BOB KORNEGAY: It’s all about big, bad and pretty

Armed with binocular and camera, I walked stealthily along the Gopher Tortoise Trail at Seminole State Park. Every few minutes I heard the song of the bird I was seeking, but it was being typically shy and furtive this morning, reluctant to show itself. I diligently listened, trying hard to pinpoint the precise location of the sound, eyes focused on the brushy cover beneath the tall longleaf pines. My concentration was intense. Then, from over my shoulder…

“Whatcha looking for?”

I flinched, surprised. A lady from the nearby campground had walked right up on me, undetected until she spoke.

“Oh, good morning,” I replied. “Just looking for an uncooperative little bird.”

“What kinda bird?”

That triggered my teacher button. I’ve not been inside a classroom in ten years, but the desire to share knowledge simply will not go away. I went into lecture mode.

“Bachman’s sparrow,” I said. “It lives almost exclusively in longleaf/wiregrass habitat. Lives here year round, but can be very hard to locate except in the spring when the males sometimes come out into the open to sing. I haven’t seen one this year and I’m hoping to get a photo.”

“Little bird?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I held my thumb and forefinger about six inches apart.

She looked perplexed.

“There’s a bald eagle over there at the boat ramp. You see it?”

“I did,” I said. “About 15 minutes ago.”

“It’s big.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Nice bird. Very impressive,”

“You oughta go over there and take pictures of it.”

“May do that before I leave,” I replied.

“It’s big,” she repeated, spreading her arms to indicate wingspan. “You can see it real good. There’s a big alligator over there, too.”

I could read her thoughts as she walked away. Crazy man looking for a little bitty bird in the tall grass when he could be looking at a big ol’ bald eagle and a big ol’ alligator right out in the open.

It’s interesting that so many people limit their appreciation of nature to three things. Is it big? Is it pretty? Is it dangerous? Little else seems to matter.

I once took a diehard bass angler friend of mine trout fishing in the Southern Appalachians. When I got excited about catching a 12-inch brook trout, he looked at me with the same perplexed stare I got from the lady at Seminole. Twelve pounds he understood. Twelve inches had him baffled.

Likewise, a non-birding acquaintance was totally unimpressed by an American golden plover I once spotted at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. The bird was in winter plumage and didn’t exhibit the gaudy feather pattern it would later sport. The rarity of the sighting was lost on him.

“It’s gray,” he yawned.

One fellow I know couldn’t care less that a gray fox can climb trees, eat fruit, and do numerous other “unfoxy” things. Put this same guy in front of a television airing a “Finding Bigfoot” marathon and he’ll sit there all day long. Throw in an hour-long documentary about “Killer Grizzlies of Yellowstone” and he’s in heaven.

Human nature, I guess. It once kinda bothered me, but now I just shrug it off. Nature nerds can’t afford to ostracize the few good buddies they have.

Besides, that Bachman’s sparrow I was hearing finally showed his small, drab, harmless little self. Flew up out of the grass and perched on a bare scrub-oak twig. Good, clear, ten-second look. Made my day.

I stopped by the boat ramp as I left the park. Alas, couldn’t locate the eagle or the alligator.

That’s okay, though. I watched a rerun of “River Monsters” when I got home.