October 1, 1998 St George Island   To Archive of Articles The Lucky Flamingo       We had narrowly escaped the assassin Hurricane Georges who had blown a number of strange sights our way during his long and brutal journey across the Gulf. My birding partner, Bruce Drye, and I set out to investigate a hard-to-believe, but impossible-to-ignore, report of a flamingo in St. George Island State Park.       We did not really expect to find the exotic wader, but we did hope to sight and, with luck, photograph peregrine falcons that are early arrivals in the fall raptor migration.       It's usually fine weather after a hurricane and this day was no exception. Our spirits were high, having been shot at and missed by Monsieur Georges, and it never occurred to me that one roll of film might be terribly inadequate.       Our first planned stop was the Youth Camp Area of the state park, a well-known migrant trap. As soon as we turned onto the entry road we spotted a magnificent falcon perched in a dead pine tree not twenty feet off the road.       I cringed as Bruce inched our mobile blind forward until we were closer than I would have guessed possible. When he finally stopped, I slithered out of the car, braced my shaking hand against the roof and focused the 400-millimeter lens. My viewfinder filled with iridescent-blue plumage and fierce, yellow-rimmed eyes. I squeezed my first shot.       But the one roll of film I had was not in the camera. The camera, being much smarter than I, would not release the shutter so nothing happened... resoundingly. As the reality of my ineptitude sank in, the bird flew away... followed closely by my loud scatological interjection.       Like a good friend, Bruce tried to look on the bright side, "Now you have more ammo for the flamingo." But all I could think about was the rotten luck. Plus, I was laying long odds on finding any flamingos that were not yard ornaments.       The paved road in the park runs about seven and a half miles, beachside and bayside. We did a lot of stopping and scouting, but we knew we were leaving most of the area unchecked, trusting more to our already-suspect luck rather than thoroughness to spot any pink visitor.       Eventually we drove to the end of the paved road at the last beach pavilion which was vacant of tourists, compliments of Georges. From the parking lot I thought I saw a loon on the beach and walked down to investigate, in case it might be in distress. (Turned out it was just flotsam.)       I walked around the wrecked end of a boardwalk, and there was the flamingo... stately, incongruous and a fiery pink. I fairly gasped aloud. The bird lifted its head, which had been resting on its back, with alien grace and stared at me. My camera, although it now contained film, was back in the car.       A person who believes bad luck comes in multiples would have panicked. So did I, dashing back to the car, waving my arms at Bruce and exclaiming in loud stage whispers, "It's him! It's him!!" Fortunately the building was between the bird and most of my antics and he remained, although now on alert that there was a maniac in the general area.       Eventually, after low-crawling across the sand and using the building and demolished boardwalk to stalk my flaming prey, I shot him until my ammo ran out. Twenty-four exposures of a flamingo in the wild, in the surf, on St. George Island. Later, as we were showing off the prints, a tourist commented, "Lucky you had your camera with you."       I shrugged, "Where would we be without luck, bon ami?" That's Bruce you hear laughing.           Return to Top   |   Archive of Articles