Illustration by Matt Kindt
The drive from Vermont to St. Louis covers 1,152 miles of interstate. To complete the trip in slightly less than 36 hours requires three tanks of gas and a half-dozen pit stops, including an overnight at the home of friends in Shaker Heights, Ohio. Along the way, you wind through mountain ranges with wonderful names such as Holyoke, Taconic, Pocono and Allegheny, as well as flatland that recalls the novels Giants in the Earth and Little House on the Prairie. You cross seven major rivers—Connecticut, Hudson, Delaware, Susquehanna, Ohio, Wabash and the mightiest of all, the wide, brown, never-in-a-hurry Mississippi.
The trip also obliquely cuts across two avian highways, what ornithologists call “flyways,” major migratory routes that birds follow to and from breeding grounds. Like rivers, flyways have tributaries or sub-routes that eventually converge until the sky roils with birds all headed in the same general direction.
Our trip begins on the Atlantic Flyway, but by eastern Indiana we enter the Mississippi Flyway, a funnel-shaped route that stretches more than 2,000 miles between James Bay and the arctic coast of Alaska before merging over Missouri, somewhere near St. Louis. Then, the birds more or less follow the Mississippi River to the Gulf Coast and beyond. (For some species of shorebirds, “beyond” may be the rocky edge of Patagonia, a roundtrip of more than 14,000 miles.) On a map, the Mississippi Flyway looks like a spewing fountain or a wine glass whose stem runs from New Orleans to St. Louis before diverging toward the Dakotas and Great Lakes.
Depending on the time of day you leave Vermont, you may hear bits and pieces of baseball games broadcast from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago and, of course, St. Louis. America’s baseball landscape, like its physiography, is rich and varied, filled with history and detail. Like bird migration, it is never quite the same season to season, year to year (or game to game).
As a naturalist and baseball fan, I’ve come to St. Louis with my wife, Annie, and two of our three boys, William, 10, and Jordy, 8, to watch a weekend series between the Cardinals and the Dodgers, both division leaders, and to record the birds we see from Busch Stadium, which stares up at the Mississippi Flyway like an unblinking green eye. The ballpark sits close to the river, about the distance of three Mark McGwire taters stretched end-to-end, close enough to recognize most wayfaring birds.
Will I see a real cardinal, apple red and full of verve? Unlikely, unless the players pepper the infield with black-oil sunflower seeds or a hang a Droll Yankee feeder from the dugout. I have never seen a “real” cardinal, blue jay or oriole at a major league ballpark. For that matter, I have never seen a “real” diamondback rattlesnake, marlin or devil ray at a ballpark, either. But I have seen a peregrine falcon above Oriole Park at Camden Yards, a barn owl above Yankee Stadium and a great blue heron over Fenway. And once, many years ago, while 46,000 people watched Jim Abbott lose his major-league debut to the Seattle Mariners, I watched a dozen Vaux’s swifts catch white moths above Anaheim Stadium, pirouetting like a gaggle of disenfranchised shortstops. The small, sooty-colored swifts, en route from South America to coastal Alaska, were a life bird for me, a notch on my North American list, a bird I had hoped to see migrating across the Mojave Desert.
Friday, September 3, 5:05 p.m. The sky is mottled and washed out like an overexposed photograph, cloud edges fade away to nothing. The temperature is warm, 83 degrees, and the air, bearing the weight of the river, is thick and sticky. A breeze out of the southeast moves the flags and a pair of monarch butterflies that hang above first base as if looking for Albert Pujols. My boys, who actually are looking for Pujols, troll for autographs along the first-base railing. Neither appear aware of the butterflies, which drift over the façade and out of sight.
In short order I record pigeons, starlings and mourning doves, which land on a strand of barbed wire behind the third deck in left field. I scan the skyline beyond the Gateway Arch, back and forth from the Millennium to the Marriott, hoping for a splendid wayfarer. At the moment, I see nothing but anemic clouds.
At 6:19 p.m., Adrian Beltre, the Dodgers third baseman, takes batting practice and sprays line drives down the left-field line into the seats by the Diamondvision monitor. In retrospect, these are the most substantial hits the Dodgers get all night. While Beltre puts on a clinic, chimney swifts appear high over the river, angling for insects. Species No. 4.
I round up William and Jordy, who have missed Albert Pujols, and head to our seats in the third deck, which gives us a commanding view. Mere dots in the distance, the swifts continue to feed, their jittery wing beats propelling them on erratic paths across the sky.
Annie arrives while Fredbird dances on the Cardinals’ dugout, inciting the home team fans, particularly William and Jordy, who have forgotten about Pujols and have eyes only for the guy in the bird suit.
The lights turn on, the game begins and the swifts withdraw into the Illinois twilight.
Bottom of the second. Two outs. Jim Edmonds on third. Reggie Sanders doubles to left, a “falcon hit,” straight and fast and far. Edmonds scores the game’s first run, while I record my fifth species, a pair of common nighthawks, which row into view above center field, after the midges and mayflies which are drawn to the lights.
Common nighthawks are not really hawks; they’re streamlined relatives of whippoorwills and Chuck-wills-widows, and, like their cousins, they roost by day, feed by night and occasionally get hit by baseballs. Rickie Henderson, former outfielder of the Oakland A’s, once killed a nighthawk when the bird collided with his line drive. The unfortunate nighthawk must have mistaken the ball for the largest, whitest, fastest, hardest moth it had ever seen.
Nighthawks nest on flat, gravely rooftops and bare ground across the breadth of North America from Alaska to Newfoundland and south to Mexico and Florida. Each bird rides the twilight currents on long, pointy wings, mouths ratcheted like the mitt of an infielder set on a ground ball. Nighthawks migrate through St. Louis in late August and early September while evenings are still warm and aerial insects still plentiful. By baseball’s postseason, they’re plying their trade over the jungles of South America.
Top of the third, two outs. Dodgers pitcher Jose Lima lines a single to center—the first hit for the Dodgers—then rushes to first base like a turkey taking wing.
Bottom of the fifth. Nighthawks are everywhere, circling the lights and the field. I stare up into backlit insects, which fill the air like animated bits of confetti. Many—like the delicate three-tailed mayflies—hatch off the nearby river. I follow the flight of a mayfly until it vanishes down the throat of a nighthawk. Then, a moment later, I follow the flight of Reggie Sanders’ 433-foot home run to left. St. Louis 2, Dodgers 0.
Top of the sixth. Matt Morris strikes out the side, including Lima, who now looks less like a turkey, more like a penguin as he swings and misses.
By the bottom of the seventh, when Mike Matheny hits his fourth homer of the season, giving the Cardinals a 3-0 lead and the final run of the game, the nighthawks are nowhere to be seen. I end the night with five species of birds and Morris ends the night with a complete-game, two-hit shutout.
Saturday, September 4, 6:34 p.m. It’s in the mid-80s and humid under a near-cloudless sky. William and Jordy are still looking for Pujols. I note Busch’s ubiquitous species: pigeon, starling, mourning dove, chimney swift. It’s too early for nighthawks, which are either roosting or migrating beyond binocular range.
Top of the first, Jason Marquis pitches for the Cardinals. Leadoff batter Cesar Izturis, the Dodgers shortstop, works the count full. Annie spots a flock of large birds beyond center field, high above the river. “Darling, look. What are those?” she says, pointing eastward. The birds are bunched together and appear suspended above the Mississippi. As I lift my binoculars to follow their flight, Izturis takes a called third strike. They’re not geese.
“White pelicans, I don’t believe it. White pelicans. There’s more than a hundred white pelicans,” I broadcast with exuberance, matching the enthusiasm of the late, great announcer Jack Buck. Drifting above the river from center to right, on wings that measure nine feet from tip to tip, white pelicans are the second-largest bird on the continent and one of the most striking: They’re as white as fresh baseballs, with ink-black wingtips luminous in the evening light. The family seated behind us notices the pelicans, which are en route to the Gulf Coast from the potholes of the northern plains. I’m en route to nirvana, chilled to the bone by such an unexpected sighting. When I turn back to the game, the Dodgers’ No. 2 hitter, left fielder Jayson Werth, has already grounded out. Species No. 5 for the day.
Before we left Vermont I wrote a series of questions for William and Jordy, a “travel companion,” so the road trip would be educational as well as entertaining; after all, they did miss two days of school. Besides landscape and history questions (What state is the father of presidents? What city is the “Gateway to the West”? Where is the source of the Mississippi River? … ), I asked a few questions about the St. Louis Cardinals: Next to the New York Yankees, what team has won the most World Series? Who was “Stan the Man”? What was the “Gas House Gang”? With encouragement from Annie, the boys answered each question. In fact, they found the statue of Stan Musial and the plaque for the 1934 Cardinals while waiting for the gates to open. While searching the Web, we discovered that Pepper Martin, the speedy third baseman for the “Gas House Gang,” collected rattlesnakes for the Saint Louis Zoo during the off-season. Now there’s a ballplayer who would have appreciated the pelicans.
By the top of the sixth, with the Cards nursing a 2-0 lead, courtesy of Jim Edmonds’ 40th home run of the season, Dodgers pitcher Kazuhisa Ishii strikes out as a mallard zips over the playing field. Species No. 6.
Bottom of the sixth, 7:48 p.m. Nighthawks arrive, more than 20, snatching insects from the sky with class and precision. Edgar Renteria would be impressed by their maneuvers if he could look up, but he’s busy laying down a sacrifice bunt that moves Tony Womack to third. By the end of the inning, the Cardinals have three more runs and I have bird No. 7.
Top of the seventh, pinch hitters Robin Ventura and Milton Bradley each strike out with the bases loaded. The nighthawks are gone and so are the Dodgers. Final score: Cardinals 5, Dodgers 1. Me: seven species.
Sunday, September 5, 11:05 a.m. Seven monarchs float above the outfield under the full press of the sun. A flotilla of clouds scuds by, single file, high overhead. Annie is shopping for souvenirs and the boys are still looking for Pujols. By the time we reassemble at our seats, I have four species: the three proletarians (pigeon, mourning dove, starling) and a common grackle, sleek, long-tailed, an iridescent blue-black.
Busch Stadium doesn’t appear to have nesting pigeons or starlings, which is a good thing. The only evidence of roosting is a streak of guano down the “McBride and Sons Homes” sign near the foul pole in left field, although an usher behind home plate confides that some seats are dirtier than others. With the silos and train yard across the river, pigeons and starlings have a year-round, dependable feast. In fact, all afternoon I see pigeons passing over the stadium heading toward the granary.
Dodgers pitcher Jeff Weaver, a lanky crane of a ballplayer, leads off the third with his first major-league triple, a shot to right center. Weaver arrives at third fatigued, but has plenty of time to recover; the Dodgers can’t get the ball out of the infield. In disgust, Weaver fires his helmet into the dugout. Two mourning doves looking on from the foul side of first base take wing as Weaver returns to the mound.
The Cardinals win 6-5 in the bottom of the 11th inning, closing out a perfect six-game homestand with their ninth straight victory. Edmonds ends the day with three doubles. I end the day with four species, none since batting practice.
After the Cardinals sweep, we leave Busch Stadium with one new ballpark bird—white pelican—and a total of eight species of birds, six less than my single-game National League record.
Jordy and William leave with a plastic Albert Pujols bat and ball and an ongoing fascination with Fredbird. “What does Fredbird do in the winter?” “Migrate?”
Annie and I leave facing an 1,152-mile, all-night, college-esque road trip and a nagging question of our own: Since the eastern bluebird is the state bird of Missouri, why did the team ever pick the cardinal as its mascot?
Surprisingly, the name has nothing to do with a chunky red songbird. When St. Louis joined the National League in 1892, it joined as the Browns. In 1899, after seven consecutive losing seasons, the Browns, now called the Perfectos, posted their first winning record, 84-67. Perfectos owner Frank Robison opted to replace the drab brown stockings with red stockings and red-trimmed uniforms. One afternoon, Willie McHale, a reporter for the St. Louis Republic, overheard a woman say, “… what a lovely shade of cardinal.” McHale knew a cool name when he heard one.
