If you are one who loves wandering trails and stealing flickering peeks at birds, you might try your head at this lark. How many bird names can you find hidden in this text? Punctuation marks and spaces often fall within the names. No letters do double duty; they can't be used in more than one entry. Duplications only count once. Names ending with 'bird' or 'fowl' appear without them. Usually the common names for birds or bird classes are used. Birds of past or present, of myth or not much fame, are considered fair. You're even going to encounter some alternate names and spellings. Examine spots most richly peppered with strange verbiage carefully. You can miss eleven entries by skipping a half inch of the page.

Avid birders do very well using their intuition while word puzzlers recognize short forms. Others try diverse rites of inspiration. A secretary from Phoenix, AZ, Jenny King, lets brass and pipe rhythms play while musing; she claims it aids her on the hunt. Bishop Griffon, a New Guinea friar, made a post lecturing on how lettering can be tricky and showing how he highlights suspicious passages with green letters. A miller from Ames, IA, Merlin Long, spurs his efforts by having a note card in all his bird books for lists. You might find this solitaire game easier to swallow than real birding. Mischievous wildlife won't abscond or ruin your foodstuffs. Also, rain won't spoil the day, so you can leave your umbrella behind. This hobby is certainly less bother than the family birding trips I had to take part in growing up.

Those ventures began in the pitch black long before morning. We were called in the dead of night, jarred awake and forced to get up in the cold. Squawking that I felt sick, I wished to duck right back in under the covers. I groused that even night hawks weren't out. Besides, the rooster wouldn't crow for ages. Moaning with regret, I got my beagle ready for the day. Although an iguana was the animal I always wanted, I loved that little mutt on most days. He was a present from my favorite aunt, Phoebe. She sometimes took me rollerblading or body surfing. That was terrific! Or one time she showed me how to cliff rappel. I can't imagine being that acrobatic.

My widowed aunt was a tad eccentric. She liked to dye her wavy hair exotic colors, favoring blue and indigo. One could often spy purple tufts straying from her plush cap. I was surprised she hadn't moved to a wig eons ago. She had sapphires and diamonds that sparkled like the sun. Gems were an item with her; she was never without some topaz or ruby jewelry. She had a pair of violet earrings as large as silver dollars! Later I learned she formerly had been quite the coquette and while young rebelled at conventions. This caused her grief when she exchanged her mourner clothes for lace and ruffles way too early for some. Back then, though, I only knew her as a great friend and communicator. She certainly taught me the value of a crash helmet!

But getting back to those early mornings. All too soon, it was time to flock to the family car. My brother, Bill, always rushed to be first into the back. That cocky redhead hogged the best spot and wouldn't scoot over much. To be cross, Bill would love nothing more than to shove his fist or keep giving a jab, ranting about ringing my bell. When the guttersnipe got too puffed up, I deflated his superior attitude one way or another. We'd exchanged black eyes at times in the past when we fought with rasher abandon than our typical interactions. All of which ought to show how well we got along. Bill's motto was "any combat is forever". I was always ready in case the tyrant started mocking me. With all the gall I took from that bufflehead, there was no hope we ever could keep out of trouble for long.

In addition, Jayne, my zany sis, kind of drove me cuckoo with her melodramatic gibberish. Her speech was always so affected and stilted. She made a big deal out of every little thing. It was like a soap opera sequel each day. Supposedly, it was some hormonal thing that I didn't understand. The twit even made store front mannikins appear brilliant. Her incessant humming gave one brain fever and even a coma on occasion. What a drip! I pitied the guy who'd end up with that loony female. Oh, I suppose I derived too much pleasure from parroting her actions, but she was such a constant babbler and snobby tattler. Soon necks craned from the front; scowls and stern warnings flew my way. I often wondered why it was always my fault for letting our active squabbling get out of hand.

While I was too chicken to admit it, I did enjoy some aspects of those birding expeditions. Keeping a close watch at dawn, the last star lingering, I sat spellbound as the first rays came flaming over the horizon, the golden eye of sun bringing fire to the day. As birds began to stir I saw wings whipping through the thickets and trees. Even common birds, like mallards and blue jays are a joy, with their lovely shades of emerald and aqua. I like the full range of color you find in nature. Just the sight of a white throat or ivory bill can inspire. Figuring the precise species of bird is detective work. A flash of head, tail or wing gives clues. A distinctive song, if your glimpse is poor, will sometimes clinch the identification. Nothing much, however, helps with those confusing yellow throats and warblers.

At times, I'd go away, wandering off from the mob, rambling here and there to gander at the flora. Showy hibiscus and snow lilies especially enchanted me. Beyond the marsh was a handsome site, part-ridge and part-knoll. Sometimes one could watch a gnatcatcher dart erratically and dip periodically through a swarm of mosquitos, preying on the hapless insects. Or occasionally I'd lie back on the hill, staring in the sky for raptors soaring, such as kestrels or falcon varieties. To stay aloft they hardly need to flap wings. When insects began to flit and buzz ardently, I got my gear and began netting in a field far enough away from the diligent birders. I was quite an adept butterfly catcher and soon had the ones I wanted all in nets.

But lunch was another matter. I'd get ravenous. I ask, can a rye turkey sandwich and a banana quite be called lunch? I think not. As for dessert, while locating my spoon, Bill turned vulture and snitched mine. Reason, fortunately, taught me to cope with that pig eons ago. To thwart that cut-throat stinker, I kept a stash of victuals in my canvas back-pack to rifle as needed. Strawberry licorice bites I always kept handy, but cherry was a close second. Those sugary treats and peanut crackers really saved my life. I fed pieces of bitter nuts to squirrels and other seed eaters.

A while after lunch I'd wander into brook or gully, checking out the water skimmers. I was an excellent wader and rock jumper so usually stayed out of the mud; sticky goo seeping into sneakers is no fun. With rushes, ferns and tall grass quite surrounding me, I'd pretend to be on a tropic excursion in the Amazon jungle, patiently regarding what rewarded a silent creeper's skill. Deer and other shy creatures are apt to wheel abruptly at sudden sounds, so it pays not to make a peep. It's amazing how well animals hear. Watering holes can be very active spots; one never knows what is going to come take a drink. If I'm ever on a safari, I will know where to hang out.

I continued my nature adventures in later years. One experience will eternally be etched in my mind when I found how nasty things could turn. Stones and rocks can be treacherous. With a careless step, I wrenched my ankle badly. Howling, I staggered along the road. Runners aren't used to seeing a man go limping along and murmur repeatedly "a car, a car, a car..." I barely was able to huff and puff back to the car. I could only take such awkward steps. An ice pack from the emergency kit eased the throb in my rough leg.

While my ankle was puffing up and finally starting to heal, I lived like a hermit and found out how important having a pal is. Fortunately, I have a wonderful cat who makes for this human a kind companion. The shaggy ball of fluff is called Galahad and has a very soft tail. He is a huge nap lover and always purrs loudly. The honey-colored tom is such a pal I lavish him with the sort of attention my pet relishes. I frequently awaken him by pretending to be a mouse ambushing his long tail. I have to be swift as he also has long claws. No doubt about it; mouser extraordinaire is he. As we watch grackles and sparrows on the grass outside, his mew tells me he is just itching to be out birding too.

During recovery, I got the idea to make a bird search teaser inside a story. Of course, right off the bat, it was easy to weave reasonable names into the tale. Then since I like to worm art in my writing, I found ways to hide them among words creatively. However, some occur as so weird a construction that they can't help but stand out. Unfortunately, there was no way to include such gosh awkward ones as phalarope and pyrrhuloxia. Over dinners, I'd work more in and quickly discovered I couldn't stop. I perhaps should have stuck with familiar names, but I didn't. North American birders should know around 150 of the exhibits. If you want to keep going, some research should get you another 100. The remaining 53 can be nasty. Have fun hunting. And please try to bag more than just the booby prize.