melting snow

into the snow

Lately we've been braving temperatures of -20º Celsius in New Hampshire— and I know that's a warm day for my Canadian friends, but goodness! Counting ducks while your extremities loose feeling and your face hurts is an entirely different birding experience. Actually I quite enjoy it, but I really need to invest in some snow boots.



I love New England in the winter.

the search for the snow bunting

When the proposal to search for Snow Buntings on Serra da Estrela came up, I did not hesitate to say yes. Have you ever seen a Snow Bunting? I hadn't in person, but that little upturned curve in its beak—which makes it look like it's smiling— and the pretty white plumage mixed with rust and umber was enough to make me actually hop up and down. I was warned that it might not be easy; the mountain was capped in snow and the birds are easily camouflaged. At 1,993 metres, Serra da Estrela is the highest peak in mainland Portugal, and often the only place which receives snow.

We drove up the long, winding road to the top, past stunning landscapes of rolling nothingness— I have a space in my heart for such places, where man made objects are either nonexistent, or few and far between. It's as though the absence of man makes room for mental wandering— of course, we were on a road, and my imagination was pulled back to earth with every passing car. Stepping out at the top, which had a tiny ski slope teeming with Portuguese and Spanish families, I was thankful for my down jacket and mittens. We hung our binoculars around our necks and secured our scarves from the biting wind, crunching satisfyingly through the patchy snow. Not a bird in sight.



Suddenly small flock of about 25 little birds appeared— could it be? The light was harsh, and it was difficult to see anything but silhouettes, but when we looked though the binoculars... Alpine Accentors. Taking note of these delightful birds, we watched them until they took off, and continued our search.



We walked until we couldn't see a soul but each other—nothing. We walked back up to the old observatory at the top of the mountain— nothing. We walked back down the road to a little reservoir— nothing. About to give up on our search, we decided to check the left side of the parking lot before hopping back in the car, and just as soon as we headed in that direction, four little birds flew past, and landed on the roof of a barn.

"BUNTINGS!" Pedro exclaimed.

Running discreetly is not an easy thing to do, especially on icy road. We were afraid they would fly away, so we wanted to get there quickly, but we were worried our movement would make them fly away. Eventually (and I am sure quite comically), we shuffled close enough to take a very distant and blurry photo— then they flew. Fortunately for us, they landed in the patchy grass below, inspecting the earth for something to eat. We moved in.

Just to give you an idea of how well camouflaged these little guys are, three of the four Snow Buntings are in the photo below. Can you spot them?



What a fine little bird!

a wonderful week

I've got the left and Pedro, the right.
Gulls photo by PeF.

interlude

I thought I would disrupt the flow of images from the steamy Mekong Delta to show you what has been happening here at home, in Istanbul.



We've had a solid eight days of snow falling on our fair city. Glistening icicles stabbing toward frozen ground, frosted domes, and that delightful crunch under boots... it has been magical!

snowfall

As Istanbul is slowly swallowed by snow and my mind is likewise, having its own share of snowfall, I decided to try and get somewhere with my simitçi ink drawing. He is approximately 2ft x 3ft— I can't remember the exact dimensions of the paper, and I can't find my ruler. I have been working on and off on this drawing for several long months, and hope to finish it soon. The end is in sight, but still feels so very distant and obscured by its own snow.

romance and reality

I woke up this morning with my head full of romantic images of dark wool coats flecked with melting snowflakes, red cheeks, ornate buildings with white cake-like frosting, my hands and belly craving the sweet warmth of roasted chestnuts. I pulled on my warmest coat, thickest socks and wrapped myself up in my big turquoise scarf.

At first it was exactly as I dreamt, but I soon realised the poetry of walking down Istiklal in the snow is lost when a giant, heavy-footed man treads on your toe and you can't feel it. Even the chestnut roasters were too cold to offer shivering pedestrians their paper bags of warmth. I opted instead for a less healthy paper cone of frites— delicious, but nowhere near the magic of chestnuts. I could only make it as far as Robinson Crusoe 389 (my favourite Istanbul bookshop) to purchase a copy of Cannery Row, before I was ready to go home to a hot shower and some tea.



I am so grateful for hot water.

ghostly

snow

It's a common misconception that Turkey is in the Middle East, and that the Middle East is all a big hot desert, which could be why many people are surprised when I mention how cold Istanbul winters are. So I thought I'd share with you a few fun geographical facts on this fine January day.

The Republic of Turkey sits in between the Middle East and Europe, bordered by Greece in the west, Bulgaria in the northwest, Georgia in the northeast, Armenia, Azerbaijan and Iran in the east, and Iraq and Syria in the south. What isn't bordered by land is met with water. The mysterious Black Sea lies to our north, the turquoise Aegean in the west, Mediterranean in the south, and the little Marmara Sea and Bosphorus separate our European side from our Asian side, Anatolia. At 783,562 square kilometers, we are the world's 37th largest country, and have quite a wide variety of winters ranging from Mediterranean warmth to frigid arid plateaus, to snowy mountain ranges and wet northern sea coasts.

So does it snow in Istanbul?


Occasionally.

around town

winter wonderland

I had forgotten how cold New England winters are.

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