Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
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Shorebird Central
A FRIEND BROUGHT HER HUSBAND
to visit from New Jersey, and I took them to Homer.
We were walking on the Spit when Laura Anne said, “Is that an eagle?”
I glanced up and said, “Yeah,” and kept walking and talking, until about a block later I
started getting the fishy eye from other people and looked around to find Laura Anne and
her husband Peter transfixed at the foot of the utility pole at the top of which perched the
eagle.
I realized, belatedly, that everyone doesn't see a bald eagle every day, and went back to
make sure the two of them stayed out of range of the eagle's phenomenal projectile poop-
ing capabilities. That's basically what a bird is to me, a flying pooper. Growing up in Sel-
dovia, infested with seagulls getting fat on the leftovers from five salmon canneries, it was
never wise to go outside without a hat on.
So when I started to hear about entire festivals constructed around migrating birds, I was
mystified, and decided to investigate. The Copper River Shorebird Festival is one of the
oldest in Alaska (depending on who you talk to, this year is either the tenth or fifteenth an-
nual event), it's a forty-minute plane ride from Anchorage, and has the superior attraction
of being home to the family Carlson, genus Patricia, species Hank, Deb, and Chris, order
Joanna, David and Annie, also known as my mom's side of the family, from whom I can al-
ways cadge a bed and fresh razor clams, smoked salmon, and nagoonberry jelly. I packed
my binoculars and a copy of Robert Armstrong's
Birds of Alaska
and set out on my first
ever bird safari.
First stop is Shorebird Central, on an ordinary week known as the Cordova Chamber of
Commerce. You walk in the door to hear Mimi Briggs, festival organizer, announce,
“They're supposed to deliver our shorebird this afternoon.”
