Mother Nature plays hide-and-seek on bird watcher's expedition

I found myself hiking the edge of a wooded ravine.

I didn’t actually “find myself” there.

This walk was a conscious decision. I love wooded ravines. Each one promises multiple treasures. The treasure I sought as the sky misted down was a bird just as fond of ravines as yours truly: a Louisiana waterthrush.

This dweller of deep shaded glens and their streams sings a musical ringing song described by Roger Tory Peterson’s "A Field Guide To The Birds" as “three slurred whistles followed by a jumble of twittering notes falling in pitch.”

A range map in the same volume, this one published in 1960, shows the waterthrush nesting in Western New York, the Ontario Lake Plain and Hudson Valley but not here in Central New York. Thank goodness times change, because now, if you find a ravine in a local forest, you might hear that lovely slurred song.

I was listening hard as I looked at the ground, making sure not to trip on exposed roots intertwined on the trail. My downward gaze fell on a clump of foam flowers. How to describe these magical deep forest gems? Eight inches tall, they produce delicate feathery plumes of diminutive, creamy white flowers. Because they spread by underground rhizomes, they can grow into colorful mats on a rich forest floor.

I sat on a log to admire them and take several photos. As I stood up, I heard my first waterthrush melodies, those bright slurring whistles that told me my quarry was nigh. Returned from its tropical wintering grounds, all of six inches long, a bird sang above gurgling waters. I was above it and walked to an open section of the ravine edge, where sunlight might shine on this jewel if it happened my way.

Juts then, a second waterthrush answered the first. This was good news on several fronts. For starters, it meant there might be two pairs setting up to build nests in this forest. Also, it meant that, by hearing two birds, I might be located where each of their territories met. That would double my chances of observing a streak-breasted, white-throated, white-eyebrowed, stream-loving beauty.

I made like a hemlock and pressed up beside one. I wore camo pants and a camouflage shirt. Things were coming together quite nicely. Except for the fact Mother Nature decided I would not be rewarded this day.

My two birds kept singing but would not appear. I peered through binoculars down at the stream. Might I glimpse a small teetering shape as it walked by a babbling brook? No.

I focused intently on branches around me, hoping a flitting form might dart through red maples and pines.

More: It's nesting time in the Southern Tier. These birds are likely to take up residence

It wasn’t to be, but the big picture quickly assuaged disappointment. Look where I was, in a forest-green paradise; hearing musical waters below; brushing past Christmas ferns newly unfurled; rounding a bend, and – oh my – seeing moccasin flowers.

Some call these beauties by their other name: pink lady’s slippers. That moniker makes sense, given the flower’s pink-colored, deeply cleft pouch. Kneeling beside them, I whispered “crème de la crème.” They had topped off a magical day.E-mail Rick at rmarsi@stny.rr.com

This article originally appeared on Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin: Louisiana waterthrush are new to the Southern Tier: What to know