A spotted sandpiper steps delicately across the beach, nearly blending in with the fallen tree branches that sink halfway into the water behind it. Its tail bobs gently like a buoy cast adrift into a river’s bouncing waves. I had initially set out on a walk specifically in search of this sandpiper, and my first thought upon noticing the bird was, “Oh, it’s tiny.” For whatever reason, I had been anticipating a bird at least half the size of the lazily circling Mallards in the eddy — but this sandpiper was approximately the size of my fist. At only two or three inches tall, the bird was unperturbed by its miniature stature and continued pecking at the sand for its prey. When you hear the word “shorebird,” you tend to picture something akin to a seagull, skittering across a coastal beach with a roaring ocean at its back — but locating this critter only required a brief drive to the Skinner Butte river path. I was mystified.

I had time to snatch a few muggy pictures of my prize before I heard a bicycle approaching alongside the increasing volume of Mexican music. A man rode between me and the sandpiper, startling the little bird away. I had been so careful to stay a respectful distance from the bird so it would not be frightened by my presence, just for my moment to end due to the volatile nature of a public riverside park.

Navigating my high school life has felt a lot like birding. Up until this very school year, I had always been the quiet and introspective sort who never spoke up unless first spoken to — the type of person to be overshadowed by those with louder voices and greater confidence, like the man riding between me and my sandpiper. I often felt like I was built for solitude and fell victim to the forced interaction that group projects and club meetings require.

One of my “target” birds ever since I started birding was the cedar waxwing, a sleek, orange-ish songbird with a bandit-like mask and a stunning yellow tip on its tail. I think it’s one of the most beautiful birds that the Pacific Northwest has to offer. Despite its high population, it took me an entire year to locate a single cedar waxwing. Its bright colors stand out surprisingly little against the green shadows of Oregon’s trees — so imagine my surprise when I glanced out of my window on a random Sunday morning and spotted two of them foraging among a bush of overgrown ivy. All of my times walking down to the park, freezing at each high-pitched whistle — characteristic of the cedar waxwing — turned out to be entirely pointless. Two of these little songbirds decided to visit my doorstep out of nowhere.

This is how I feel about the friendship aspect of my high school life. A group of real friends fell directly into my hands toward the end of my sophomore year.

When I think back to my freshman year, I want to scream into a pillow. My friendship-deprived, post-COVID self was convinced that every student who spoke to me with kindness was my best friend, and that I could demonstrate my platonic love via spontaneous gifts as though I had not forced my socially awkward, slightly desperate self upon them. I spent all of that time catastrophically failing to forge friendships just to discover a crowd that I felt a true connection with, perhaps right when I needed them most — one of the luckiest things that has ever happened to me. Spontaneous like the pair of cedar waxwings that decided to forage for berries outside of my window on a sleepy weekend morning.

I could list bird metaphors and similes until the sun explodes. The point is that high school, to me, was an utter trainwreck of random chance and poor luck and euphoric highs and embarrassing moments and exponential growth that finally peaked where I am now — about to graduate and move miles away to pursue my passion for the outdoors. South Eugene High School is the best school I could have asked for. Yes, I have my complaints, like literally every other high schooler in the world does, but throughout it all I never felt unsafe. I changed my entire self and only met open arms and greater opportunities. In this chaotic, sometimes dystopia-like world, Eugene is a haven.

I have always felt the urge to leave Eugene, but not because I hate it. Not at all. I am just a migratory bird. Many species of birds fly hundreds of miles in pursuit of fairer conditions, while some choose to stubbornly stick to their roots despite the changing seasons and waning food sources. This sedentary lifestyle has never suited me well. Maybe one day, we will flock together again — but, for now, I can only send my most sincere “thank you” and join the birds on their collective migration northward until the winter chill makes me long for the warmth and comfort of home. Thank you, Axe.

Article by Rainier Cem