Another early start today, as I went on the morning trip to Charles H. Bronson State Forest. This time, instead of meeting at festival HQ to pile onto a bus or carpool, we were in charge of getting ourselves there. So I slept a little later (til 5:30), and then charged off into the pre-dawn fog in my rented Ford Fusion.

It was a winding route through a very rural area, and the fog got really thick at times, so it would’ve been easy to get lost. In fact, when I arrived, many of the retirees were complaining loudly about just that. But I made it on time, and met our expert guides for the day, Mitchell Harris from the Florida Ornithological Society and John Puschock (who was also a guide on my trip to Marl Bed Flats yesterday). These two guys are among the sharpest birding guides I’ve encountered. Over and over they would identify a bird based on a single call note or a super-distant glimpse, and get everyone in the group to see it. We also had two escorts from the Florida Forest Service, Paul Hartsfield and Steve Stipkovits, who graciously drove us beyond the “no vehicles allowed” signs and shared a lot of intimate knowledge about the management of the land out there, a big tract of ranchland on the west side of the Saint Johns River. Very cool.

The place was vast and birdy, and this was the first field trip of the festival that I kinda wished could last longer – it seemed like we were still turning up new and interesting birds at the end. But I do not have any complaints. What I do have, I’m happy to report, is that rare and precious prize: a lifer. (That is, a new species to put on my life list.) And I also have a measure of redemption, since the lifer I got was a close relative of the stubborn LeConte’s Sparrow that I missed yesterday. Today’s gem was a Grasshopper Sparrow.

This time, there was no drama to it. It was early in the trip, and the group was sort of spread out, looking in several different directions, when I heard Mitchell say he had a Grasshopper Sparrow in his scope. He didn’t even sound that excited, because when it comes to Ammodramus – the genus of notoriously shy sparrows to which both LeConte’s and Grasshopper belong – Grasshopper is among the more widespread and less shy. In fact, I’ve been a little embarrassed for some time that I’d never seen one, as a birder of my experience level. Only a little embarrassed, because they’re not easy to come by. But it was still sort of developing into a nemesis bird for me.

Well, no more. This little sucker sat there on the wire for minutes on end. It was a cool morning, and the bird seemed to be almost dozing, just soaking up the sun. Everyone in the group had long, leisurely looks, and I had time to grab the photos above – though I didn’t dare venture close enough to get really good ones, and risk being The Guy Who Scared Off the Grasshopper Sparrow. Anyway, it was awesome. ABA-area life bird #515!

Like I said, the whole place was pretty nice, and I grabbed a few pics of the more charismatic species that we saw. Every big open field seemed to have at least a few of these guys….

Eventually we tore ourselves away from there and went our separate ways. I grabbed a quick bite, made a few notes about the morning, called my wife, and headed back out. I had a doubleheader today, and the afternoon field trip was to Daytona Beach Shores, site of the largest known congregation of gulls on any beach in the United States. In a word, it was dope.

When I got there, there was a line of birders with spotting scopes pointed out at the sea, and a couple guys were shouting an intense play-by-play of what was happening out there. They were our two guides, Michael Brothers, director of the Marine Science Center in Ponce Inlet, and Cameron Cox of Leica. They stood a few feet apart, each with his eye buried in his scope, and the area around them was filled with excited but bewildered birders. One of the guides would be all, “Jaeger! Twelve o’clock, just below the horizon, moving left, chasing a Laughing Gull!” while the other one was all like “Jaeger! down low, moving right – there he goes up! Now back to the left, chasing a Ring-billed Gull!” It was fucking exciting. But also I didn’t have a scope, just my puny binoculars, and for a few minutes I was kinda worried I wasn’t actually going to see much.

But then I did pick up on one of those Jaegers, and I got a pretty good look. Later I would get even better looks, as we saw more of them harassing the gulls out over the water, trying to steal their dinners. These were Parasitic Jaegers, extremely gifted flyers who usually stay too far out at sea to be seen from the shore – oh and by the way, my life bird #516! Ha, two lifers in one day! RIDIC.

Well, from then on the rest was gravy. The main reason we were at this particular spot was the gulls, which blanketed the beach in both directions.

They let us walk practically right up to them for close study. It was a more deliberate, analytical style of birding than any of my other trips here, which was great in its own way. And Michael and Cameron are freakin geniuses. I learned more about ID’ing gulls in a couple hours with them than I have in years of staring at birds and books on my own. 

Oh and by the way, all this was happening on a gorgeous beach as the sun slowly set behind us.

It was a lovely, satisfying end to a great Day Three. Now, Day Four (the last day at the festival for Birding For Humans) begins with a bus ride leaving from festival HQ at 5am sharp. So… I’m gonna have to peace out now. May your dreams be filled with lifers!

Already, this morning seems like ages ago. Such is the breakneck pace of things at a birding festival. But I have to start even farther back than that. Last night, before writing my Day One post, I had to make sure I was ready for this morning’s field trip. So I re-read the description of the trip, which was going to the Marl Bed Flats along the north shore of Lake Jessup:

It can sometimes be wet in areas, so rubber boots are recommended as well as insect repellent. It is also a fairly lengthy walk so water and trail snacks are advised.

Huh. I don’t have boots of any kind. In fact I only brought one pair of shoes with me to Florida. So I headed to the one store that I’d seen nearby, Wal-Mart, to peruse the sporting goods section for anything that might keep my feet dry. And the only thing that came close was this:

Blindingly white deck boots from the Marlin Trading Company, made out of some kind of weird foam-like stuff. I’d never heard of deck boots, and I gathered they were meant for some sort of nautical purpose. Moreover, their color was bound to attract unwanted attention. But what could I do? Risk ruining my only pair of shoes? The boots were only twenty bucks, so I sucked it up and bought them.

And lo, it was good:

Now, I managed to avoid the worst of the mud, largely through dumb luck. (A couple people got real mucky.) But even so, it was a messy place in general. Without the boots, I would have been looking down all morning, trying to tiptoe around the danger. Instead, I lumbered confidently (if clumsily) forward, and saw a lot of nice birds. People did comment on the boots – but, you know, they were just folksy birder types. We shared a laugh about it.

Once again, the tour leaders were all great guys. (And yes, all my guides have been guys.) This time it was Tom Dunkerton from Nikon Sport Optics, Chip Clouse from Opticron, and John Puschock of Zugunruhe Birding Tours. We carpooled from festival HQ, and I rode in Chip’s car, talking with him about our respective career paths, how we got into birding, what kind of binoculars I should use, and of course cool birds that we’ve seen. Very nice guy.

But there was one big disappointment on this trip. Less than an hour into the birding, we found a little sparrow darting through the thick grass. By the way it was behaving – flying very close to the ground when flushed, always disappearing into the thick stuff rather than sitting up where it could be seen – the guides knew it was Something Good. One of the rare secretive sparrows that people had come hoping to see. Henslow’s Sparrow, LeConte’s, Baird’s… these were among a small number of birds that I might actually be able to add to my life list during the festival.

So the guides sprang into action. Seriously, it was an impressive thing to behold. As the bird hid in the grass, they flanked it, directing others where to stand so as to keep it contained. When the bird flew, they repeated the process, until they were basically marching the bird back toward us, as we stood in a line, binoculars at the ready. And then it happened – the bird walked out of the grass, and people started saying they could see it. There it is, out in the open! LeConte’s Sparrow! Camera shutters were going crazy. And I was ready – but I was at the wrong end of the line. From where I stood, the bird was obscured by vegetation. After several seconds of staring in vain, I tried to make my way around to the other end, but as I did, the bird flew off in a new direction. With most of the group satisfied, we decided to spare the bird any further torment, and moved on.

Oof.

It was a stinging miss, and I went over it in my mind for a few minutes afterward. Was there any way I could’ve “gotten” that bird? Though frustrated, I had to agree with the decision to leave the bird alone when we did; we had scared it enough by that point. During the chase, I’d been alert, had tracked the bird each time as it flushed from one clump of grass to the next, and followed each instruction from the guides. Should I have known somehow what the best vantage point would be when the bird finally emerged?

I don’t think so, really. Sometimes, the breaks just don’t go your way. But with a gorgeous morning on your hands and nothing to do but bird, who can stay pissed off? I chatted a bit, saw some common but handsome birds, got my deck boots dirty, and snapped a few pics.

In the end, a nice morning. As for me and LeConte’s Sparrow, I believe we will find a way to be properly introduced someday. In the meantime, all I can do is practice - starting tomorrow, bright and early.

So much birding to talk about, so little time before I have to wake up and start birding again. Let’s get into it.

My trip this morning was to the Viera Wetlands, a place used to treat wastewater – indeed designed and built for that purpose – which is nevertheless quite scenic and birdy. It also has a road that goes right around the perimeter of the water, so it can be birded with little to no walking. Knowing it would be an easy trip, I just grabbed a couple Clif Bars, my binoculars, and my camera, and set out for the meeting point – at 5:20am.

At festival HQ, I grabbed a scrambled-egg bowl from the local yolk’l food truck… which I now see is not coming back tomorrow. Ugh. Guess I have a Clif Bar breakfast to look forward to. Anyway, when I stepped onto the bus at five minutes to six, I found it practically full. Turns out I was the last one to show up, and as I made my way to the empty seats at the back, row after row of smiling, silver-haired heads looked up to greet me. Yeah, I’d say the median age of that group was in the upper 60s. Well, who cares? It’s not like I’m here to meet girls. (For anyone who may be considering it, I would not recommend coming here to meet girls.)

Our trip was led by three super-knowledgeable, super-nice guys: Dan Click, of the Merritt Island Wildlife Association; Jeff Gordon, president of the American Birding Association; and Nate Swick, of both the ABA and 10,000 Birds. Nate, consummate pro that he is, has already blogged about the trip, including much better photos than you will find on Birding for Humans. However, if you are my close friend or relative (and you probably are), you are still obliged to read my post.

We arrived before first light, and it was mad cold, considering we were dressed for Florida Winter, not Real Winter. But it was a clear day, and the birds were plentiful. Aside from that, there’s not too much to say. Allow me to drop some photographic knowledge on you instead:

Basically, it was a gorgeous morning, and everyone seemed pleased. We even drew the attention of a local news crew! I guess they were there to cover the festival? In any case, Jeff stepped up and gave a strong interview.

Another pleasant bus ride put us back at HQ just before noon, and the rest of the day stretched out before me, completely free of any obligations or structure. It occurred to me what a rare and wonderful moment this is, where I have the maturity and means to come here, without the health- and parenting-related concerns that inevitably muck everything up later in life. Nice. But I didn’t dwell on it for long. Another fast-food lunch, a call to the Mrs., and a quick nap – then back out for more birding.

I went out to Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge, my Dad’s and my favorite birding spot when I was growing up. I’ve been there so many times over the years – as a middle-schooler, a high-schooler, a college student, a… well you know just a regular working dude… and I’ve seen more species of birds there than at any other place. I was excited to get back. And though it was late afternoon, the birding didn’t disappoint. I saw a bunch of cool stuff I hadn’t seen in a while – American Avocets, Reddish Egrets, hundreds of gorgeous Northern Pintails…

… but the highlight was my close personal encounter with a group of Florida Scrub-Jays. This species is prized by birders as a Florida specialty (though its close cousin, the Western Scrub-Jay, is common in much of the Western U.S., including my yard). But My Dad and I had a go-to spot for them – we would drive slowly down this one road, watching and listening, and usually one would pop up where we could see it. So I decided to spend the last bit of daylight doing just that. They made me sweat it out, but as I neared the end of the road, two of them appeared in the bushes nearby. 

And when I got out of the car to take some pics, three more showed up to investigate.

When I say investigate, I mean they were trying to figure out whether I was something from which food could be extracted. I’m pretty sure of that, because they all came super close to me – and at least one of them tried repeatedly to land on my head. Alas there are no photos of that, since it was too close to focus my camera on, and besides it’s really hard to take pictures when you’re ducking and shrieking. But it was awesome.

Sigh. I gotta wrap this up. I drove off into the sunset, stopping to check out the trade show at festival HQ – basically a gymnasium full of bird books, astoundingly expensive binoculars, and a vaguely unsettling display of live birds of prey, apparently trained to perform for crowds, but being mostly ignored by a group of people that would’ve ooh’d and aah’d extensively over them if they were flying free. Then, some prep for tomorrow’s trip. I wanted to tell you about that tonight, but it’ll have to wait. All writing and no sleep would make my morning a lot less awesome. And this is a birding festival. Mornings are for awesome.

So here I am on Central Florida’s eastern coast, where millions of birds gather to watch America not launch space shuttles. I’m going to try something different while I’m here – posting about things the same day they happen. Possibly the next day. We’ll see how it goes.

Before I start on the trip though, there’s other big news: I got a camera. And it’s awesome. I finally felt bad enough about my iPhone-held-up-to-binoculars setup to do some research and plunk down some cash. I settled on the Canon EOS 60D, with a 70-300mm zoom lens. It may not be the rig of a serious wildlife photographer, but it’s a hell of a lot of camera for a stooge like me. And I’m stoked.

The festival hasn’t officially started, but since it starts for me at 6 AM sharp tomorrow, I figured I ought to make ready. Not wanting to spend an extra vacation day traveling, I took a red-eye from L.A. to Orlando last night, then spent most of today working from my sister’s place in nearby Winter Springs. (Yes, I’m tired.) Mid-afternoon, I headed to Titusville to check in at Festival HQ.

The scene was sorta subdued. A few older folks waited behind tables to give attendees their ID badges and welcome bags, while a few other older folks worked on setting up the exhibition hall. The woman who greeted me was all smiles, but wasn’t inclined to linger over our conversation. Perhaps it was fatigue, or a general concern for efficiency, that hastened our parting. Moments later, when one of the staffers remarked that things were quiet, the responses were “Thank God!” and “Don’t jinx it!” It seemed the ladies were still reeling from some earlier deluge of birders demanding speedy service. It’s hard to imagine, but anything’s possible.

Regardless, I was on cloud nine. I rushed to my hotel, tied up some loose ends for work, and headed out for a quick taste of the outdoors just before sunset. I didn’t find a lot of birds, but it felt good to be out there, and I know the next few days will bring an obscene plenty. As the sun set, I conducted a quick survey of the nearby dining options: McD’s, Wendy’s, BK, Waffle House, IHOP, Denny’s...... one gas station included a KFC, another a DQ. I went with Quizno’s. If I ever want to indulge myself after a grueling day in the field, I’ll head to Cracker Barrel (conveniently located within waddling distance of my hotel). Anyway, you don’t fly from L.A. to Titusville for the food. Even a bird wouldn’t do that.

Alright then. Tomorrow morning is my first field trip of the festival, to the Viera Wetlands. I’m excited to meet the experts who are leading the trip, to play with my new camera some more, and just to see Florida birds, which in this birder’s cholesterol-drenched heart will always be the best birds. Bus leaves at 6am, which means I’ll be up by 5am, which is really 2am for me, and I only slept three hours on the plane, so… I’ll catch you later.

Just to whet your appetite (maybe?) for things to come, here are a few bird pics I took at my sis's place: 

When I was a kid, my dad and I spent weekend mornings wandering the woods and marshes of Central Florida, cheap binoculars hanging from our necks. We started our life lists, went on cross-country birding trips, and learned a lot about birding together. Because I enjoyed his company and couldn’t drive a car, it made sense to do pretty much all of my birding with him.

Since I became a Grown Up, we haven’t lived in the same place (unless you count the awkward months of unemployment after college), so I’ve mostly birded alone. I just wasn’t really motivated to seek out new companions. One of the many ways in which I enjoy birding is as an escape, both from the sensory bombardment of urban life and from the pressure of trying to seem normal while interacting with strangers. So while I didn’t shun other birders, I didn’t go out of my way to spend time with them, either.

Now that I’m in a new town, experiencing a birding renaissance of sorts, I’m re-evaluating the idea of birding as a social activity. And by re-evaluating, I mean taking reckless, extreme action. For example:  Next week, I’m attending my first ever birding festival.

That’s right – like comic-book fans, pornographers, ravenous gun hoarders… pretty much every group there is, I guess – birders come together to geek out. They talk shop, collect swag, and descend in swarms on the local parks. My destination is one of the largest such events in the country, maybe the largest:  The 16th Annual Space Coast Birding and Wildlife Festival, back on my old stomping grounds. Apparently, they expect over 5,000 attendees.

I’m excited about this for a lot of reasons. For one thing, going back to Central Florida means I get to see people I don’t see often enough, like my sister, who lives in our hometown. I expect her to roll out the red carpet – backyard barbecues, courtside seats for the Magic, helicopter rides to Disney World, and more. (This is a test to see if she reads my blog.) For another thing, there’s that sweet feeling that comes from laying eyes on home soil after a long time away. I haven’t exactly been out sacking Troy, but I haven’t been back in years, and part of me has missed the landscape of Central Florida – not the culture, the politics, the meager public transportation or the bland suburban sprawl – but the landscape. (The natural landscape.) And the birds.

Which brings me to my most topical reason for being excited. Florida hosts a dazzling array of wintering waterfowl, shorebirds, gulls, sparrows, warblers, hawks, etc. etc. Not only that, but thanks to the omnipresence of expert guides, I should have much better success than usual at finding and identifying all those gems. While I saw 265 species of birds in all of 2012 (actually a pretty good year for me), I expect to end January 2013 already pushing 200, thanks in large part to this trip.

It should be great. Still, I have to say my excitement is tinged with trepidation. I’m throwing myself headlong into the mysterious world of Birding with People. We’re talking four straight days of long hours in the field with strangers. Sure, these strangers are older, whiter, and more awkwardly friendly than the general population... sort of like Canadians. But I won’t know anyone. Who will I sit with at lunch? What will I talk about? It’s like middle school all over again.

And on the other hand, what if this whole experiment goes too well? Will I start hanging out with birders so much that I lose the grounding influence of my normal friends? Will I start to walk around town in a safari helmet and fanny pack? What will become of my street cred, accumulated over the course of decades of social binge-drinking, awkward dancing at parties and genuine interest in professional sports? The mind reels.

Well, if the internet has taught me one thing about how to succeed in life (aside from the power of the homemade sex video), it’s that sometimes, you just have to take a chance. It’s a new year, sort of, and maybe my thing this year is just to go balls-to-the-wall and see what happens. Maybe by dropping my guard, I’ll let something wonderful into my life, as suggested by noted philosopher and medicine woman Jane Semour.

Or maybe I’ll just be uncomfortable. Well, I’ll let you know.

As you know, my hummingbird feeder has been a huge success. But there’s a whole world of non-humming birds out there, and they too need to be lured in where I can see them while working. To that end, I dug up my old seed feeder, bought a bag of seed mix, and hung the feeder in the backyard. Once again, the waiting game began.

This time there was less waiting. Here’s how it went:

Day 1:  No birds.

Day 2:  One House Finch.

Day 3:  Two House Finches.

Day 4 and every day since:  A shitstorm of House Finches.

I now awake every day to the shrieking of two dozen House Finches. The little red and brown bastards coat the concrete patio like the stubble in the sink when I shave. This is a good thing, sure; I've proven eminently capable of convincing wild birds to eat stuff that I paid for. But variety is the spice of life. Fortunately, other characters drop in from time to time:

A pair of California Towhees used to chase the House Finches away when there were just one or two of them. Nowadays, overwhelmed by the finches’ swelling ranks, they stop in for a bite or two and go quietly on their way.

This young sparrow will don its white crown in the spring. I hadn’t seen these guys in the neighborhood until my seeds went out, so I’m giving myself mad props for this one.

This bird is uncommon in the entire L.A. area, and here I have one stopping in my yard every day. #WINNING

… and of course a squirrel. Meh.

Anyway, what’s amazing to me is how deeply intertwined the birds’ lives and mine have become, and how quickly. A few weeks ago, I was not someone who fed birds. For years, I was content to see whatever happened by my window, never intervening in the natural order of things. (Unless you count the space my home was taking up, the electricity and gas I was using, the waste I was generating, etc. etc. etc. DETAILS.)

Cut to today: I’m basically the Sam Malone of an avian Cheers. Every day the regulars roll in like clockwork, chatting amongst themselves as they gulp down their “usual” (seeds). Every evening, as they retire to their separate roosting places, their parting is made easier by the knowledge that they’ll see each other tomorrow at The Feeder. It’s heartwarming, really.

As for me, though my initial curiosity has been sated, I’m happy to keep footing the bill. Bird feeding, like birding, is subject to a sort of momentum that eventually frees it from the need of any reason. I just keep on doing it, even when – and yes, I am aware – I find myself doing things that would appear increasingly strange to a normal human observer.

A couple days ago I had a newcomer – a Western Scrub-Jay dropped in to have a look around.

Vexingly, I had run out of seeds, and there was nothing but husks littering the patio. Dammit! This was my chance to let him know my establishment was worth visiting again. I took a desperate look through my kitchen, which seldom contains anything edible even for humans – and seized upon a box of cereal. Then there was the matter of getting the food out to him. I couldn’t walk outside or I’d surely scare him off – I needed a window. But the windows in the kitchen had screens that were not easily removed. My mind continued to race, in full-on bird-feeding MacGyver mode. Must… feed… bird….

And that, gracious readers, is how I found myself, a grown-ass man at home in the middle of the day, sprinting upstairs to my office, opening the window, lifting the screen, and showering a bewildered, three-ounce bird with a fistful of Honey Nut Cheerios.

Life is crazy, amirite?

The scrub-jay did take a few of those Cheerios, but soon wandered off to the neighbor’s yard, and then beyond. I haven’t seen him since, and I can't predict the tenor of his forthcoming review on Bird Yelp. But those birds that do drop in will find me eager to please. I guess at the end of the day – and the beginning and the middle – you might as well have some familiar faces around.

Regular readers of BFH, if they exist, may have noticed I took the holidays off from blogging. You see, producing blog posts of the caliber expected by my fans (parents) requires a solemn communion with my laptop, as undesirable as it is infeasible during family gatherings. But whatever distractions may present themselves, I never, ever, ever take a vacation from birding – like, not for a second. With a hat-tip to the grammar-bending new movie Not Fade Away, I present an illustration of what it means to be never not birding.

A few weeks ago, the bird-blogging gurus at 10,000 Birds called on readers to submit their “Bird of the Year” – basically, the coolest bird sighting you had in 2012. I failed to get a response in by the deadline, but I did not fail to ruminate extensively. I had never chosen a Bird of the Year before, but the idea appealed to me, as it prompted a happy stroll down Birding Memory Lane.

While there were lots of nice moments, there was no one sighting that really stood out. The rarest bird I had seen was probably the White Wagtail in L.A., but how excited can you get about a bird that someone else found and told you exactly how to find for yourself? Hundreds of people saw that bird. Meh. I thought about choosing Allen’s Hummingbird, not so much for a single sighting as for its overall contribution to my year in birding. One morning in March, I woke up, sat up in bed, and saw one out the window – my first Allen’s Hummingbird ever. (Note well: Groggy and indecent, but not not birding.) Cut to the end of the year, when they’re buzzing around my new home all the time and even eating at my feeder. Nice bird, that Allen’s Hummingbird. Still, it didn’t seem to fit the bill.

So I missed the Christmas Eve deadline for submitting to 10,000 Birds, and having made myself fat and merry over many a holiday dinner, I was more or less content to give up on picking a Bird of the Year. On Christmas Day, the roads were quiet and dusted with snow as I set out with my bride, heading from one family gathering in Vermont to another in Connecticut. As we stood in the cramped office of Thrifty Car Rental, answering the four hundred questions they ask before they will let you pay them to borrow a well-worn Chevy Aveo, I was only mildly irritated – so lulled was I by the Holiday Spirit.

But like that of a caged lion, my outward calm belied the instincts of a born hunter. Somewhere between declining something and declining something else, I became aware of the presence of birds just outside the office window. Medium-sized, almost silhouetted in the late-afternoon light… I figured they were Blue Jays maybe, something mundane. Then it dawned on me, and my jaw dropped: Holy crap. Pine Grosbeaks.

These are birds of the remote wild north, birds I had only ever seen once, years before, and was not expecting to see here. I said out loud, “Holy crap,” and walked straight out the door, right in the middle of dealing with the car. When I glanced back in through the window, I saw one very concerned wife and one totally nonplussed Rental Sales Agent staring back at me. I tried to reassure them by laughing – Ha ha, I know this is crazy, I’ll explain later – but the looks on their faces didn’t change. Too bad, but I wasn’t stopping. This was the kind of moment that doesn’t come along very often. Genuine shock. Like when the roller coaster dips and your stomach tingles. Your blood surges. Without thinking, you drop what you’re doing, because your conscious mind is not in control anymore – you’re in the thrall of the bird.

The birds were cooperative, hanging out close enough for me to get a few pics. I took a break to run inside and explain to my wife, who was understanding enough to let me run right back out and keep watching, God bless her. I texted my dad, the only contact in my phone who would be jealous. And I watched them gorge themselves on berries, those four fat Pine Grosbeaks – my Birds of the Year. 

It happened: A female Allen’s Hummingbird actually fed from the feeder I put out a couple weeks ago. I don’t know for sure that this was her first visit (having long since given up my tortuous vigil), but I think it was. I happened to be at the kitchen sink first thing in the morning when she flew up to the feeder, briefly hovered a couple inches away, then landed and took a sip. She flew off quickly, but later I caught her just sitting there, possibly having sated herself already. This time she stayed long enough for me to take a few of my trademark, barely recognizable iPhone + binocular photos.

She seemed to like the way the world looked from there. Insofar as a creature with a pea-sized brain can “like” something.

Anyway, there you have it: I win! I successfully gave food to a hummingbird. Meanwhile, I wasn't just sitting around waiting for her to show up - I started offering seeds for the local finches and sparrows. Stay tuned for that story, which is gonna be off the hook.

I’ve gotta shit something awful. – Dave

The birding community is going to be very keen. – Brit Woman

Recently while stuck inside and looking for entertainment, I had the thought to watch that big mainstream birding movie that I never got around to seeing, The Big Year. But I found no trace of it on Netflix, and as usual gave up at the first sign of difficulty. Then I was struck by a thunderbolt of inspiration: Why not just search Netflix for the word “bird?”

By and large, the results had little to do with birding and were pretty unappealing. But one description caught my eye:

How had I not heard of this? An actual movie with a birding-related plot and a big-name star?! This was a no-brainer: I had to see me some Rare Birds.

It turns out to be a bizarre Canadian farce about two middle-aged men in a remote seaside town. I call it Canadian because it’s set in Canada, was made by Canadians, and shows what I take to be a uniquely Canadian sensibility, in that it is kind of boring and makes absolutely no sense. No offense, Newfoundland, but Hollywood you are not.

Briefly, the premise is this. Our protagonist Dave (William Hurt) has a seaside restaurant that nobody eats at anymore, and a wife who has left him. His neighbor Phonce (short for Alphonce, played by Andy Jones) is the interesting one. Phonce is some sort of inventor or mechanic with a strange accent, who believes that corporate spies are after the submarine he’s built in his basement. Why build a submarine?  To sell tours for birdwatchers, those “geezers” who spend their time looking for birds “they’re not even gonna eat.” Phonce is a consummate capitalist. In addition to the submarine, his home contains the following:

1. A slinky young sex kitten of a sister-in-law (Molly Parker), who’s in town for an extended visit.

2. A prototype of some sort of magical, luminescent paper. (“It actually breaks the energy equation,” he explains to a rapt Dave.)

3. A huge stash of cocaine that he found washed up on the beach.

Phonce would like Dave, who may have some contacts left from his “bohemian” days, to help him sell the coke. Dave takes a sample home, ostensibly to get it appraised, but it turns out Dave kinda likes cocaine, and it all goes up his nose. This has no apparent consequences for anyone.

More importantly, Phonce has a plan to breathe life into Dave’s restaurant. They’ll report a sighting of a rare bird nearby, and the geezers will pour in to see it. Once there, they’ll have to eat, right? Voilà!

And so it goes. Soon after they call in the fictional sighting to a popular radio program about bird identification (is this plausible in Canada?), the first birder arrives, a sweet, earnest British lady who appears to be about 90. Thank you for that, filmmakers. Many more soon follow, and they prove quite persistent in their search for the bird, despite the lack of any sighting by anyone who knows about birds. They search and they search, and they gobble up Dave’s cooking. Dave snorts coke and enjoys the company of the young beauty. Life is grand.

Of course, there are complications – but I’ll let you discover those for yourself, if this has managed to whet your appetite. If you’re a birder looking for a movie about birding, keep looking. Birders are as marginalized in this movie as they are in real life, and considerably dumber. But if you like rustic maritime scenery, un-relatable characters and nonsensical plotlines – or just want to see William Hurt’s butt – then by all means, toke up and settle in for some Rare Birds.

With few exceptions, birders love lists. We make lists of the species we’ve seen in each country, state, and county we visit, and in each year (hence the concept of a Big Year). Granted, it’s a little weird, but adding a species to any list is a moment of triumph for a birder. As I type the name of my latest avian conquest into my sightings database, weary from a long morning of intense gazing, I feel something akin to what the earliest man must have felt, having used all his cunning and strength to slay the woolly mammoth and drag it home to his burgeoning family. The nap that follows is fantastic.

It’s a feeling worth chasing. But the longer your lists get, the less likely you are to find something new on a typical outing near home. So how do you get your fix? You turn to the internet. When a rare bird shows up, word spreads quickly online, and birders descend on the spot from far and wide. They stand a solemn watch for hours if necessary, waiting for one precious glimpse. If the bird appears, some are truly elated, others merely relieved. Still others appear completely stoic, muttering “Got it,” checking a box on a checklist, and promptly driving away, in a hurry to proceed with what must be joyless, burdensome lives. 

Even for those of us who aren't dead inside, some of the joys of regular birding - of exploring the outdoors, not knowing what you might find - are lost in this sort of drive-thru list-augmentation. One wonders whether this sort of behavior gradually turns genuine nature-loving birdwatchers into the sort of drones who put their lists above all else. (I appreciated Maeve Kim's treatment of the subject in BirdWatching magazine.) Not to mention the awful possibility of moving mountains to get yourself there, only to have the bird fail to appear. It's all enough to give pause to any (sane) would-be rarity-chaser.

Such was the case for me this weekend, when someone found a White Wagtail – native to Europe, Asia, and Alaska – in Los Angeles. I had seen one before, but never in North America, which meant it was absent from my most doted-upon list, my ABA Area life list. I don’t often go chasing reports like this; generally I'd rather find lots of "old" birds near home than try to see just one new one that was already found. But this time, the coolness of the bird (really rare in the Lower 48) and the convenience of the location (under 40 minutes away) were compelling. Early Sunday morning, I decided to skip my tame little neighborhood stroll and make a run at the White Wagtail instead. It was on.

I cruised down the 110, reliving my Guitar Hero glory of the night before with a spirited rendition of Weezer’s “Say It Ain’t So,” this time in a scratchy morning-after baritone. I was giddy with anticipation and making great time. Anyone who saw me then would’ve been convinced that I was happily living in the moment. And yet, even then, I couldn’t help wondering what it all meant. At the end of the day, if all goes well, what will I have gained exactly?

Tough to say, but the thought-clouds parted as I arrived. I practically ran down to the beach, following the precise directions always demanded by the birding community in times like these. Sure enough, there were birders. I saw four people with big fancy-looking scopes and cameras, and charged right up to them, bearing a huge grin that said: “Hey! We’re all birders, isn’t that great?!” For whatever reason, they were having none of it. Though my business there was obvious, they volunteered no information, and wouldn't even make eye contact. (Occasionally, birders are not cool.) But I could tell they were not looking at The Bird anyway. I looked around and quickly spotted a larger group up the beach. Phew.

This new group was much more receptive, and more importantly, they were on The Bird. Within seconds, I had ABA life list entry #514 in my binocular view. Ka-ching!

I watched it flit around for a bit, eavesdropping as the more advanced birders discussed the subtleties of identification – how old was the bird, was it the Alaskan type or the Japanese type, etc. When it flew down the beach, I didn’t follow, but started checking out the other birds in the park. It was a pretty nice place actually, one I probably never would’ve seen if not for this one lost bird, and the culture of reporting and chasing rarities that had given me hope of seeing it. So, I had that going for me... which was nice.

And of course I also had the pleasure of presenting the proverbial mammoth (i.e. new bird) to my family (database). But I still can't fully explain my own feelings vis-à-vis rarity-chasing. Anyway I guess you shouldn't spoil your own fun by trying too hard to understand it. Amirite?

Bottom line: Would I make the same choice again? Absolutely. Just not for a White Wagtail. That box is checked.