BIRDING DAUPHIN ISLAND

WE MIGRATED SOUTH that blustery April day, flying down the highways in our minivans and SUVs, hoping to collide with a more traditionally winged migration heading north. Destination: Dauphin Island.

Five miles off the coast-and die first Alabama footfall for the French in 1699-L'Isle Dauphin serves as a classic barrier island, its dunes and sandbars absorbing the brunt of storms and hurricanes while protecting the fragile coastline and its teeming estuaries. (Following this natural cycle-and despite homeowners' complaints-big chunks of the island often end up many miles elsewhere.) But to migrating fowl, the isle creates a vital stopover spot-the last chance to top off essential energy reserves before casting off on a six-hundred-mile, nonstop crossing of the Gulf of Mexico in the autumn, and the first chance to rest and recuperate from an equally exhausting flight in the spring.

Such migration defies human imagination. Birds-in some species, just a few ounces of feathered wonder-strike out on a timeless journey across a trackless oceanic expanse, wings beating rhythmically and constantly, beat after beat after beat propelling them (hopefully) ever landward. Fast species complete the journey after a grueling twenty-four hours; slower ones take twice as long.

But why our accompanying human migration that April day? The previous spring, an astounding 185 avian species had landed on Dauphin Island (earning it tile tide "America's Birdiest Coastal City"), and we hoped to spy a similar number. (Like other aspects of American culture, bird watching has become a competitive sport.) Above all, the mere glimpse of one species consumed us: the resplendent and much celebrated male painted bunting. Outrageously handsome even by ornithological standards, these elegant creatures sport purple heads and necks, yellow-green backs, and scarlet eye rings, rumps, and underparts-a veritable Mardi Gras of colors. (One of their common names, nonpareil, tells its all) Like other migrants, painted buntings tarry only briefly on the island, continuing on to interior thickets and hedgerows, to raise their young and escort them back south in the autumn.

So we birded the most storied places, all pan of the fifty-site Alabama Coastal Birding Trail, a mix of marshes, woodlots, and parks supporting migrant, vagrant, and resident species. (According to the official birding lexicon, migrants simply pass through on their way to summer or winter homes, while vagrants arrive totally unexpected-perhaps a disoriented western species way off track. Residents, such as cardinals, neither come nor go.) The Shell Mound-an ancient midden pile, with equally ancient live oaks-offered a haven for scarlet tanagers, blue grosbeaks, and indigo buntings. The Goat Trees, aptly festooned with Spanish moss, provided protective cover for shimmering gold prothonotary warblers. And the Airport Marsh harbored a multitude of ducks, coots, egrets, herons, and rails.

Our fellow birders constituted an equally modey flock-different stripes of human life, united by the overwhelming desire to view the most and rarest species. Easily identified, adults strutted forth in khaki shorts, hiking boots and knee-length socks, t-shirts supporting various conservation causes (with die tails flapping out), eanh-coiored vests with multiple pockets for field guides and notepads, super-sized binoculars and spotting scopes, and digital cameras with humongous tetephoto lenses. Conversations were whispered and crisp, with information freely shared. ("Red-eyed vireo, sapling to die left, about three o'clock.") Some boisterous types uttered witty birdicisms. ("I've been up all night, birding my candle at bodi ends.") Fledgling birders seemed quite scarce, while nesdings-proudly borne in camouflaged backpacks-were all named Robin.

But alas! Despite our collective efforts, we spotted no painted buntings. So we rested on the picnic tables of an abandoned Jiffy Mart, replenishing our own food reserves while reviewing the day's sightings. Then, KA-THUNK! The sound reverberated across the concrete, ominously informing us of a much anticipated arrival There on the weathered window sill lay an exquisite painted bunting -purple, yellow, green, and scarlet-exhausted by his all-day-all-night quest, and contused by the shiny plate glass. We picked him up and held him as, muscles warmly strained and neck mortally broken, he breadied his last How ironic that this exquisite aviator survived seemingly endless sea before finally gaining landfall, only to thwack into a worthless human obstruction.

And while cradling our new friend, we offered this simple prayer: "Next year, may your relatives and loved ones, following the same ageless course, suffer happier fates. May they find safety and sustenance on the Alabama Coastal Birding Trail, resting adequately white restoring their much depleted energy. And may they move quickly on to inland summer homes, hale and hearty enough to find mates and raise many clutches of healthy chicks, who will in turn successfully negotiate die long and treacherous trek across the Gulf, to return with each succeeding spring. Amen."

Lorry Davenport is a professor of biology at Samford University, Birmingham, Alabama.

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