I did not see the rare shorebirds, nor were the common shorebirds present in very great numbers. But standing between the dune and the tidal marshes, I found myself surrounded by masses of swallows. It was the peak of their Fall migration, and wave after wave, in the hundreds and thousands, swooped over the dunes, swirled through the marsh grasses, and disappeared in the distant mists as they hurried on their long journey.At the time, I felt that I had experienced primordial numbers. The wildlife managers at the refuge estimated the numbers at ten thousand per day, for a few days. But now, I am not so sure. I am not so sure that I saw primordial numbers on that day, nor that any of us can ever experience, on any day, primordial numbers. The untamed, untrammeled wilderness, an essential ingredient to wildlife in primordial numbers, is gone. Even the small pockets of reserved wilderness cannot preserve what once was, for the “taming” and “exploitation” can never be fenced out. The larger ecosystem, to use the favored term, with all of its alterations, inevitably alters the few pockets of remaining wilderness which survive from the primordial landscape.
I got a literary glimpse of what North America was like in its primeval condition when I read the biography, John James Audubon: The Making of an American by Richard Rhodes (Alfred A. Knopf, 2004). As a young man, Audubon emigrated from France to avoid Napoleon’s draft. Looking for ways to restore the family’s prosperity and make a living, Audubon subordinated his natural inclination for ornithology and art, to make his way as a merchant and importer on the western frontier. As a young entrepreneur in his twenties, he traveled the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, eventually settling in Henderson Kentucky, opening a store, and attempting to establish a steam-driven mill. The businesses failed, and young Audubon was compelled to turn to his art to make a living - giving lessons and doing portraits. This in turn necessitated travel, and as he traveled he studied nature, painted birds, and evolved his dream of one day publishing “The Birds of America.”The first half of this biography of Audubon is also an account of the American frontier, when that frontier ended at the Mississippi River, when elk and bison could routinely be seen grazing along the banks of the mighty rivers, when wandering wolves provoked no astonishment, and when immense flocks of birds darkened the skies.
About 1813, Audubon watched Passenger Pigeons flying in a column a mile wide for three consecutive days. He estimated the numbers at 1.1 billion birds, a conservative number compared to the estimate of his contemporary, Alexander Wilson, who put the number at 2 billion - still conservative by the estimate of a modern expert who numbers the Passenger Pigeon in the early nineteenth century at 3 billion, representing 25 to 40 percent of all breeding birds in America. Audubon’s passing flock fed the local population for over a week, and left in its wake many wagonloads of dung.
The Passenger Pigeon existed in staggering primordial numbers - inexhaustible numbers, in Audubon’s estimate. So immense was one arriving flock, that as they settled on their perches, the branches gave way under their weight, destroying hundreds of birds on and below the branch. In the course of his lifetime, Audubon saw the disappearance of the eastern wilderness, the disappearance of once abundant quadrapeds, like the elf and the bison, and game fowl, like the Wild Turkey. But he could not imagine that a mere one hundred years later, the last Passenger Pigeon would die and the species would be extinct.
Such looks into a primeval America run through Audubon’s life. He encounters an immense flock of cranes, and misidentifies the gray ones as the immature offspring of the white ones. In fact, the gray cranes were Sandhill Cranes, while the white ones were the now seriously endangered Whooping Crane. From a large flock of Trumpeter Swan (endangered today, but recovering) he takes dinner and a specimen. Carolina Parakeets (extinct) are frequently encountered by Audubon and collected. Eskimo Curlew (extinct) is unremarkable among the shorebirds of Long Island. Interestingly, in all of his extensive travels, only once does he encounter a Chestnut-sided Warbler.The most jarring aspect Audubon’s life for this modern reader to accept is the way in which he studied his birds - difficult because it is so contrary to how we study them today. He shot them. That is how science was done until just a few decades ago. Without binoculars, spotting scopes, or cameras (which now provides multitudes of digital images), the only way for Audubon to study a bird, and sometimes the only way for him to identify a bird, was to hold it in the hand. One could blast a shotgun at an elusive movement in the brush and come up with a specimen, an identity, and perhaps a new species. Audubon did so routinely. He loved the birds. Sometimes he anthropomorphized their behaviors, but recognized no irony in expressing affection even as he terminated their lives. As a modern reader, that is the most difficult emotional barrier to overcome when reading this superb biography of America’s icon for birds, birding, and conservation. Through his life, we also get a glimpse of what “primordial numbers” of birds really are - or were.
Good reading!
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