On a mild early autumn morning with a peachy glow and a scent of sweet grasses, I strolled through a favorite birding spot, Union Bay Natural Area along the shore of Lake Washington. Having just found and photographed an elusive Green Heron along a channel where water from Ravenna Creek flows into the lake, I felt content.
As I walked back into the main part of the natural area, my serene world was disrupted by amplified music and loud, vulgar conversation from two young men who were walking the same trail just behind me. This was especially irritating, given that I do a lot of birding by ear and that I relish peace and quiet. I thought they might have been players who had just left the nearby UW baseball practice that was still underway with loud music blaring to the periodic crack of bats.
As they approached, their music and conversation got louder. I could hear their words, dominated by the “F” word and “bro.” At one point I even plugged my ears theatrically, in a failed attempt to reduce their volume. They were oblivious; the loud music and vulgar conversation continued.
Thankfully, a trail junction lied just ahead. I was about to turn right, deeper into the natural area. This direction, I thought, would lose my obnoxious company, who I surmised would continue straight ahead, the shortest distance through the natural area. But then, to my surprise, I heard one of the young men say “let’s go right, through the nature trails.” It amazed me to even hear the words “nature trails” coming from them.
Soon after we all made the right-hand turn, they caught up with me, two young men who appeared to be in their late teens. One of them, shirtless in shorts with a mop of sandy hair, sized me up with my binoculars, long-lens camera and drab attire, and asked if I was out birding, followed by an astonishing question: “Have you seen any Rough-winged Swallows? “I replied yes, I was out birding, but no, I had not yet seen the Rough-winged Swallows, mentioning other swallows I had seen including Purple Martins that were overhead just then. He acknowledged seeing the Martins, wished me good birding, and walked down the trail with his friend.
Later on, I came upon these two again, sitting on a bench overlooking Union Bay. The one with the sandy hair asked me what I had been seeing and I reported on a variety of ducks, herons, sparrows and shorebirds. He then paused for a moment, looked at me carefully, and asked “Wait a minute, are you Woody?” To which I replied “Yes, I’m Woody Wheeler.” He then said “I went with you on several Christmas Bird Counts. My name is Sam.” I immediately made the connection, recalling a kid version of this young man who I had last seen accompanied by his mother. “Glad to see that you are still at it,” I said. “Oh yeah, always!” he replied, adding “Did you hear about the Great Horned Owl in Yesler Slough?” It so happened that I was on my way to Yesler Slough.
I waved farewell to the young men, and continued on, chiding myself for initially not giving them a chance. At times when you are pushing 70 like me, you forget what it was like to be a teenager. Like Sam, I listened to loud music, used plenty of vulgar and slang words in my day, yet I was also passionate about birds and nature. It is possible to have such seemingly disparate interests. Just look in the historic mirror.
The next time I encounter someone in a natural area doing something irritating, before I rush to judgement, I will hit the pause button and call upon my patient, environmental educator side, and try to engage them. After all, we need more, not fewer people to care about nature, and some might be more sympathetic than we first thought.
