It’s a non-Birdfest weekend, a Saturday morning in Edison, Washington. Population 200, maybe. With clear Groundhog-day skies, the sun reflects off vintage glass panes of an eatery known as Tweets. Calling it a café-located-on-the-main-street-of-a-small-town does its location no justice. It’s on the only continuous street through town, which winds sharply left in front of the Longhorn Saloon, straightening its course on the doorstep of the Breadfarm and Slough Foods, gaining speed past the Edison Eye Gallery and conjoined Tweets, and takes a dogleg to the right and a quick left at the Edison Inn tavern and the Farm to Market Bakery. The total distance from one end to the other, about 3 short blocks. Tweets sits on Gilkey Avenue, which is confusing because the street enters town as West Bow Hill Road and becomes Farm to Market Road as it heads south out of town. There is another street that is technically named Main Street. This morning Vic Cano—a guitar man—plays “In the Early Morning Rain” acoustically in a corner, while groups of locals and guests—bike riders and out-of-towners—devour brioche with lemon curd and fresh blueberries with a dollop of mascarpone and a sprinkling of powdered sugar, frittatas, spicy pork tacos, and brandy-glazed roasted chicken with wild greens. The entire menu—eight items— is chalked on a blackboard, plus sweet treats. You are in the house (euphemistically speaking) of Charles and David, so be respectful. 
David Blakesley the chef, in his chambray work shirt and white tea-towel bandana; Charles Atkinson the master of ceremonies, dressed in a graphic t-shirt, with a yellow log truck on its orange ground; three hard-working assistants, one with disc-style earrings—crank food out of one oven and two burners.At times it seems to be organized chaos, but there is a rhythm. Baskets of tangerines center mismatched tables and chairs, with few benches. Garlands of multi-colored straw flowers drape the pastry cases and the chandelier. Cymbidium orchids grow from an abandoned Pennzoil five-gallon bucket perched on a rough- cut, raised-plank, stand-up dining counter. Garlic braids hang from small-headed nails, and punched-tin discs reflect light from strings of clear bulbs overhead. A potted olive tree is tucked inside for winter. There is a vibe of comfort, food, and acceptance.
The Eagle tree along the Samish River held 16 this morning. Posers all, on a clear, cool day in the Skagit Flats. Brown juveniles stack up, with white-headed mature bald eagles at the top of the deciduous trees in a family’s yard. Some claim to have seen over 20 at times in that tree. The river meanders nearby with mud and sedge and tall winter grass. Resting farm fields surround. The Birders with 300 mm telescopic lenses are out in force. Their SUVs and minis barely off the narrow two-lane roads, touching the white fog line, create consternation and danger for fast-driving locals. The Birders scan for raptors: Eagles, Rough legged hawks, Peregrine’s, Falcons, Northern Harriers, Merlins, Red-tails and American Kestrels. Crows and seagulls count for nothing in this game. Shorebirds, Snow geese, Trumpeter swans and Brant are of lesser interest. I used to curse them before I became one. Now I too stop in the middle of the road, peer out the rolled-down window, camera in hand, waiting for the right angle, the perfect shot with my Lumix 12 mega pixel lens. Dreaming of a 300 mm lens. Global bird experts abound in this avian-heavy valley. Their names are known attached to species or groupings: Bud Anderson—falcons and raptors; Martha Jordan—Trumpeter and Arctic Tundra Swans; Maynard Axelson—Brant; Vasiliy Baranyuk—Snow Geese of Wrangel Island. Collectively they have devoted lifetimes to the study of their respective birds and head organizations relating to their species. All are senseis. There is a reason they are in this valley, a birder’s Paradise.
From them I have finally learned this winter, my 34thyear in this valley, how to distinguish Snow Geese from Trumpeter Swans. And here’s the simplest truth: although both are white, the Trumpeter Swans are larger, have black beaks with long necks, are found feeding in smaller groupings in harvested corn and potato fields. The Snow Geese have smaller bodies, have black wing tips, are noisy feeders, and gather in fields together in flocks of up to thousands. Whizzing by at 50 mph it’s hard to identify them at first.
Next weekend, February 9th and 10th, 2013 the peace will be shattered. It will be the 2nd,and perhaps annual, Bird Festival.
Capitalizing on the interest in all things bird, two merchants have cooked up a festival. There will be a Chicken Parade with the theme, “Embrace Your Inner Chicken.” (Estimated elapsed time of duration: 8.5 minutes.) There will be art demonstrations. There will be visiting raptors with their handlers at the Edison Elementary School. There will be free guided birding excursions in a bus, with North Cascades Institute and the Skagit Audubon Society. There will be snacks and prayers for sunshine. There will be hundreds of people flocking to Edison, flapping their beaks, preening over the quaintness of the tiny berg and the eccentricities of the locals. They will be, to some, like Starlings in the blueberry fields. And then it will be over, and dancing for almost all ages will resume every Sunday night at the Edison Inn.
Steam is rising from a pan just off the 2-burner stove. Tortillas are removed smoking hot, turned one by one. Plates are individually composed and properly adorned, often with a vegetarian aesthetic. Younger Ian McKelland on banjo and Shire Valandro on banjo and guitar have joined older Vic now. The mood has swung to bluegrass, and it is as mellow and comforting as a latte on a clear, chilly day. It’s the closest thing to the western feel of Missoula, Montana I have found in a very long time. And this is good.
Interviews with several Skagit Valley birding experts can be found with this link:
http://archive.org/details/SkagitValleyWashingtonBrantSnowGeeseAndTrumpeterSwanExperts
UPDATE: Birdfest 2013 is now behind us. The crowds came as predicted, with an elapsed parade time of somewhere between 8-10 minutes. Drizzle did not dampen spirits. There were more chickens on parade this year, both walking and contained. My favorite was a brown hen named Huevo. (Check your Spanish-English dictionary) The restaurants did not run out of food. All bird puns expired at sundown Sunday.
Some memories linger:
