Dying for Chocolate

But who was I to worry? All I had to do was cater. I packed containers of vichyssoise, croissants filled with Jarlsberg and curly endive, chilled cooked angel-hair pasta with tomatoes and pesto, green salad with balsamic vinaigrette in a separate container, sour cream chocolate cupcakes, chardonnay, beer, and thermoses of iced tea and hot coffee. If they had no success in the birding arena, the guests could still eat to their hearts’ content.

Our party of twenty consisted of Elizabeth Miller, Julian Teller, the Harringtons, the Farquhars, Arch and myself and the young woman from the zoo, plus eleven hardy naturalists with graying hair, sun hats, sensible boots, and plenty of heavy binoculars to go around. My van, the general’s Range Rover, and several other four-wheel-drive vehicles were scheduled to rendezvous just inside Flicker Ridge around nine o’clock. Julian helped pack the picnic boxes onto the van shelves. He was in a foul temper. My efforts to lighten his mood backfired. He had followed up the latest bleach job on his hair with a close shave on both sides of his head, and a trim on the Mohawk.

I said, “Julian, you don’t look like a Navajo.”

He squinted in my direction. “No kidding. You don’t look like a bear.”

Give up. The kid had no sense of humor. But when we all bumped and rocked over the ridge road that was more of a trail, I realized he was nervous. Although I could see that the nervousness might be causing the hostility, I was getting tired of always making excuses for him.

When we got to the tables I blissfully began to unpack checkered tablecloths and to place rocks on them to keep the breeze from wafting them off. The birders settled around on the benches and opened—yes!— notebooks. Lord, I was glad not to be a part of it.

“Goldy,” said General Farquhar, “what do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up at him in surprise. “Why,” I said, gesturing to the tablecloths, “getting ready for the picnic. What else?”

“You’re a part of the family,” he said firmly. “I want you to come on this expedition with us. No need for anyone to be left out.”

“But I really, really, really want to get ready for the picnic,” I said earnestly. I leaned in toward his ear and smelled Dial soap. In a confidential tone, I added, “I think birds are dumb.”

When he shook his head his translucent cheeks glowed with authority. “This is going to be fun! I want you to enjoy this along with everyone else. No excuses.”

Arch breathed a singsong You’ll be sor-ry, but I did not know whether this was intended for the general or me. Giving up, I cursed the resourcefulness of the Audubon Society when a notebook and pen were provided for me.

“The eagle population is down on the Front Range,” the zoo-lady began after a brief look at her notes. She stared at us. I picked up my pen and wrote, “Eagle pop. down,” then looked up at her expectantly.

She said, “This is because of the drought. There are fewer prairie dogs and voles for the birds of prey to feed on.”

She had lost me. I didn’t want to risk another reprimand from the general, so I scribbled, “What’s a vole?” Must be some kind of bird, I figured. What was that Domenico Modugno song about flying? “Volare.”

I smiled at everybody and got up to pour coffee. Listen, look, lift—these were the rules for hunting birds with the binoculars. It sounded like an explanation of working with hand weights. In any event, within ten minutes the zoo-lady had outlined the list of birds we would probably see that day, beginning with a redheaded woodpecker.

Redheaded woodpecker? What was the big deal about that? In New Jersey you saw them all the time.

But we were off and running, or at least the general was. He knew the site of the woodpecker’s nest and was forging ahead to set up the tripod and the scope. In the absence of actual military operations, the r.h.w. was the enemy.

Adele hobbled along the dirt path behind the gaggle of old-time birders. Weezie, elegant in designer jeans and an Indian leather jacket, chatted vivaciously alongside her. Next was Elizabeth Miller in a black leotard and peasant skirt. Weezie studiously ignored her. Arch walked quickly to keep up with Julian. Behind them were Brian and the zoo-lady. She had kind of a beak nose and a profusion of plumage on the top of her head, so I didn’t know how the birds would be able to distinguish her from one of their own. How about if we just set up the scope and looked at her?

“There it is,” the general whispered as he sighted the woodpecker. “Check it out,” he added in the tone you’d associate with spotting a MIG-29. We took turns peeking through the scope. It was a woodpecker, all right.

When we had all had a look I glanced anxiously around at the group. I said, “Are we done?”

There was a sigh of disgust from Julian. He turned back toward the path. The zoo-lady announced we were headed to a slightly higher elevation to look for the dusky flycatcher.