Funny

Not funny

All right: Enough with the Big Advice already. I think we all know there’s only one thing in this world that truly concerns any of us: Manic Woodpeckers.

There I was, near to my goal of ogling nest innards.

And then came the bird call heard ’round my nervous system.

Upon hearing that lone, initiating call of the BAS, I dared hope it was an errant vocalization. Maybe it was a bird new to the neighborhood, one not familair with the idea that you’re only supposed to start the Bird Alarm System when a Troubling Predator has made an appearence—not a lonely, dorky teenager who is nonetheless continuing to radiate the kind of peaceful Tarzan vibe that any animal would have to be anti-instinctual to find threatening.

Clinging to the tree trunk, seven feet off the ground, I froze, and listened for what I dreaded was coming.

And then I heard it: The second BAS call, coming from about half way down the meadow behind me.

Not. Good.

I panicked. Which, I discovered, is difficult to do if you can’t actually move—which I couldn’t, since I was one Nerve Pulse away from dropping off that tree like a sack of door knobs.

Frozen, yet panicked, I decided to go for it. Who knew how far away the Owner Bird of this nest might be? Could be really far! Could be in China! Or maybe the bird was deaf!

I had to take a chance. I was young. I was impetuous. I was … poorly groomed, I think.

The whole thing was just ugly.

But dang it, nature is nature—and it was calling me in a way that, well … didn’t involve me hiding behind a bush. No, this time nature was calling to me, “Quick! Look in the nest! Before something happens!”

So I scrambled further up the trunk—until I was right beside the nest of my quest. Only about one more foot to go!

And that’s when I heard the most God-awful (are we allowed to say that? If not: sorry! I don’t mean it in vain! Or vein! Or …?) screeching sound in the history of exploding nerve cells.

I turned to look back across the meadow.

And that’s when I saw the winged vision that haunts me to this day. Seriously: the sheer visual of it is something I know I’ll remember forever.

A mature (well—let’s say full grown) Pileated Woodpecker has a wingspan of about three feet. Not vulture-size or anything—but pretty impresive. And I am here to tell you: When you’re seven feet off the ground clinging to a fat, rough tree trunk, and you look behind you and see a full-grown PW flying straight at you, with its freaky-looking red mohawk, its long white neck with what looks like a black collar strapped tight around it, it’s three-foot wingspan—when you see this giant, angry, punk-rocker of a ticked off, screaming bird coming at you—it can be a distinctly impressive sight.

It sure was to me, anyway. My whole body went into “Well, We’re Done” mode: I froze like a statue. All I could do, it seemed, was watch my terrible fate fly right toward me.

For a moment there, through the haze of my sheer terror, I couldn’t help but Actually Admire the way the bird commanded the air. That thing was definitely clear on how to gain the most momentum in the shortest amount of time. It had the whole Flap-Distance-Wind Velocity calculation down. If woodpeckers ever get jobs at NASA, we’ll be on Jupiter before you can say “Now, glide.”

The last thought I had before the bird actually banged into me was, “Isn’t it going to stop?”

That’d be a no. This was Roller Derby Bird, for sure. That thing hit me hard. It did this awesome thing, where at the very last moment it sort of swooped in from the side, tucked its head, and just butted me with its shoulder.

And then there I was, knowing for sure I couldn’t fly. I hit the ground like the frenzied sack of teen bones I was.

And that bird soooo wasn’t done with me. Once I was down, it latched onto the tree trunk about two feet above my crab-walking backwards body, and cussed me out with a long, shrill, shrieking string of Bird Invectives that I’m sure had gophers and mice all over that meadown holding their ears shut.

It actually poked at me a few times with its beak! It had this amazingly long neck—and suddenly its whole head was dangerously near my crotch; I was in imminent danger of getting the bird’s voice.

I had frozen pretty good in that tree—but once I was down on the ground getting grilled and almost-drilled by the scariest creature I’d ever seen, I became Joe Backwards Hustle, for sure. I think I scooted backwards about half-way across that meadow before I slowed down. I practically burned a trail betwen me and Psycho Woody.

Anyway, that’s how, one day, when I was 17, I got attacked by a woodpecker. It was totally my fault, of course. And I’m absolutely positive that somewhere within this experience lies a lesson for me. The moment I figure out what that lesson is, I’ll let you know.

So there I was, walking across The Meadow towards the huge, hopefully abandoned nest that was beckoning me forward like a huge nest beckoning forward a guy who’s so bored from staying out in the woods for 12 hours a day that he thinks watching fern fronds unfold is fun.

Ah. The teen years. Mine were such a disaster.

Anyway, right. So the plan was to get to the tree, channel my Inner Monkey, climb the tree, peer into the nest, be rewarded by whatever I saw there, come back down, and go on my merry Nature Boy way. And the key to pulling this off, I knew, was to throughout it all emit such harmonious, spiritually balanced, At One With Nature vibes that it would occur to no animal observing me that I could be of any threat whatsoever.

Perfect! I was St. Francis of Santa Cruz, for sure.

All was silent as I bipedally made my way across the meadow. I knew I was being watched, of course, by about a gazillion bird eyeballs belonging to the half a gazillion birds perched in all the trees ringing the meadow. But my stride was so smooth and calm, my manner so peaceful and undeniably trustworthy, that I could just feel the birdy love surrounding me.

I was, I knew, amongst friends.

I came to the base of the tree–a huge, gnarled behemoth. Above me–maybe six feet above me–loomed the nest of my desire.

Big trees can be so hard to climb. On this day, anyway, my Inner Monkey had contracted arthritis or something, because instead of my usual graceful and athletic self, I found myself stuck being Spaz Boy of the Wild. I think I was just stiff from sitting so long. I don’t know. But right away climbing that tree became like wrestling Frankenstein. I couldn’t get up the thing. It had on its trunk these little hard swells, these … lovely trunky lumps, that I kind of used as footholds, and I ground my fingers into wherever I could get any sort of grip, and slowly but not-so-surely I made my way upward. It was pretty ugly, though. If that tree was interested in having anyone climb it, it sure wasn’t showing it.

About a half hour later I was off the ground about six, seven feet, when I heard the single bird cry that I instantly recognized as the first of the terribly efficient Bird Alarm System (BAS).

[Expletive deleted.] Not good!

Why was this happening? Why had I been tagged as a threat? I wasn’t a hawk. I wasn’t some raven come to eat anyone’s eggs, or move into their nest. I was a benign appreciator of All Things Nature. Why sound the alarm?!

Stupid birds. They’re so stupidly instinctual. They’re like little panic-filled machines.

So instantly–half-way up a tree, banged up, off balance, barely hanging on–I had to make a choice: Do I jump down now and Back Away From the Tree, or do I quick scramble my way up just a few more feet, and finish the job.

I had to go for it. I had to see what was in that nest–what the inside of such a nest even looked like.

As Columbus had to see the New World, as Lindberg had to see France, as Edison had to see the light, I had to see inside that giant bird’s nest.

Besides, we’re talking about birds here. I figured, what could really happen? It’s not like birds ever actually hit people or anything. It’s not like some giant bird was just going to fly right at me, and knock me off the tree with its surprisingly heavy body weight, its terrible talons of doom, and its perfectly pointed, four-inch Beak of Steel that it could use to kill a grizzly bear.

Like that could happen.

If you’re just joining us, parts 1-4 of this thrilling saga about how Woody Woodpecker once attacked me and left me to die in the woods are here: 1, 2, 3 and 4. 

Now then: There I was, dying in the woods.

No, wait. First I was alive in the woods, hanging out in this meadow, eyeballing a nest in the Main Crook (quick: Name that president!) of a giant non-redwood tree.

So I decided to go check that nest out. Though young, I was nimble of brain–and here’s what my brain was telling me as I scoped out yon nest: “Look at that thing. It’s huge. I can’t believe that’s a nest. It looks like that old tree burped, and this was the disgusting result. Like trees burp. How stupid. Those talking, apple-hurling trees in the Wizard of Oz burped, though, for sure. Who knows how gross those trees got? Thank God for censors. Anyway, I’m gonna go look at that nest. I’ve got to go see what’s inside that thing. I wonder if it’ll be lined with anything? Probably with down and feathers. Duh. Talk about comfort. Wait–birds have down and feathers with them wherever they go.

“I wonder why you never see birds lying on their sides, enjoying all the down and feathers they’re totally surrounded with? Why are they always standing? If I was a bird, you wouldn’t be able to get me off the ground with a cattle prod. If I wanted to get somewhere, I wouldn’t fly or walk. I’d roll.

“No–I’d walk sometimes. Sometimes I’d walk ‘n roll!

“If someone alone in the woods laughs at their own joke, is that joke still funny? Yes. If a person finds any pun funny, has that person been alone in the woods too long? Yes. Anyway, I’m gonna go look in that bird’s nest. I don’t care about the Bird Alarm System. That’s for big birds. I’m not a big bird. I’m bigger than a big bird. I’m a human. Humans rule nature. All the birds will just stop, while I climb that tree and look into that nest. Plus, I know I put off Harmonious Human vibes. My fellow woodland creatures will just know that I don’t mean them or this nest any harm. They’ll know I come in peace. This’ll be good. This’ll work.”

So, I rose from my spot on the meadow’s edge, and boldly began my trek across the meadow toward the giant bird’s nest I’d been long regarding.

The universal, interspecies Bird Alarm System works like this: A big bird–hawk, crow, eagle, vulture, terradactyl (I assume, once, when dinosaurs flew!!)–takes an interest in something that a smaller bird who owns that something surely wishes he wouldn’t. But a lot of times the not-yet-victimized smaller bird is away somewhere. He’s off … being a bird. He’s not home.

Not good!

And that’s when the Bird Alarm System kicks in to alert that bird, wherever he is, to the fact that a larger, scarier bird is making eyes at his digs.

Here’s how I discovered the BAS: I’d be sitting at the edge of this many-acres-huge meadow in (as I’ve said, I know) the Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. An ocean of wildflowers. Gorgeous! And way across the meadow, I’d see a large bird start circling around a tree. Or really almost just show up at all. And instantly everything across the meadow would go silent. That’s usually how I knew an un-cute Big Bird had entered the scene. One moment seemingly every bird in the universe is making so much noise I can barely hear myself trying to come up with anything to think about–and the next it’s so quiet you could hear banana slugs not racing.

Then I go, “Oops. Big Bird’s a callin’.” And then I’d look up, and there would be Joe Shadow Caster, drifting around in the silent sky. And, amongst the trillion birds then apparently watching the big bird, mum would remain the word.

And then–and always from within the trees very near the Dennis the Menace bird–would issue forth the perfectly clarion call of a single smaller bird–a jay, mockingbird, robin, sparrow, starling … it could be any one of them.  (Interesting Bird Note: The type of bird that began the Alarm Cry always did the exact same call. A jay sounding the alarm would always do the same Jay Alarm Call–as would a robin, etc. I think this proves once and for all that birds talk to each other. If you are a member of the McArthur Genius Awards committee, please email me so that I can tell you where to send my check.)

So I’d hear that solo call, right? And it might come from all the way across the meadow. And then, half-way across the meadow–say, coming towards me–I’d hear one other bird. Could be the same kind of bird as the first one, could be a different kind. But it, alone, would again call out.

And then I’d hear another bird do a single call, right near me. And then I’d hear another one way off in the distance behind me.

And I’d realize that about a mile of signaling just got covered, in a matter of seconds.

And sure enough, from the direction the last alarm had been signaled, some bird would come winging out onto the field, heading right toward Mr. Wingspan. And then it was on. You know how aggressive little birds can be, how mockingbirds or blackbirds will seriously harrass hawks or ravens in the air. So that little bird would start doing whatever it could to persuade the big bird to go pick on someone else’s property–and the moment it started doing that, all the other birds would start screaming like chimpanzees. Suddenly you’d go deaf it had grown so loud.

Of course, I never noticed any of the other crazed spectator birds coming out of their trees to actually help the little Defender Bird–but they were definitely into it. (And, actually, sometimes other birds did come out to help a little–to wing the big bird, or sort of jab at him as he tried to retreat. Pretty cool! Unless you’re the big bird.)

So that’s how it went. Silence; a string of single calls over amazing distances (sometimes so far they’d actually go beyond my hearing); single Bird to the Rescue.

I, attempting to look into a nest that I was sure was abandoned, was about half-way up a tree–maybe nine, ten feet off the ground–when I heard that first bird call.

One of the things I learned from sitting around in the forest sucking on beef jerky and “racing” banana slugs (I’d pair them up, say “Go!”, and then watch them act like the under-motivated slabs of yellow, antenna-sporting goo they were), was that little birds protect other little birds from big birds.

Here, I learned, is how it works. Most birds are about the same size: jays, mockingbirds, starlings, blackbirds, rockin’ robins. And then you have littler ones–sparrows, finches bushtits (what was somebody thinking?), and the like. All of these sorts of birds are in the same … birdy class. They’re just … birds.

And then, in an uneasy cohabitation with those birds, are Big Birds: Hawks, ravens … various raptor-types. But mostly hawks, in the daytime. (And then at night the fat, amazingly deft predators that are owls.)

What I learned in my many days as Paul Bunions the Orphan Boy is that all the little and medium sized birds help each other defend against the bigger birds. How it works is this: a big bird–a red-tailed hawk, for instance–will start taking some sort of interest in, say, the nest, or nesting tree, of a smaller bird. And that (I found) will usually happen when the owner of that nest is off doing whatever it is birds do when they’re not at home protecting their nests.

So you’ll see a hawk kind of cruise by a tree–and hey, something catches his attention. So he’ll wheel back around, and start eyeballing his Point of Potential Interest. And if that hawk in any way signals that he really is interested in whatever’s he’s seen in that tree, and there’s any chance that that interest might ultimately prove detrimental to the life of a normal, smaller-type bird, then this whole amazing, interspecies, instantly-miles-covering Bird Alarm System totally kicks in.

Does everyone in the world already know this? Is this boring? I found it Beyond Fascinating–but I was basically a high-school dropout (well, sort of: more on that later, maybe, sadly enough for you) who barely knew a tree from a tetherball pole.

If everyone already does know about the whole Bird Alarm System, someone write me and tell me so. Either way, though, I guess, I’ll continue on tomorrow.

Because believe me, that alarm system doesn’t just work to tell birds when another bird is messing with their nest.

The year was 1976. Big shoes were in. So was big hair, big pants legs, big belts, big hats, big sunglasses, big neckties, and collars on men’s shirts that were so huge it was like having your head stuck between two skateboard ramps.

I don’t know why everything was so big in the 70’s. I think it had something to do with all the drugs people starting taking in the 60’s. I think when everyone realized that drugs are horrible for you and make you crazy, they stopped taking them–but then still wanted everything to look the way it had back when they’d been popping major hallucinogens.

Hence the introduction into our culture of disco balls, lime-green polyester jumpsuits, and the Bee-Gees.

That’s just a theory, though. I really don’t know.

In 1976 I was 18 years old and basically homeless. (I moved out of my house just after turning seventeen. My home situation was … an outstanding one to leave.) I had a friend from high school, though, who, as a new student at the University of California at Santa Cruz, was staying in the dorms there, and she allowed me to spend the nights in her dorm room.

(Um … this might be a good time to mention that this was 20 years before I became a Christian–and that my choice for where to spend my nights really did boil down to that dorm room, or outside somewhere. And I’m here to tell you: the nights in Santa Cruz are cold. I’m not by any means saying that staying with my friend was right, but only that it didn’t even occur to me not to be glad that I at least had a place to sleep.)

The good news is that I had a place to sleep. The bad is that my friend had a single-occupancy room on a dorm floor wing dedicated to girls only. At that time, at that school, all the dorm floors were co-ed. Girls and boy weren’t put together as roommates–but two girls would room next to two guys, who’d be next to two girls, who’d be across the hall from two guys, and so on. All the floors of all the dorms were like that.

All of them, that is, except for the one on which my friend had ended up. That hall was strictly for girls only.

Point being: I didn’t belong anywhere on that campus–and I sure didn’t belong anywhere on that wing of that dormitory on that campus.

Which meant I had to spend my days being gone. I could sneak in very late at night after everyone else was asleep–but during the days it was definitely best if I acted like a banana, and split.

So where did I spend my days? But of course: In the Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. UCSC is located right beside that massive spread of prime redwood real estate–I think it’s actually in the park–so every morning before dawn I’d grab whatever food my friend has filched for me the night before from the dorm cafeteria, jam it into my pockets, and head out to spend yet another day being Fern Boy of the West.

You spend enough 12-hour days alone in a redwood forest, and you know what happens to you? You go a little insane. But besides that, you learn some stuff about nature. Nothing that’ll ever do you any good, or anything–but after a while you can’t help but pick up a few things about Woodland Creatures, and flowers, and … I don’t know … dirt.

Especially about birds. Birds seem to be the one thing that kept, like, happening to me when I was out there. You know how birds are: They’re so … intense about everything.

Anyway, I used to have a lot of time to kill out in those woods. So one of the things I used to do was find a spot that seemed like it had Optimum Viewing Possibilities–my favorite, for instance, was on the edge of this vast meadow–and then sit in that spot and basically try not to move for, like, eight hours.

The idea, see, is that I would just sort of blend with my environment, and then, after awhile–after all the animals either got so used to me or simply forgot I was there–I figured I’d get to see like, Top Notch forest stuff! Wildlife! Deer! Other … wildlife! Gnomes, maybe! Snow White and however many of her dwarves would still be alive! Who knew?

But definitely animals. That was the point: To see as many animals as I could.

Ergo, I found it wise to sit, freeze, wait and watch.

And that’s what I was doing the day I spotted, in the crook of a large, gnarly, non-redwood tree almost all the way across my Fave Rave meadow, a giant bird’s nest.

And that, I’m afraid, is where all my woodsy troubles began.