Birding

PELI 'L OJO

An Eastern Meadowlark An Eastern Meadowlark? In the middle of Costa Rica? Three days ago we stood in this very spot in front of El Bosque Hotel in Monteverde looking up at a slim-trunked tree, watching the bright morning sun reflect from the brilliant yellow breast etched with the large black V, listening to the clear sharp descending whistle sounding like a flute, repeated 5 or 6 times. An Eastern Meadowlark. Here, in Monteverde.

That was three days ago. Today a sharp trade wind is blowing cloudy mists over the continental divide, and the only birds in sight are some hardy Clay-colored Robins, and the usual much-despised Great-tailed Grackles. Wind and mist are part of the package 5,000 feet above sea level here in the Monteverde cloud forest, but today will be different, we are going on a road trip. Monteverde, to be sure, has its share of colorful tropical birds, but today we are off to explore new territory. Adrian arrives right on time, proudly wheeling his white Isuzu Rodeo into a parking spot next to where we are standing. The Rodeo is all gassed, washed, and shined up for the trip, Adrian likes things to be neat. Adrian's cousin Melvin, who he calls Shellbean, is tagging along, eager to search the transitional forest of the Carara Biological Reserve for birds he has never seen before, not an easy task because, of the more than 800 different species of birds known to be present in Costa Rica, Melvin has seen over 500. Adrian has seen as many, and even though he too is eager to see new birds, the main reason he is going today is because he will be paid for his services. Adrian and Melvin are Monteverde Nature guides. Day after day after endless day, they roll out of bed before dawn, pack up their $1,000 binoculars and $1,500 telescopes, put on their million dollar smiles, dust off their near flawless, mostly self-taught English, and go forth to greet their clients, most often groups of 6,8, or 10 old farts, down from the cold North, here to see the Resplendent Quetzal, and maybe a monkey or two.

But today will be different. Today they will be taking Liddy and Loo, and their friend Mary Ann, down the dreadful and dreaded Monteverde road, out of the cool mists of the cloud forest to Carara on the hot, dry, coastal plain near the place where the spacious Nicoya Gulf empties into the Pacific Ocean. When Liddy and Loo think of Carara they think of Scarlet Macaws, Chestnut Mandibled Toucans, and Orange-collared Manakins. When Adrian and Melvin think of Carara, they think of the shining prospect of adding new birds to their lifetime lists; Melvin has never seen the Royal Flycatcher, Adrian has never seen the Spectacled Antpitta. Mary Ann is on her first trip to Costa Rica; to her everything is new.

The Rodeo is rolling at 7 A.M., right on schedule, and Adrian behind the wheel immediately begins to grumble about the terrible road; every bump is taken as a personal assault. Adrian is super sensitive about his precious vehicle, he winces when somebody slams a door, he groans when he cant avoid a yawning pothole, or the tip of a buried boulder. The road is littered with both, and we haven't even started down the mountain.

Peli 'l ojo, calls Adrian . . . keep your eyes peeled . . . the bird-watcher's mantra. He points to the side of the road. "There", he says, "a Great-tailed Grackle, put it on the list; first bird of the day."

The Great-tailed Grackle is the trashiest of the trash birds, a big, ugly blue-black bird with no redeeming traits, that pollutes the air around Monteverde with its frightful screetches, and startling wing beats. Adrian likes this bird; Adrian likes all the birds no matter how obnoxious. We are going for a record- how many different birds can we see in one day? Three weeks ago on a similar trip to Carara we saw 85 in one day. But that was then, and today Melvin is along to ensure that nothing is missed.

Adrian and Melvin are both 37 years old, born only two months apart right here in the Monteverde area. Adrian tells how his mother rode a horse down the mountain, more than 20 miles to the town of Las Juntas where he was born.

In spite of their shared interest in family and birds, Adrian and Melvin could not be more different. Adrian struts, while Melvin shambles. Melvin calls his cousin Machó. Adrian is divorced, and on the make, he always looks for the prettiest lady in the group, and has a large reservoir of charm and wit that rarely fails to serve him well. He plays the marimaba with dash and dancing eyebrows. Melvin is a family man with two daughters, 11 and 8, and a year-old son.

Starting down the mountain everyone feels a touch of nostalgia as the car radio gives us the Beatles singing 'Yesterday'. Machó recounts the poignant story of Patty. Down from New York City with a tour group, they fell in love at first sight, Patty with the Resplendent Quetzal, Machó with Patty. She loved Machó too of course, but how could it be? She went back home, he stayed here, they corresponded, they talked on the phone. She met a lawyer but still loved Machó. She died on her wedding day of a broken heart.

Machó carries the flashy Swarovski binoculars, Shellbean the sturdy Leica. Machó prefers Pilsen beer, Shellbean, Bavaria, although in the boot is a cooler of Imperial sporting its macho symbol-the Harpy Eagle. In his next life Machó wants to be a Harpy Eagle, Shellbean is content to be a Three-wattled Bellbird. Machó sports a moustache and a rakish goatee, Shellbean settles for only a moustache.

They both have the eyes of an eagle, and the ears of an antelope. Bumping down the mountain they spot the white crown of a high-flying bird. "White-fronted Parrot," they cry almost in unison; the second bird of the day. The parrot is struggling with the wind, which is blowing over the continental divide at a brisk rate. Machó reports that it is because of coastal storms in New Jersey, 3,000 miles north. Liddy and Loo are from New Jersey; they don't know whether to be smug or to be worried. It is only a fleeting thought, their senses are presently assaulted by a twisting mountain road with no guard rails, and a 1,000 foot drop to a peaceful valley dotted with coffee plants and mango groves. Up and to the left they see the Monteverde Cloud Forest capped by an enormous cloud bank that looks like rolling surf.

Soon they reach the town of Guacimal; it is the prototypical Costa Rican rural village, featuring a soccer field, a school, and a Catholic church. There are birds to be seen in Guacimal. The usual suspects-Brown Jays, Groove-billed Anis, Tropical Kingbirds, Cattle Egrets, and a nice surprise-a White-collared Seedeater. Not as many birds as last time. "Because of the wind," says Machó. He spots an Orange-chinned Parakeet resting high in a cedar tree behind the church where Liddy and Mary Ann look for a baño without success. Machó is anxious to get on with it, he has had enough of Guacimal. "Not even a Warbler," he grouses; last time here we saw a Collared Aracari and a Rose-throated Becard.

Since leaving Monteverde, Machó has been chirping away in rapid Spanish at his cousin in the front seat-an almost nonstop monologue broken now and then by a word or two from Shellbean who smiles through most of it. But now as we move down the dusty road away from Guacimal, Shellbean laughs out loud, tickled pink at something Machó has said. Machó is pleased at his cousin's reaction to his humor and decides to share it with his clients. He speaks over his shoulder to Liddy in the back seat. "Que pichaso de pajoros," he says. Shellbean can't help himself; he giggles. Liddy's Spanish is pretty good, but all she knows about Machós joke is that it's something about birds. Machó tries to explain. He slams his right fist into his left palm and repeats, "Que pichaso de pajoros . . . were going to stick it to those birds."

Shellbean laughs again. Machó beams; he has an idea. He tells Liddy that when she gets back to el Bosque Hotel, she should say to Benjamin, the desk clerk, "Que pichaso de pajoros." He seems to enjoy hearing himself say it. It becomes obvious that there is more to this than Machó is telling. Liddy has never been very good with double meaning jokes, especially when they are off-color, but she knows when she is being set up. Machó doesn't realize that he is giving up some customer goodwill for the sake of a laugh from his cousin; he is taking a cheap shot at Liddy though he would later vigorously deny it.

A hummingbird zips across the road in front of us. Machó points a crooked finger. "Fork-tailed Emerald," he pronounces. He stops so Mary Ann can photograph a riot of purple orchids growing from a tree close to the road. A brilliant orange-breasted Baltimore Oriole sits on the crown of the tree. The list is up to 22. From the left side of the back seat Liddy sees a large black bird perched on the limb of a tree set back off the road in a small copse. Machó thinks it is a Grackle, and moves slowly ahead over the rocky road. Liddy had a better look; she knows a Grackle when she sees one. "Wait," she says. Machó stops the car. "Back up," says Liddy. Machó obliges; he gets a better look at the bird. "Wait a minute," he says. When Machó says wait a minute like that, what he means is "Hang on guys, we may be onto something interesting here." He pulls the car to the side of the road and jumps out. Shellbean is right behind. They climb over a barbed-wire fence and move through the underbrush to get closer to the tree where the bird remains perched. It has the striped tail of a hawk. "Orange legs," says Shellbean, holding his binoculars to his eyes. Most raptors have yellow legs. "Red eye," says Machó. "Get the book."

The book is A Guide to the Birds of Costa Rica, by Stiles, Skutch, and Gardner. The book has uncannily accurate colored drawings of over 800 birds, along with detailed descriptions of the birds habits, songs, and status. This book has made life easier for professionals like Machó and Shellbean, and for countless amateurs like Liddy and Loo, to say nothing of novices like Mary Ann. Shellbean fishes the book out of his day pack. Plate 14, says Machó. He knows that Plate 14 is Black Raptors. There are 52 plates in the book, 15 to 20 birds per plate, and Machó has many, if not most, of them memorized. Looking at Plate 14, he quickly decides. "It's a Crane Hawk," he says excitedly. "New for me."

"New for me too," says Shellbean.

Machó and Shellbean exchange high-fives; in the excitement they have forgotten their clients. But only momentarily. Machó turns to Loo, standing next to him with his cheap binoculars. "You saw it didn't you?" he asks.

Loo saw it, but before he can answer, there is a shout from Liddy, standing by the road Liddy doesn't do barbed-wire fences. She has spotted a Black-headed Trogon, bird number 29, and we haven't even reached the Pan-American Highway. Mary Ann gets to see a Squirrel Cuckoo before at last we come to the highway at 10:35.

Time to fasten the seat-belts. Machó is ready to roll. "Yee-ha," he shouts as he kicks the Rodeo into high gear and heads south towards Puntarenas, slowing only for a couple of speed traps to which he is alerted by the blinking headlights of oncoming cars, buses, and trucks. An hour later we are checking into the Villa Lapas, a classy four-star hostelry tucked into a scenic cleft in the hills a few miles west of the Carara Biological Reserve, a mile off the main road to Jaco Beach. Lapas is the Costa Rican word for Scarlet Macaw, and this is Scarlet Macaw country. In past years the Villa Lapas was home to a host of animal pets-a white-faced monkey, two coatimundies, a Keel-billed Toucan who would sit on the back of your chair and take pieces of papaya from your hand, or scrambled eggs from a fork. There was also a Scarlet Macaw who once perched on Liddy's head. But no more, that was in the days when the Villa Lapas was new, and needed gimmicks to attract customers. Today they are overflowing with large tour groups; a gargantuan tour bus blots out the sun. But the birds are still here. Machó hears the distinctive call of a Bright-rumped Atilla, and imitates it perfectly; Shellbean spots a Golden-hooded Tanager on a high branch of a soaring Ficus tree shading the reception area, the same tree that shelters the nest of a Bare-throated Tiger Heron, the bird Liddy has chosen to be when it is her turn to be reincarnated as a bird.

After lunch at the Crocodile restaurant next to the Tarcoles River Bridge, we are on the oven-hot Carara River trail by 1:15 and the birds are coming thick and fast. In 20 minutes we see a Tropical Gnatcatcher, a Northern Bentbill, a Streaked Flycatcher, a Long-billed Gnatwren, a Lesser Greenlet, a Plain Xenops, and a Dotted-wing Antwren. At 1:40 we see our first Scarlet Macaw, actually two, a pair flying over the trail, squawking loudly, announcing their presence. Next, a Black-hooded Antshrike, just before we reach the Orange-collared Manakin lek, 10 yards off the trail to the right, just where it has been since the first time Liddy and Loo came here, 8 years ago. The manakins are still here, their snapping wings sounding like the firecrackers at a Chinese New Year celebration.

But suddenly the bird-watching is interrupted by a tragedy of Nature. Machó hears a soft cry coming from behind a large Chickle tree canopied over the trail; it sounds like the meow of a small kitten. Machó goes into the underbrush behind the tree and emerges cradling a foot-long brown furry creature with two perfectly formed long curved nails extending from all four extremities. It is a baby Two-toed Sloth. Thirty feet above, lodged in a fork of the tree is the furry massed protean form of the mother Sloth. The baby has either fallen or been pushed from the comfort of the mother's breast. Too soon. The baby is not yet ready to make it on her own. Machó is concerned; Shellbean is distressed. Machó works for 30 minutes, expertly imitating the babie's plaintive call, trying to induce the mother sloth to descend from the tree and rescue her baby. Three times she begins a painfully slow descent, but each time appears to think better of it. With Machó's help the baby gamely tries to climb the tree, but lacks the strength to ascend more than a few agonizing inches. Shellbean sits on a log; he cannot bear to watch. When at last he looks up, his eyes are moist. "She is too lazy," he mutters resentfully. Finally Machó props the baby against a low branch, and we move down the trail, hoping something good will happen in our absence. Later we will retrace this trail back to the reserve entrance; the guard leaves at 4 and Machó does not want to leave his Rodeo unattended. In the next hour Mary Ann is dazzled by the contrasting velvet black and blazing red of the Scarlet-rumped Tanager, and although Shellbean does not see the Royal Flycatcher which famously patrols this trail, Machó adds three birds to his lifetime list the Blue Ground-Dove, the Gray-rumped Swift, and the Painted Bunting.

The Painted Bunting? "I don't lie about birds," Machó lies. Birders are like fishermen, they lie all the time. Just listen to a couple of guides trying to outdo each other in telling what they saw. Three weeks ago, Machó himself was shaking his head in disbelief when a tour guide from San José told him that his group was watching a Painted Bunting off the side of the road to Monteverde.

When we pass the sloth tree on our way back, we find the baby sloth in the same place Machó had left her, but the mother sloth is nowhere to be found. The baby is still alive, but just barely. Machó tries to get her to drink some water, but it is no use, she dies just as we reach the entrance. The guard says they will preserve her in alcohol as a demonstration exhibit for tourists.

In two and a half hours on the steaming Carara river trail we have seen 41 different birds, including the elegant Anhinga with its long thin neck, and artistically patterned wing feathers. We are reminded of the Yellow-Crane Pagoda in Wuhan, China, and the Chinese legend that the Crane brings happiness and long life.

Heading for the Tarcoles River Bridge, a half-mile up the road, our day list has reached 70 including the sight of a pair of Blue-black Grosbeaks in the mating act-we felt like intruders. At 4:30 people have already begun to gather at the bridge for the evening flight of the Scarlet Macaws. Buses and cars are parked on both sides of the road on the southern approach to the bridge. In Costa Rica, only 500 miles north of the equator, the sun rises and sets within 15 minutes before or after 6 oclock the year round, and for as long as anyone can remember, perhaps for centuries, Scarlet Macaws have passed over this site, flying into the sun, east in the morning heading for feeding sites in the Carara forests, and west in the evening , returning to their nests in the mangrove trees near the Gulf of Nicoya. At times they come in waves, flying in pairs, low enough to see clearly without binoculars the striking combination of brilliant red, blue, and yellow feathers, the long streaming tail feathers, and to hear the ear-splitting squalls. Liddy and Loo once counted 110 macaws flying over this bridge.

The span of the bridge is nearly two football fields long, and arcs 50 feet above the tidal river below; narrow concrete walkways flank the roadway on both sides. The river is crawling with crocodiles, for some people an even greater attraction than the Scarlet Macaws. A Great Blue Heron stands imperiously in water up to its knees, unconcerned at being stalked by three crocodiles, all coming at him from different directions. It is reported that crocodiles here once ate a cow that wandered too near the water. We see a particularly large croc with a radio antenna strapped to its back.

A dusty Volkswagen bus pulls up, and an odd couple emerges from it. A tall stately, blond-haired woman wearing a green sports bra and tight green shorts below a very flat midriff decorated with a navel ring. Her companion is a blob of a man; rolls of fat flow over his obscured belt. She carries a plastic bag stuffed with chicken parts; they intend to feed the crocodiles. Feeding crocodiles is against the law, and two uniformed cops are on the bridge to enforce it. The blond and her fat pal talk to the policemen, and head back to their VW bus shaking their heads. But hold on. Machó saves the day; he makes a deal with the cops. He gives each a cold can of Imperial from his cooler in exchange for looking the other way when the blond flings chicken legs to the crocs, 50 feet below. To Machó the deal was a no-brainer; everyone benefited. He didn't want the tourists to be disappointed, and he wanted to do something nice for the cops. Machó himself is a volunteer emergency policeman on the Santa Elena Rural Guard, and he thinks policemen in general are underappreciated.

At 4:52 the first Scarlet Macaws appear; a single pair. Shellbean hears them before they can be seen and shouts the alert. "Macaws!" Watching them against the pale blue evening sky, looking like two flying arrows, their great wings flapping in perfect union, the mind's ear searches for the appropriate musical accompaniment-Liszt-Les Preludes . Two more pairs, and a lonely straggler, fly over at 5:15, but no more. Machó thinks they may be flying further south.

The sun sets with Machó pointing out a Green-breasted Mango hummingbird; final count: 80. We'll do better tomorrow, promises Machó.

Glowing with the events of the day, we head back to the Villa Lapas. "Yee-ha," shouts Machó, gunning the Rodeo down the smooth highway. "Crested Caracara," he adds, pointing through the windshield to a flying bird that only he can see.

Canopied on three sides by soaring Ficus trees, and looking down on a gently flowing stream monitored by Kingfishers, Water Thrushes, and Flycatchers, the wide and spacious deck of the Villa Lapas Restaurant is a good place to unwind and re-hydrate after a hot and enervating afternoon on the Carara River trail. Liddy and Loo are well into their second Shandy when a distinctive whistle floats over the deck. Machó and Shellbean are instantly on their feet responding to the call of that rarest of birds-a Monteverde guide imitating the Grayish Saltator. But this is no ordinary Monteverde guide, if there is such a thing, it is Alex, the most highly regarded guide of them all. More than once on the trail, Machó, puzzling over the identity of a certain bird, has said, "I will ask Alex, he will know." Alex is the ultimate authority, the final arbiter. Alex knows more than the book. Alex has his own Web Site. And incredibly, Alex is here at the Villa Lapas telling us excitedly about his encounter with a Bare-necked Umbrellabird at the Eco Lodge near the Arenal Volcano. Alex is on the last leg of a 10-day bird-binge, hired by a former U.S. Navy pilot and his bird-nut son. They began at Monteverde, and have been to the Atlantic side at Arenal, and La Selva, and now back to the Pacific side at Carara. Alex has a full repertoire of bird tales, but he is most anxious to tell about chasing a Puma down a La Selva trail, his video camera recording, and his "Oh my God!" when the animal stopped to look around and see what was following him. Alex says when the trip is finished after tomorrow they will have seen more than 400 different birds. Nobody doubts Alex.

Alex's extravagant tales fire our imaginations- que pichaso de pajaros, mañana. But that's tomorrow, just at this moment Shellbean has a heaping forkfull of rice and beans hlfway to his mouth when the lights flicker, fade, and go out. The tour group exclaims, but the waiters are not surprised; candles are quickly lighted, some had been burning before the power failure. Who needs electricity? A nearly full moon is rising in the tropical sky, but the Southern Cross can still be seen in its usual spot, just down-sky from Orion's belt.

Mañana comes early for bird-watchers. At 5 A.M. it's still pitch-black at the Villa Lapas, but the Common Pauraque is up and about, and near enough to startle us with an ear-piercing REEE-O. Heard birds don't make the day list, although Machó says they are included in the annual Christmas day bird count.

We leave the Villa Lapas on schedule at 5:30, and 10 minutes later are back at the Tarcoles Bridge in time to see the first Scarlet Macaws flying before sunrise. After a mostly uneventful hour on the bridge, okay, a Peregrine Falcon and a Scissor tailed Flycatcher, we start on the Carara Headquarters Trail at 6:45, a paltry 25 birds on our day list. The fun has just begun; when we emerge from this two-mile loop at noon, our list will stand at 68.

The first part of the trail is like the entrance to a cave; dark and low-ceilinged, with dense overgrowth. An Orange-billed Sparrow wanders across our path. The cave opens into a cathedral of trees, 100, 200 feet or more high; necks are strained looking up. It begins to sound like Brahms until rudely interrupted by the noisy cackle of Mealy Parrots. Shellbean has one in his scope, how else could you see it? Green against the green leaves. Soon there is a mixed flock of Tanagers, Honeycreepers, and Euphonia, moving through the forest understory; you have to be quick, they don't pose. The gorgeous Bay-headed Tanager leads the way.

An hour in, Machó finds one posing. "Be ready," he says as he aims his telescope into the distant branches overhanging a small stream. It is a Rufous-tailed Jacamar, a small needle-billed bird looking like an overgrown hummingbird. It is so far away it even looks small in Machós powerful telescope. "How did you find it?" asks Loo.

"That's what you pay me for," answers Machó without irony.

Ten Scarlet Macaws fly over, visible through gaps in the canopy, noisily destroying the peace of the forest. The trail is pleasantly cool, the morning sun mostly blotted out by the tall trees.

At 8:13 Machó gets to see his Spectacled Antpitta, a plump, nearly tailess bird with legs too long for its body. It is foraging for insects and spiders on the forest floor, flicking dead leaves aside with its bill. Machó and Shellbean are high-fiving; another first.

The trail is like a moving stage . . . every 15 to 20 yards a new act. We come to the Manakin studio. Three weeks ago at this spot Machó almost fainted at his first ever sighting of a Red-capped Manakin. The half-ounced beauty was perched on a twig shaking water from its feathers after a bath in the nearby stream. Machó was so excited that he called the Fiery-billed Aracari a garbage bird. I have seen the Fiery-billed Aracari; it is not a garbage bird. Such is the thrill of seeing a new bird. Machó later claims he never said it.

Alex is here with the pilot and his son. Alex is not carrying a telescope, instead he has an 80X zoom Sony recording video camera clamped to the top of his tripod. If that Manakin shows up, Alex will be here to record it. But after a decent interval, when the bird fails to appear, Alex picks up his tripod and moves on. We move with him. Machó and Shellbean are good, they are very good, but they will not pass up the chance to stay close to Alex on a trail he knows better than anybody. Machó and Shellbean follow the advice they give to all their clients: "Stay close to the guide."

And soon it pays off, Alex stumbles upon a mixed flock-for the next 30 minutes we are in a bird frenzy. Alex and his two clients are dashing back and forth along the trail, seeing everything; Machó is keeping up. "Up there," shouts Alex. "Two oclock, a Rufous-winged Woodpecker," Shellbean remains tranquilo, and sees something close to the ground that the others miss with their eyes looking up-a Golden-crowned Spadebill.

Liddy, Loo, and Mary Ann become spectators-the birds are moving too fast and are too high for them to follow the action. They shrink back from the frenzied activity, trying to stay out of the way. They gamely try to follow the pointing fingers and frantic directions. "Follow the thick trunk to where it forks to the left, then follow the lower fork to where it forks again into a thin branch . . . at the end of the branch is a clump of leaves . . . it's right there."

Alex makes effective use of a hand-held mirror to reflect the sun into areas of the 150-foot canopy where the birds are moving. Liddy sees a Shining Honeycreeper. Loo gets a brief glimpse of the dark backside of the Black-striped Woodcreeper way up high, and a good view of the much lower Plain Xenops. Liddy sees the White-winged Becard. MaryAnn finds one off to the right and behind that everyone else has missed-a Chestnut-mandibled Toucan.

As the birds move away, and the activity diminishes, it is like completing a 100-yard dash-we are breathless. The frenzy ends when Machó finds a perched bird that is in no hurry to go anywhere-it is a White-whiskered Puffbird. Alex gets it in his video camera and we all get a leisurely look. The camera has a small viewing screen that folds out to the side, so when Alex zooms in on the resting bird, we can count the whiskers under its bill. It is 10:15, the list is up to 60.

Number 61 is another impossible sighting by Shellbean. He has it in his telescope; a female White-vented Euphonia. You think the manakin is small? This Euphonia is half the size of the manakin, and there is no way in God's green forest it could be seen, 50 feet up on a thin branch of a 100-foot high Chickle tree growing next to a wide, gently flowing, gravel-bottomed creek in the middle of the Carara Headquarters Trail. But Shellbean has it in his scope so we can all marvel at the delicate yellow, blending into white, underbelly of this tiny bird.

At 11 oclock we see the beautiful Tropical Parula, a thumb-sized warbler even smaller than the Euphonia. And then we encounter a flycatcher that has Machó and Shellbean scratching their heads. The bird stays around long enough for everyone to get a good view. Machó and Shellbean are checking everything-wing bars, head stripes, bill shape, size, and color, eye markings, chest and back color, feet color. Nothing fits. They go to the book; they can't figure it out. Liddy has a category of her own for birds she can't find in the book-they are hybrids. Loo's Warbler is one of several unidentified birds Liddy and Loo have come across in their travels. But for Machó and Shellbean this is a new and frustrating experience. They settle it in the only way they know how, they ask Alex. It is a Yellow-Olive Flycatcher.

The forest is home to more than birds-a Three-toed Sloth is sighted moving at its agonizing pace high in a Milk tree. A troop of White-faced Monkeys looks down on us curiously, deciding whether to shower us with excrement for invading their space. The book says that the Double-toothed Kite follows monkey troops or bird flocks to catch prey they flush. Shellbean has a Double-toothed Kite in his scope, and it is munching on a Bat. Is this a great book or what?

We're nearing the end of the trail just past 11:30, but it's not over yet. "You have to see this bird," shouts Shellbean; if Shellbean is excited it must be something special. It is a Green Shrike-Vireo, in fact it is two Green Shrike-Vireos. Shellbean will not get these beauties in his scope, they are moving quickly along the understory branches, but the stunning combinations of bright blue, yellow, and green can be followed with binoculars.

So it's over. The end of the trail. Wait a minute. Just when you think you've seen it all, there, perched on a high limb like a red, white, and blue exclamation point, is the stunningly beautiful Baird's Trogon. The book shows 10 Trogons, including the Resplendent Quetzal, star of the Monteverde Cloud Forest, and one named the Elegant Trogon, but it]s hard to understand how any of the 10 could be singled out as more elegant than the others. Alex has it on his video camera, and we stare at it on the screen where the colors seem more vivid than the reality up there in the tree. For long moments we watch, waiting for the bird to move. It is an odd feeling seeing the Trogon canned and real at the same time. Real is better. The mind can take only so much beauty; we give up before the Trogon moves. The trail hike is ended, but the day is not over. Back to the Villa Lapas for lunch before heading home to Monteverde.

Stay close to the guide; even at the Villa Lapas. Machó and Shellbean wander off by themselves to clear out their room before checkout, and witness the spectacle of a mob of Great Kiskadees chasing a pair of Ferruginous Pygmy Owls. The day list rises to 74, but not everybody gets to see it.

And still it is not over; Machó has a surprise left in his bag. The pueblo of Orotina may be the mango capital of Costa Rica, but it is also famous for the pair of Black and White Owls that live in the trees shading the one square block park in the center of town. And there they are perched on high limbs, their owlish eyes blinking, looking like two stern umpires with their rippled gray chest protectors. As unlikely as it is for these owls to choose the center of Orotina for their habitat, at least its clear how they got here. They flew. But how do you explain the family of Two-toed Sloths that also rest in the trees of this small park? They had to cross some streets to get here.

We saw a few other birds at Orotina, and heading off toward Puntarenas, our list is at 84. Machó is racing down the highway, his hands on the steering wheel thumping to the rhythm of a peppy Latin beat coming from the radio. "Hawk," shouts Shellbean, pointing out the window to his right. This car stops for hawks. Machó slams on the brakes, and eases onto the shoulder of the road. He begins to back quickly along the shoulder. It is a Gray Hawk, perched atop a telephone pole. Duly noted. Machó takes off again, but has only gone a short distance when he wheels the car across the center lane, and makes a wide U-turn. "Just a minute," he says, "be ready . . . Peli 'l ojo."

He goes a short distance then pulls off the road, stops and points. "There," he says. It is a Whimbril, a skinny-legged shorebird with a long, curved bill standing on a rock outlined against the crashing surf of the Nicoya Gulf.

It is approaching 4:30 when Machó pulls off the Pan American Highway and points the Rodeo up the grandmother of all bad roads-26 miles and 5,000 feet up to Monteverde. We need 11 more birds to make 100 for the day. Machó says we can do it from the car, and Shellbean agrees; the road to Monteverde may be bad, but it does not lack for birds . . . Peli 'l ojo.

We don't have long to wait, coming around a curve in the road Shellbean points ahead and calls out, "What the hell is that?" It is a Tropical Pewee, perched on a roadside limb. Ten more to go. A Hoffman's Woodpecker, a Ruddy Ground Dove, a pair of Turquoise-browed Motmots perched close together like lovebirds; Mary Ann is charmed. A flock of Orange-chinned Parakeets fly noisily overhead. A Green-backed Heron- the road may be rocky and dusty, but water from the cloud forest finds its way down the mountain in rivers, creeks, and rivulets. "Wait a minute," says Machó, and stops the car. Twisting in his seat, he trains his binoculars on a distant bird, but quickly puts them down. "It's the national bird," he says disgustedly. The Clay-colored Robin, already on the list.

Machó and Shellbean happily satisfy a request to sing the Costa Rican national anthem in honor of the national bird. Liddy, Loo, and Mary Ann respond with a fractured rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Everybody is getting a little goofy; it's been a long day.

Machó points out a Yellow Warbler. A Striped-headed Sparrow lands in full view on a roadside fence post. Suddenly MaryAnn shouts, Stop the car. Gazing out the back side window her eyes have encountered a sight she has never seen before-four Keel-billed Toucans hopping on a high tree, their bright yellow bibs and ridiculously outrageous rainbow-colored bills opening and closing like giant scissors. Number 98.

Number 99 is a slam dunk Brown Jay, a bird so abundant here that it totters on the brink of trash. The Yellow Vireo is a nice bird, but somehow it does not seem heroic enough to be bird number 100; we have to take what Nature gives. Finally, as dusk deepens in the somehow desolate slopes leading up to Monteverde, the last bird of the day, thank you Mother Nature-a White-throated Magpie Jay with it's artistic combination of sky blue, blending into cobalt blue on the back, it's snow-white throat bordered with a black stripe separating throat from chest, and it's extravagant crest, looking like an insect's antenna.

It's over. Of the 101 birds we saw today, 33 were seen yesterday- final total, 148 different birds in two breathless days. New birds? Liddy and Loo 14, Machó 11, Shellbean 5, MaryAnn 148.

IN SEARCH OF THE BARE-NECKED UMBRELLABIRD

By Max Blue

San Gerardo station, where Liddy and me are headed, is the last outpost on the northern edge of the Monteverde Conservation League property covering some 54,000 acres of primary and secondary forest draped over the continental divide in the smack-on middle of Costa Rica like a damp cloth spread over a reclining forehead. San Gerardo station is three miles and 2,000 feet down the Caribbean slope from the Santa Elena Biological Reserve which is no picnic to reach either. From El Bosque Hotel, half a mile down the road from the cheese factory in the middle of Monteverde, where everything starts for us, it is a spine-jolting 45-minute, $8 taxi ride.

From the Santa Elena reserve to San Gerardo station there is no taxi service, you can ride a horse, a quadro-cyclo (something like a dune buggy) or you can walk. Melvin, our guide, said it would take about an hour to walk. It took us three but we stopped to look at birds. Melvin has been telling us for the past six weeks that we should go with him to San Gerardo because if we are serious about bird-watching we must see the Bare-necked Umbrellabird and he knows where it hangs out in San Gerardo.

Santa Elena Reserve straddles the continental divide at about 5,000 feet above sea level, and it is the ultimate cloud forest. If you would know how it feels to stand in a cloud, Santa Elena Reserve is for you. We are there by 7:15 and begin the climb down to San Gerardo. Oh sure, they call it a roadit is a cleared path littered with slippery rocks that must be navigated with care if your aim is to complete this hike in an upright position.

In spite of the misty gloom the rewards begin soona Lineated Foliage Gleaner, shaking its long rufous, fan-like tail in time to its rattling call. A mixed flock flitting around in a Cecropia tree above usyou have to be quickCommon Bush-Tanager, Collared Redstart, Spangled-cheeked Tanager. A pair of Prong-billed Barbets, close enough to see without binoculars, yodeling a chorus just for us. A Slate-throated Redstart zips across the pathLiddy almost caught it as it zoomed by.

Moving down the Caribbean slope at our ancient-legged pace we eventually leave the cloud forest behind and begin to notice the sky is brightening and shows patches of blue, the sun cant be far behind. Melvin uses his guides eyes and ears to locate a Brown-hooded Parrot sitting on an eye-level limb picking bugs off its green wings. A few steps down the trail we can see the Arenal Lake off in the distance, and the sloping approaches to the Arenal volcano disappearing into the clouds that shield the top of the cone.

The path is getting narrower and steeper. Its hard walking down, dont think about the return. A vertical bank soars hundreds of feet on our right, a canyon falls off to our left. The trail winds down and to the right across a flowing mountain stream then switches back to the left around a hairpin turn where we again see the Arenal Lake. It is getting warmer, the sun is in and out of fleecy white clouds. Melvin hears the high-pitched scream of a Black Hawk-Eagle. We are recording sightings and soundings.

Melvin sights a female Resplendent Quetzal resting quietly among the leaves of an avocado tree. He zeroes in with his long-range telescope. I dont know whether I am more impressed with the bird or with Melvins ability to find it. I see it clearly in the scope and know exactly where it is yet I cant find it with binoculars, hidden among the leaves as it is. Melvin is impressed with the presence of the bird, he didnt expect to see it at this elevation in April. The Quetzal most often descends in June and July after the breeding season. Bellbirds, too, are unexpectedly here, bonking continuously.

Next we see a Tropical Parula gleaning insects from the underside of Cecropia leaves. It is a tiny bird, the size of a Hummingbird and almost as colorful with its flame-colored throat above a bright yellow chest and thin black mask.

The station is a wide two-story wooden building with a tin roof. It is positioned on rising ground facing east to a spectacular view of the Arenal Lake and Volcano 5 miles away across a tree-covered valley. The building is made for student groups of up to 32 at a time8 rooms with two double bunks each including a bathroom with cold-water shower. The rooms open onto a wide balcony equipped with four high-backed wicker rocking chairs which Liddy and me gratefully collapse into.

We watch a female Scarlet-thighed Dacnis ease onto her nest just below eye level in a tree edging the wide lawn fronting the station. The male Dacnis, five times smaller than a robin, is a stunning combination of bright blue, ink black, and scarlet. But listen to thisthe female Dacnisforest green head and back shading to turquoise blue under the red eyes and along the top of the black wings. Chest and belly buff-tan, thighs cinnamon orange.

But wait! We are not here to see Tropical Parulas, Scarlet-thighed Dacnis, or even Resplendent Quetzals as simply gorgeous as those birds might be. We are here to see the Bare-necked Umbrellabird, and after a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches washed down with pure mountain water were off on the Tabacon Trail to track him down. Mysteriously, Melvin carries an empty plastic coke bottle.

The trail quickly plunges into deep secondary forest, thick with underbrush and light-blocking tropical trees. Ten steps in, Melvin finds an Orange-bellied Trogon perched like a sentinel guarding the trail. Moving on we come to airy open spaces on the right with the constant flutter and unique calls of many small birds moving about the berry-laden understory trees. We are all seeing something different. Melvin has the Rufous-browed Tyrannulet, a new bird for Liddy and me, but we dont see it. Liddy and me are tracking the Blackburnian Warbler, she has the colorful orange, black, white, and yellow male, I have the yellow, black and white female. These birds never perch so Melvins telescope is useless.

But the scope comes into play at the next stop. A Scale-crested Pygmy-tryrant with a millipede in its beak that it slams against a rock several times before swallowing. A resting hummingbird lying against a high branch long enough for Melvin to scope and identify. It is a White-bellied Mountain Gem, new for us, hummingbird number 32 on our Costa Rica list, 25 to go before we see them all.

Melvin hears the Nightingale Wren, a new bird for us, and thinks he can find it but he cant. I see it briefly, a small black bird off in the bushes, but it doesnt counttoo quick and too far away.

The trail leads down, across a mountain stream, and then up a steep bank where slices of two-feet diameter tree trunks have been used to fashion steps. We are looking up into the soaring 150 feet high trees of a primary forest, something of a rarity here in the 21^st century. The difference from the secondary forest is clearhigher trees and many thick vines hanging down. Higher trees mean the birds are harder to see.

Melvin takes out his empty coke bottle, the Bare-necked Umbrellabird is up ahead. But first, another new bird. The Plain Antvireo, a small slaty black headed, olive backed bird with the dotted wings that most ant birds seem to have.

Melvin is beginning to toot on his coke bottle. He is trying to make the sound of a heavy mallet striking an oil drum which, according to the book is a far-carrying HOOM! Melvins hoom needs work.

Liddy lags, steep slopes are not her strong suit, but she is game. At last we come to the choice spot in the forest to see what we came to seethe Bare-necked Umbrellabird.

Not today. We wait 30 minutes, maybe more. It is approaching 4:30, dark shadows spread across the forest floor. No Umbrellabird. Not even a Plain Antvireo to break the monotony. The Bellbird is still bonking from somewhere far away. Liddy rests her aching sacro-iliac on a log. Melvin toots the coke bottle. The prospect of retracing the steep and winding trail in the dark looms. No hooms today. Howler monkies dont count. We head back for the station. Tomorrow is another day Melvin assures us. We will come early.

Ten minutes down the trail we encounter Robert, the station keeper, followed closely by two guys who have the confident look of people who know exactly what they are doing. One has an $800 pair of Swarovski binoculars clipped to a shoulder harness. Robert and his buddies are moving at a breathless pace up the steep slope headed for the lek we have left behind.

Much later in the dining hall at the station we get the story. It is the old storywe should have stayed. Around 5 oclock the Umbrellabirds appeared, they put on a spectacular display with their brilliant red chest sacs fully inflated and lots of hooms. We can only sit and fume at the smug descriptions.

Meet Robert Dean, not the station keeper, thats a different Robert, one with no last name and who doesnt speak English. Robert Dean speaks lots of English, he is Britisha Londoner who has taken up residence in Costa Rica. Hes only been here five years, but has seen 732 different birds. Hes the guy with the Swarovskis. He once saw 400 different birds on a 3-week visit to Ecuador. He also illustrates birds. Those notebook-size plastic cards you see in hotel lobbies all around town with the selection of representative Cost Rican birds were done by Robert Dean. Melvin says he is a celebrity. Dean tries to be modest, but it is hard.

By 7:30 the fried rice Liddy brought along has all been consumed (Melvin and Robert loved it), Monteverde coffee has been brewed, and Melvin, Robert, Dean, and Eduardo who is from Majorca are doing what birders doseeing who can tell the biggest lies about what they have seen. They are huddled over the Birds of Costa Rica book going through the illustrations page by page. They are speaking in Spanish so I dont catch all the words, but its pretty clear they are playing the can-you-top-this game of outlandish birding experiences. Amongst the four of them, 3,000 different bird sightings might be a reasonable estimate so this session might go on all night. When Liddy and me say our buenas noches they tell us not to worry, if we get to the lek by 5:30 we will most certainly see the morning display of the Bare-necked Umbrellabird.

Sleep is a nightmare for Liddy. It is well-established over the years that Liddy never sleeps well the first night in a strange bed, and this is a strange bed if there ever was one. The mattress is a foam cushion lying on a slatted wood frame bunk bed. She has a thin blanket brought from el Bosque Hotel but it is not enoughshe is cold. Sometime before midnight rain begins pelting the tin roof. Rain on the roof is touted as a sleep inducer, right? Not for Liddy. She never slept a wink. But when I go to wake her at 4:15 she turns over with her head to the wall and snarls, Its raining, Im not going.

Everybody but me sleeps late. Melvin appears in the dining hall at 5:15, optimistic as always. Liddy stumbles in, grumbling but game. Its not a heavy rain, but it is steady. The forest is wet, slippery, and quiet. The birds are sleeping in. We get to the lek a little before 6:30 nothing. We wait. Melvin hooms his coke bottle. Melvin and I see a black bird flying high and far away. I see black wings fluttering into a stand of thick vegetation about 20 feet in front of us. Melvin was looking somewhere else at the time and missed it. When I tell him what I saw, he either doesnt believe it or thinks it isnt important. We wait. Melvin toots his bottle. The rain drips steadily.

And suddenly, Robert, the station keeper, is here. We have come to the right place, but theres more to it than standing in the middle of the trail. Melvin shares one of Liddys famous breakfast scones with Robert. Robert heads into the forest on a small path that he knows. Soon he is beckoning for us to follow. Its there all right, and Robert points him out. High up in the understory is the male Bare-necked Umbrellabird, his great umbrella-like crest hanging above his scowling black eyes and thick black bill, his inflatable orange-red pouch, looking like a hot water bottle, hanging down in front. Somehow on a wet, gloomy day in the primary forest it seems appropriate that he should have an umbrella and we should not. Liddy is smiling through the raindrops. High fives all around.

Robert has come all the way out to find us to be sure we see the Umbrellabird, but he has another treat in mind as well. Robert knows this trail, this is his turf. He knows that if you follow it down the winding path, over the mountain stream, up the steep slope, until you come at last to where the forest opens into a wide meadow, there is a place on the edge of the forest where the Great Curassow hangs out. This bird is 10 times bigger than the one-pound Umbrellabird, and if it doesnt have an umbrella to protect it from the rain, it does have a black erectile crest that looks like hair curlers, and get this, a large yellow knob on top of its bill. Robert hears it and takes off into the bushes after it, gesturing for us to follow. Its tough going. Downhill through knee-high wet grass and over fallen branches. Liddy is dragging. So am I. Its not quite 8 A.M.

Robert disappears into a thicket of bushes and trees. Its too much for us, we creep back up the hill and find a log near the trail where we can sit and wait for Robert to return. Soon he does. We know what he will say. He saw two, the male and the female. This is not bird-watching, it is bird-stalking.

We slog back to the station. Robert has left to go on ahead, after the Great Curassow whats left? On a rain-soaked day at the San Gerardo station, not much. The only bird we saw all day came equipped with an umbrella.

The final adventure is the trip back up the mountain. Melvins wife, Saray has come down on her quadro-cyclo. The plan is that Liddy will sit behind Saray, and I will sit behind Melvin who will drive the station quadro. Melvin and Saray are smiling, even laughing. It may look dicey to us but they have done this before, they know the power of the quadro. What they dont know is that bone and muscle that is 30 years older than they are has lost some of its zip, not some, make that most of its zip. Saray shouts over the roar of the quadro Tranquila! Relax! No stress! Easy for her to say, Liddy is hanging on for dear life, which may be what is at stake. Nearing the top we pass a group of birdwatchers who laugh at the sight of two old birds, squeezed tight against their drivers wondering if it will ever end. Melvin bounces the quadro over a rock in the path and cant resist and exultant Yee-hah! Easy for him to say.

At last. The parking lot of the Santa Elena Reserve. Never a doubt says Melvin. It took 30 minutes. It seemed like forever. Was it worth it? Would we do it again? What do we have to show for it? Not so fast with the questions. Give it some time. Time for the ugly bruises on Liddys butt to heal. Time for the itch of the bed bug bites on her abdomen to ease. Time for the aching muscles to recover. Time to recall that big black bird with the umbrella on his head looking down at those wingless birds staring at him through binoculars and telescope. Not much doubt about what he was thinkingWhy is that guy blowing on that coke bottle?

April, 2002 Casita #23 El Bosque Hotel, Monteverde, Cost Rica.

ADRIANS FOLIAGE-GLEANER

Max Blue

We cant get enough of these birds. The Pacific lowland birds at Carrara were sensational as usual, the highland birds here at Monteverde are comforting as always, but like gluttons at a feast, we want more . . . we want the Caribbean lowland birds. That means a trip to the Biological Reserve at La Selva. Weve been to La Selva before, Liddy and me, actually it was to Selva Verde, a slick lodge and collection of cottages smack on to the Sarapiqui River a few miles upstream from Porto Viejo. We remember it from eight years ago because, along with all the usual suspects, we saw some birds there that we have never seen anywhere else, and that after all these years, remain fresh in our memory banks the White-collared Manikin, the Red-throated Ant Tanager, the Fasciated Tiger Heron wading on the edge of the shallow but fast-running river, a Muscovy Duck paddling imperiously in a quiet pond near our wooded cottage, and a Gray-necked Woodrail stalking a secluded stream. Oh, and a couple of other things. When we approached the desk for check-in, try to imagine our astonishment when we saw an Olive-backed Euphonia nesting in the basket of a Montezuma Oropendula nest hung on a knot-holed eucalyptus pole supporting the lobby ceiling cue the exclamation points . . . !! The other thing we saw was dueling Toucans . . . a Keel-billed and a Chestnut-mandibled in the same tree trying to outshout each other.

After returning to our Monteverde headquarters at el Bosque Hotel from a tumultuous two-day bird extravaganza at Carrara, we are hell-bent on sighting the Caribbean slope birds again, and Adrian, our semi-adopted nature guide, has been promising since last year this time to take us there. Let me tell you about Adrian. We fell in love with this guy from the day almost ten years ago when Liddy was standing before a hummingbird feeder in the gathering area near the registration desk of the Monteverde Biological Reserve desperately thumbing plates 23, 24, and 25 of the Birds of Costa Rica when a friendly voice floated over her shoulder May I help you? It was Adrian, and it was a Green-crowned Brilliant, and he has been helping Liddy and me ever since. Liddy was charmed that he said May I? rather than Can I? Later that day Adrian took us to don Jorges Finca Ecologica where he slithered on his stomach to record the mating ritual of the Long-tailed Manikin on our video camera. In later years Adrian has sealed our relationship in many ways, not least the time he took us to a secluded site deep into del Bajo Sendero at the Santa Elena Cloud Forest Reserve to observe and film a nesting Resplendent Quetzal. It didnt hurt when he entertained us with a zany rendition of Cielito Lindo on the marimba at the Eco Farm, or when he brought his guitar to our casita and sang sad Latin ballads tempered by a goofy Show Me the Way to Go Home. Laughter is part of the package with the guy his cousin Melvin calls Macho.

So today is the day . . . Macho arrives early with his polished and sparkling white Isuzu Rodeo, and we are off to see what we can see on the other side of the country. As the Band-tailed Pigeon flies ( no Crows in Costa Rica) its only 55 miles from Monteverde to La Selva, but Adrians Rodeo does not have wings even though he makes it fly at every opportunity, so we settle in for a five-hour trip over some of the worst, and to be fair, some of the best roads in Costa Rica. First is the grandmother of bad roads, the one from Monteverde to the Pan American Highway. How bad is this 26-mile road? Chickens refuse to cross . . . never mind. But guess what? As bad as the road is, it has the charming feature that there are some truly fine birds to be seen here. On this day we record 35 sightings on the way down, including for Liddy and me, five we have never seen before Great Black-Hawk; Eastern Kingbird, Banded Wren, Olive Sparrow, and Striped Cuckoo.

We stop for breakfast at Las Tinajitas, a spunky little fast-food joint clinging to a narrow ledge just off the Pan-American Highway on the northern edge of the Central Valley plateau. The view is spectacular and the gallo pinto is classic. Off the P-A at San Ramon, and up over the Cordillero de Tilaran to Zarcero with a nod to Edward Scissorhands, then down through Quesado City, spotting birds all along the way, we arrive in time for lunch at our destination .the Gavilan Lodge just across the river from beautiful downtown Porto Viejo de Sarapiqui.

The 70-degree cool of Monteverde is replaced here by the 90 plus temperature and humidity to match. Some birds wouldnt be caught dead here, but dont tell that to the Tanagers. Yes, there are Tanagers at Monteverde, but not many, the Blue-Gray, of course its everywhere a couple of Bush Tanagers, the Summer, and the Spangled-Cheeked over at the Santa Elena Reserve is about it. But here at Gavilan, Tanagers of every stripe are all over the place, including the Scarlet Tanager which until today Liddy and me had only seen in Pennsylvania and South Jersey. Lean back with a cool Imperial at the open-air dining area and enjoy the show. Twenty feet away on a wooden platform strewn with bananas they take their turns, one after another in singles and in pairs, a fashion show of Tanagers Scarlet-Rumped, male and female; Crimson-Collared; Palm; Dusky-Faced; Golden-Hooded; Blue-Gray. And for variety here comes the male and female Red-Legged Honeycreeper, followed by the classy Blue Dacnis, and the Black-Cowled Oriole. Adrian is happy. So are we.

There is more. Miguel who runs the bar, is inspired by the excitement he sees in our response to the bird show. Wait until you see this he says, and leads us across the field to a thickly wooded place where he points with great pride to a pair of Spectacled Owls perched on a mid-level branch well back in the forest. The big owls eye us suspiciously but dont blink.

The Gavilan Lodge grounds are not large . . . six square blocks in downtown San José would about cover it, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in the number and variety of birds to be seen here. In that first afternoon and the following morning we saw over 125 different birds including these new for Liddy and me : Strong-billed Woodcreeper, Barred Woodcreeper, Chimney Swift, White-breasted Wood-Wren, Snowy Cotinga, Fasciated Antshrike, Shining Honeycreeper, Olive-backed Quail-Dove.

And then there is that Foliage-gleaner. At least I think it is a Foliage-gleaner, it sure acts like a Foliage-gleaner. Adrian is not so sure, and its driving him nuts. The bird is cavorting with its mate in low branches and bushes not more than 10 feet away, and it is in no hurry to leave so we get some really good looks. Also it is singing like crazy, sounding to me like that Lineated Foliage-gleaner we saw last week at the Santa Elena Reserve. Adrian doesnt think so; he is recording the song and searching the book . . . he is stumped. Another of those mystery birds. Liddy has a name for those birds we cant find in the book . . . Its a hybrid, she says. I have a different approach . . . shall I tell you about Blues Warbler? So Im calling this one Adrians Foliage-Gleaner. Adrian likes the sound of it but he thinks Alex, the ultimate authority, might not approve. I am ready to bet my house it is a Foliage-gleaner. Adrian knows a sucker bet when he sees one . . . he will settle for an all-expense paid trip to South Jersey in September to see the hawk migration down the eastern flyway over Hawk Mountain. If hes wrong he will take Liddy and me to see the birds of the south near the Panama border.

So when do you want to come, Adrian? Alex only needed to hear the first sound from Adrians tape recorder . . . Adrians Foliage-gleaner turns out to be a Black-throated Wren. Its hard to argue with Alex, and I am ready to concede the bet, but alongside plate 38 number 13 in my book you wont mind if I make a small notation to myself . . . Adrians Foliage-gleaner.

Contents:

1. The Bridge Club 2. Peli 'LOjo 3. In Search of the Bare-necked Umbrellabird 4. Adrian's Foliage Gleaner

THE BRIDGE CLUB