MaxTalks

Two weeks ago I was in the breakroom at work leaning against the water cooler, sipping from one of those frustratingly small paper cones. Around the corner walks in Jacob, an old college friend and fellow Balti-moron.

“What’s up Max. Guess what I saw over the weekend.”

“I don’t know. A rat do a backflip?”

“Good guess but no. I saw a Baltimore oriole”

My eyes widened as I spit my water out across the kitchenette. “Really!?”

“Yeah. At Echo Bridge Park. Also why did you just spit? That was gross.”

“Thanks Jacob, bye”.

I furrowed my brows. I hadn’t thought about the Baltimore oriole in a long time. Back in college I was an avid birder with big dreams. I wanted to see every bird on the East Coast but my holy grail, the one bird I never found, was the Baltimore oriole. 7 inches tall, black crown and orange breast feathers, it shares its name with my hometown and the fact I never saw it was a lifelong embarrassment. It’s like being from Philadelphia and never having a Philly cheesesteak or being from Florida and never getting a DUI. It was a rite of passage denied to me and now with Jacob’s revelation I had a chance to change that.

On Saturday, I set out on the MBTA, a multi-billion dollar and vasty complex torture device capable of taking you across the city of Boston at a speed marginally faster than walking. My plan was to reach Echo Bridge Park, find the Baltimore oriole, and restore my honor.

The first part was pretty easy. To find bird though would require channeling skills from my old birding days I had left far behind me. Birds rarely stay still, so if you want to make a positive ID you need quick reflexes.

video of me honing my skills

After practicing binocular-draws I began traversing along steep encampments and over roaring dams. Early in my journey I found this nest of baby robins.

The American robin, or as I like to call them “the fool’s oriole” match my mark in color and habitat, but they are cheap imitations of a much awesomer avian species. As I waded through the woods these robins began to taunt me in their abundance.

“Chirp! Chirp!” they squawked.

“What did you say about my mother!?” I screamed back. The woods were getting to me, but I was too far in to turn back.

After what felt like a lifetime but was close to around 15 minutes I reached the eponymous Echo Bridge. Built in 1875, the central arch of this bridge demonstrates the unusual auditory phenomenon of echoes wherein in a sound at one end can reverberate back several times to the listener’s ears.

I yelled into the bridge and the bridge yelled back.

I kept on through the woods, following distant bird calls in careful, calculated steps to avoid scaring anything away. At my feet leaves would rustle and stir, occasionally producing a flash of brown as chipmunks scurried across the forest floor. I saw blue jays, woodpeckers, and cardinals, but no orioles. The longer I spent looking, the more I came to accept I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. I felt like a failure, but looking back through these photos I realize I saw so many beautiful things I never planned for. A blue jay bathing in a stream, light filtering through the forest canopy, and strangely enough my name centrally carved in a tree.

I tried different spots around the forest but nothing worked. I tried my best but after an extra half an hour I knew I wouldn’t find the oriole that day.

After the park I went to the Echo Bridge Restaurant where I got coke the old fashioned way and the most lip-smacking finger-licking good chicken wings in Massachusetts. Rai showed up and got toasted ravioli. It was pretty good.

Until then, the search for the oriole continues. It could take years. It could take decades. But I will find one, and when I do, I’ll probably be very excited.