Tough Love

Yesterday, I heard the raucous call of a red-shafted Northern flicker, and it was quite close.  I spotted him on a utility pole, and hurried to attach a long lens to my camera without dropping it and putting an end to my blogging days.

As I was doing this, two more flickers arrived.  Just as quickly, two of them took off, leaving behind what was obviously a fledgling.  By then, my lens was secured in time to get a shot of this confused baby.  When they took off without so much as an adios, the little guy started bitching at the top of his lungs.  Where’d everybody go?

Growing up in relative isolation on a cotton farm with my grandmother gifted me with an active  imagination.  I immediately embraced the idea that the first adult woodpecker was making all that noise to encourage the fledgling to fly up and join him.  After several attempts on the part of adult #1, the other adult flew to the pole, shamefully tricking the youngster into coming along.  “Don’t worry.  Just fly up there and we’ll take care of you.”  Lies.

After he saw that nobody was listening to his indignant screeching, he began pecking around as if he knew perfectly well why he was there and what he was supposed to do.  Just act natural, I do stuff like this every day.  No big deal.  I can take off any time I want.

Every once in a while, one of adult birds would swoop by like, “what’re you still doing there?  why aren’t you flying?”  The youngster would flap his wings experimentally, then think better of it and return to the business of doing his woodpecker thing.

Oh crap.  I think I found something, and I don’t know what to do with it.  Can’t fly off with it.  Nope, not doing that.
 
Then both adults would swoop by making noises that sounded like laughter to me.  A robust imagination can be quite entertaining.  Wingman jumped right in there with me, providing dialog.

The youngster didn’t respond to the heckling, but continued to flap his wings every once in a while, and with little confidence.
 
I was standing in the sun on a 100+ deg. day, and just couldn’t do it any longer.  This is why I am not a wild life photographer.
 
Wingman told me later that Junior finally soared into the sky, then pointed him out as he swooped over our roof.
 
I guess that experience was an example of parental tough love.  Except, I was under the impression that the female woodpecker’s only parental activity is to lay the eggs.  She moves on to further conquests, leaving Dad to watch the eggs, feed the babies, and teach them all the stuff they need to know.  (correction - I've since Googled this interesting tidbit, and found it to be untrue.  My impression must have been an hallucination.)

If that’s true, I wonder if daddy woodpeckers partner up with other daddies for flight training.  Or if they form little fledgling schools and they all take part in teaching.
 
I wonder all the time these days, only because life is a wonder.

RAM