Ciara Lonergan
I’m not a morning person, but I got on the Yale shuttle — affectionately called the “Yuttle” by the same depraved first-years who call Gheav “Good Nature Market” — at 7:30am today. I woke up at an even more ungodly hour — 6:50 a.m. — but ended up waiting half an hour at the station because the shuttle actually starts at Prospect/Sachem going north, and by the time it circles back I’ve had enough time to regret dragging myself out of bed. To go birdwatching, of all things. My bleary eyes can barely see my name on the Snackpass receipt for my Donut Crazy bag. When did morning people take over and decide the world would be run on a 9-5? When we were sleeping, probably.
As much as I love birds, the main reason I pushed myself to actually get up when my alarm rang, instead of turning it off for another three hours, was that my friend wanted to join me. She’d heard about my morning excursions, and I didn’t want to flake on her first birding trip. But the texts I sent her at 7:00 and 7:10 and 7:20 remain unanswered, and the seat next to me is empty, save for my bag with an extra pair of binoculars. I’m never surprised when someone who promised to join me doesn’t show. My friends are not morning people either; attrition is usually 50%, and Saturday mornings take no quarter. But it still stings, and my bag is always a bit heavier when I get off at my stop.
East Rock is a strange, liminal space. It’s a “Yale institution,” yet I’ve met a surprising number of students who have never been here. The neighborhood is a proper community, with its beautiful houses and local populations of runners and dog-walkers, yet I always run into a familiar face when I visit. Perhaps most interestingly, sunrise in East Rock is always a bit behind sunrise everywhere else in New Haven, since the rock formation keeps the west side of the park in shade for a few moments longer. That time is precious; birds wake up with the insects, and insects wake up with the sun. Despite my late start, it’s still below the ridge by the time I get to the trailhead. I wouldn’t say East Rock is an escape from the Yale Bubble. Looking at a map of Yale-owned buildings, it is strikingly apparent that Yale is an isolated, self-contained community that happens to be in New Haven, for better or worse. But even getting a few miles from campus is a bit of fresh air, a bit of distance from the hurly-burly of student life. A new perspective.
I’m an amateur birder, having only started last spring when, as part of the Ornithology course, Rick Prum took the class birdwatching in the same spot. I can’t recommend this class enough, if only for the birdwatching. Rick is a true ornithologist, identifying species by the slightest call and following online migration forecasts and rare species alerts. Me, I’m just a guy with binoculars. Whatever happens to be there, I sometimes happen to see. Birders have something called a “life list,” which contains all the different species they’ve seen. One of the most rewarding parts of birdwatching is adding a species you’ve never identified before. When you register a “lifer” on Merlin — a beginner-friendly birdwatching app — a little checkmark pops up in celebration. It’s the same reward mechanism as when you catch a new Pokémon. The Pokémon games were actually inspired by insect collecting, although in my opinion, birds are so much more fun. Today, however, I don’t add any lifers. A typical haul: lots of backyard birds, some woodpeckers, a few ducks. Nothing special.
I’m halfway down the trail when a flock of Cedar Waxwings flies in. When I was a kid, I would pore over pictures of them in this big National Geographic book, and while I dreamed of seeing them, I couldn’t believe that a bird so beautiful lived where I did. Since then, I’ve seen a few, but never so many so close. A dozen of them alight on a tree a few meters down the trail, eating its bright red berries. They are smaller than I expected, flitting from branch to branch, even hovering in place as they strip the branches one by one. At first, I inspect them through my binoculars, admiring the buffy gradient on their chests, their sleek black masks, the bright yellow accents at the ends of their tail feathers. After a moment, I put the binoculars away. They are close enough for me to enjoy with my own eyes.
The sun is well over East Rock by the time I leave the trail. The shuttles are running regularly now, and I get to the station just as the bus arrives. Checking my phone on the ride back, I see that my friend texted me half an hour ago. She apologizes profusely; she forgot to set an alarm and feels terrible about flaking. But she would love to come next time. I’m usually skeptical of these kinds of promises, but for some reason, the text makes me happy. I can’t think of anything more wonderful than sharing a birding trip to East Rock with her. When I get off the shuttle, my bag seems lighter than before. Campus is beautiful at dawn.