren't many birds to see.

But they were there. Each time a Great Egret glided toward the treetops, a chorus of hungry, squawking chicks made their presence known. Two fledglings prowled through the grass, and seemed uncertain how (or unable) to return to their nests: rather than fly, they tried (in vain) to scamper up the tree trunks.

Normally I bring binoculars to share—which, it turns out, people almost never want to use. This time, I'd stuffed my big camera in my bike bag, all 3.5 pounds of it.

In front of one the buildings where I'd worked, the native plants were busy with butterflies (Western Tiger Swallowtails)—just as the planners had intended.

Cruising through the deserted campus was bittersweet; so many happy memories of colleagues and conversations, the paths we'd frequented, the work we'd done together. I still resent that our team was forced to relocate to a soulless concrete office park a few years ago. But all the buildings are empty now, and may never be the same.

This being the Fourth of July, I'd normally celebrate with our club's traditional pancake breakfast and a bike ride. This year? Pancakes, no. Bike ride, yes. Mango lassi, yes! (I was in the neighborhood, and the restaurant was open for take-out.) Returning home, I chanced to meet a couple of club members heading in the same direction. Taking my usual shortcuts, our routes diverged twice and came back together (much to their surprise).

I'd shrugged off a poor night's sleep to do this ride, and was pleased that I didn't struggle to finish: 43 miles, 1,080 feet of climbing.