I don’t typically review books in this column, but for Ron Joseph, I’ll make an exception. I love his new book, “Bald Eagles, Bear Cubs and Hermit Bill” published by Islandport Press.
It’s in bookstores everywhere, or it should be.
I enjoy the book, and not just because I’ve known Ron for decades. It’s because his true-life stories are so authentic. Somehow, he captures the real Maine that always was, and still is.
Anecdotes from his rural Maine boyhood remind us that growing up money-poor can be experience-rich, and that our proper path in life is often determined as much by our youthful misjudgments as by our good decisions.
Most of the book details Ron’s 33-year career as a wildlife biologist, with stints in Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I chuckled my way through story after story, as he managed to suck all the glamor out of a career working outdoors in the field.
For most Mainers, a love of wildlife is in our blood. The idea of getting out in the woods and rescuing endangered species may seem enticing. That is, until you discover that sometimes the job just means walking through the forest, collecting deer poop. Wildlife biologists get to know a lot of animals, many of them dead.
We all have a backstory.
For me, my life as a birder was sparked in first grade, when a flock of American goldfinches landed on the lawn one spring morning. Not even my brightest Crayola crayon could match their brilliance.
I read this book partly out of curiosity. Ron Joseph is one of the best birders I know and is particularly good at birding by ear. We’ve shared tips occasionally on where to find unusual birds in Maine’s northern forest, places other birders rarely go. I wondered what his spark had been.
Birds that spark interest come in all shapes and sizes. I bet the Steller’s sea-eagle turned more than a few casual wildlife-lovers into passionate birders.
Sometimes, the spark comes from people, maybe a friend, a school teacher, or a bird walk leader. I was thrilled when the Houlton Band of Maliseet Indians invited me to visit their tribal lands last week. My wife and I led a bird walk for Skitkomiq, a summer day camp that integrates teachings on native wildlife, tribal traditions and natural science. Ironically, what was the noisiest, most prominent bird on our walk? American goldfinch.
Smartphones are lighting a spark among new birders.
I’ve enjoyed several speaking engagements this summer. While mingling, Merlin invariably comes up in conversation. Merlin is a free downloadable app from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology that helps users identify birds. In fact, it automatically identifies every bird within earshot. New users gawk in wonder as a whole list of birds pops onto the screen.
That’s the spark. Merlin users are astonished to find out how many birds are nearby that they never knew were there. In one short moment, it becomes apparent that they’re surrounded by unseen wildlife, many hiding right in plain sight.
To be sure, Merlin is not infallible. In fact, some of its errors are downright amusing. Merlin works by making a sonogram of what it hears, that is, a picture of the sound. It then compares that picture to a huge library of previously recorded sonograms, and suggests the best match.
However, there is lots of variability between individual birds of the same species. Plus, some species sound like other species.
Furthermore, Merlin can’t see what you see. Birds spin off behavior and habitat clues that aren’t available to Merlin via sonogram. The app’s advice is only as good as its current sonogram library. Usually, that’s good enough, but not always.
Nonetheless, Merlin has made the world of bird noises accessible to everybody — for free. Perhaps people like Ron Joseph and me don’t need Merlin’s help much. But I wish I had such a tool back when I was first sparked to learn bird songs. My birding-by-ear spark was a red-eyed vireo, arguably the most prolific singer in Maine. I heard it constantly while growing up, and it drove me crazy that I never could see what it was.
When I was growing up, there were no apps and no smartphones. In fact, it was only 40 years ago that America’s last hand-cranked telephone went out of service — in Bryant Pond, Maine.
I hope that publishing his life stories doesn’t make you think that Ron Joseph is wicked old. We’re the same age.
