MORE CALLING BIRDS

One of the things I miss most about living in the Bush is the constant calling of the birds, especially the small ones like the sparrows, chickadees and wrens.

I've tried to duplicate the effect in town with a budgie, but one bird just isn't enough. And he seemed to feel that way, too.

He couldn't wait to hear other birds calling on TV. And as soon as he did, he'd start to call back to them, undeterred by the fact that he never got a proper response from any of them.

I was surprised to discover that the sound of our feathered friends is everywhere on television.

They're in the background track of every outdoor shot (and oddly enough, in quite a few of the indoor ones, as well). They're used to sweeten just about every mention of the word "morning". And, if you listen closely, you'll hear them under nearly every commercial, too.

My budgie's favourite bird call show was the British sitcom, KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. The exteriors were taped in Coventry where, to judge by his reaction, the English sparrows are every bit as highbrow as Hyacinth Bucket (that's Boo-kay!) herself.

After a time, he only had to hear the first notes of the program's theme music, before he'd launch himself into an excited, full-volume squawk. And Heaven help me, if I ever tried switching channels!

The birds I lived with in the Bush were much less demanding. Even the Canada Jays weren't as loud, even when I slept in and didn't make them bannock.

In summer, I used to prepare it over a small fire just outside the back door of my shack. And the Jays would perch on the handle of the griddle and wait for the bread to finish cooking. Then, it was a contest between them and me to see who got the biggest portion.

I remember the first time I ever heard wild birds wake at dawn (a time of the day I'm more likely to be going to bed than getting out of it).

It was damp and cold. And just as the sun threatened to brighten the blanket of gray overhead, a single bird gave a tentative call. Then, in rapid succession, another and another joined in. Then, the entire forest seemed to erupt in a chaotic chorus of bird noise.

The shock of that experience has stayed with me all these years and remains one of the most powerful memories of my decade of wilderness living.

But neither can I forget the night I accidentally set off their alarm.

It was the middle of the night; and I was sitting in my shack, waiting to hear a shortwave broadcast from Radio Brazil and enjoying the sound bite the service used as a filler between programs. It consisted of a looped recording of jungle birdsong, a mix of haunting calls from many exotic South American species.

My antenna was nothing more than several yards of snare wire strung around the ceiling. And while it may have been crude, it worked quite well. In fact, it worked so well that, at times, there were remarkably strong surges of volume from an otherwise weak signal.

And that night, as I sat and listened, there came a big one. And suddenly, the pitch-black silence of my little corner of the Boreal Forest rang with Amazonian bird calls.

I lunged for the volume control; but by then, it was too late. I had already roused my feathered neighbours, who slowly shook themselves awake and, for the next few minutes, did their best to answer the unfamiliar calls.

I felt bad about that for days and kept trying to imagine what must have gone through their little heads when it happened.

And I hoped against hope that Hitchcock's vision of avian revenge was only fantasy and that nothing more went through their tiny minds than, "Oh, it's just that hairy, nocturnal animal playing tricks again. But what else can you expect from a two-legged creature that can't even fly?!"

(Scroll down for the days you've missed. Tomorrow: Day Five of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS - THE FIVE GOLD RING CIRCUS.)