James' World 2

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It’s springtime in the Northern Hemisphere, and one of nature’s greatest spectacles is unfolding: the migration of billions of birds to their breeding grounds. They’ve spent the winter in balmier locales to the south, getting fat on insects, seeds, fruits, and aquatic plants and prey. Now they’re winging their way north to establish territories, find mates, and raise their young. In my corner of New England, the migrants have been trickling in—Tree Swallows, Ospreys, Greater Yellowlegs, Chipping Sparrows, and Hermit Thrushes, among others. Just the other day I heard my first Louisiana Waterthrush of the season, its song ringing throughout the forest. In a couple of weeks, we’ll hit peak migration, with loads of gorgeous warblers, vireos, thrushes, flycatchers, and sandpipers arriving on southerly winds.

For those people who enjoy watching birds, this is the most wonderful time of the year. Not only are these birds returning from their winter hiatus, but they are also decked out in their colorful breeding plumage, singing lovely songs, showing off their best courtship moves to prospective mates, and building nests for their babies. There’s so much to observe if you know what to look and listen for—and where to find it.

Before 2020 I had no interest whatsoever in this avian extravaganza. I barely registered its existence. I knew only a few of the birds that show up regularly in my yard—Northern Cardinal, Blue Jay, American Robin, Black-capped Chickadee. Gulls were just “seagulls”; terns were just terns. I was completely unaware that each of these groups encompassed numerous species, each one distinctive in its appearance, voice, and habits. But then the pandemic hit. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. I started watching the birds in my yard out of sheer boredom, using the Merlin bird identification app from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology to figure out which species were visiting my feeder and recording my observations in the eBird online database, which helps me keep track of the species I’ve seen and supports scientific research.

Four years on, I have a full-fledged case of birding fever. I’ve driven to Maine at 2 A.M. on New Year’s Day to see a Steller’s Sea-Eagle, sat in mud and chiggers for three days waiting for a Fan-tailed Warbler in Texas (and missed it), sustained legions of bloodsucking mosquitoes and sand flies while searching for a Crescent-chested Puffbird in Brazil and logged countless hours prowling an urban cemetery near the town where I live that I suspect has the potential to attract some great birds.

A number of factors led me to this hobby (read: fixation). But I think a big one is the availability of the amazing technology that makes it easier than ever to find birds, identify them by their field marks, learn their songs and calls, and be part of a community of people who love to share their knowledge of these creatures. We’re living in the golden age of birding, and like any good cult member, I’m recruiting people to the cause.

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