The Lovebirds of Montrose

Leslie Borns and John Purcell (December 2012).

words by Jon Evans

At the heart of Chicago’s most beloved birding hotspot is a love story.

Leslie Borns and John Purcell crossed paths while birding at a Chicago lakefront that looked very different from the one we know and love today. Montrose Beach, where the city’s grooming equipment would raze the sand across the entire expanse from the northern boundary to the southeastern’s fishhook pier, and in its wake, the tractors would sift and level the sand, picking up garbage and, unfortunately, any and all plants. A few people, imbued with curiosity, began to notice something about the path the tractors cut, always turning around near the pier, leaving a few spots untouched by the heavy equipment. It was in these spots something interesting started to grow.

John Purcell standing next to one of the first occurrences of Lakeshore Rush (Juncus balticus var. littoralis), a plant that had not been seen in the Chicago region for over 50 years; this area later became Montrose Beach Dunes (June 2000).

First, there were a few small cottonwoods and willows that took root, but by the early 90s, Leslie explained, “tiny little plants started appearing on the beach, and we had never seen plants on the beach before.” One of these plants Borns discovered turned out to be, as a botanist acquaintance of Leslie would reveal, a species of Rush not seen in the Chicago region for half a century. This revelation would start a process that would test Leslie’s innate determination and teach her more than a few lessons about big city bureaucracy. Fortunately, the path that started with a pioneer plant on the beach and led to the rich, biodiverse habitat we now all enjoy was not one she walked alone.

“I distinctly remember John being in my universe starting in the early 90s,” Leslie recollected. She would run into him while birding, and they would swap stories of bird sightings, discuss botany, and make general small talk. Leslie remembered all of that changing one rainy March morning while on the trails. Noticing the deteriorating conditions, she had frustratedly shouted, “God, it's so muddy, I feel like I can't even move my foot!” John, being only a few steps in front, turned toward her and simply said, “Give me your boot.” He knelt down into the mud and proceeded to clear the heavy earth off her shoe with a stick. “It's just one example of the millions of small, charming things about John and likely the first moment I fell in love with him,” Leslie remarked about his truly caring nature.

Later that year, Leslie spent the morning of her birthday—a very gray October day—trying to shake off the lonely feeling the autumnal clouds had brought, eventually deciding to head to Montrose. Mostly empty, she made her way to the Magic Hedge and found John, speaking softly into his tape recorder and logging the birds. They started talking and walking, and the glumness that had overshadowed that morning cleared away hours later. As Leslie recounted, “I told him it was my birthday, and he was so kind, and it occurred to me that this was a man that I had seen so many times, and he was so special.”

Like a pioneer plant in shifting sands, their love took root slowly but deeply, blooming with resilience. They would spend the next two decades together and in love, with John supporting Leslie as she would become the first steward of Montrose Beach Dunes, protecting and nurturing that sand, watching it grow from one small spot to over thirteen acres. Desiring to continue his documentation alongside Leslie’s conservation, John would rise early and visit his beloved lakefront spaces from North Pond, through Jarvis, and up to Montrose, and, after dictating his sightings into a small tape recorder, would come back to their apartment and dutifully transcribe the day’s birds into huge three-ring binders, now spanning close to forty years.

Sadly, John Purcell, whom Leslie described as “our beautiful man and elder statesman of the Chicago birding community,” passed away in October of 2022, after dealing with a long illness. Their love for each other was intertwined with their love of the natural world, and Leslie worked tirelessly in the last years of John’s life to maintain that connection with the places they both loved. In April of 2023, Leslie planted a Bur Oak at North Pond in John’s memory. As a keystone tree species of the Midwest, Leslie is certain it will attract birds, insects, and plants, saying, “There was no better species to represent John.”

Grief is the most irregular-regular experience we all have to face. There is no going around it; one must find their way through. It is not something that lifts and leaves us one day but changes us and the way we see the world, however that may be. When Leslie sees the spaces she and John called home for so long, she explains how she “always felt a spiritual connection with the natural areas, but now they are the embodiment of decades of precious memories, sightings, and the spirit of the person I loved.”

Of her life with John, Leslie concluded, “John helped me become the person I was meant to be, and I also did that for him. We completed each other, and that is    true love.”

We should all be so lucky.