ABA Blog

The Bare-Naked Big Walk

 

I can think of several essential ingredients for any successful birding “Big Day”—an effort to identify as many bird species as possible during a single midnight-to-midnight period. Here goes:

1. A good team.
2. A good route.
3. A good plan.

And I can think of two other Big Day essentials we tend to take for granted:

4. Good wheels.
5. Good optics.

Robert Mortensen probably saw the following a mile away: I recently completed a Boulder County, Colorado, Big Day that broke all the “rules.” Specifically:

1. I didn’t have a good team. It’s not that my team was bad. Rather, I had no team at all.
2. My route bypassed many, probably most, of the must-visit birding destinations in the county.
3. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to head in a circuitously westward direction. Oh,
    and I wasn’t going to miss lunch with my family.

As to transportation and optics:

4. I didn’t drive. I didn’t board a bus. I didn’t ride a bike. I walked. The whole way.
5. I left my binoculars and telescope at home. As Ted Eubanks might say, I went bare-naked.

This was some sort of gimmick, right? Or a fundraiser perhaps? Gimmickry is not beneath me, and I admire fundraisers, but, no, that’s not it. This was an honest-to-goodness, plain-old Big Day of the sort that Greg Neise and Amar Ayyash excel in.

I hope to convince you that not using a car or bike contributed to what was an enjoyable and successful Big Day. And now for the real heresy: I truly believe that not using binoculars helped my cause.

I’ll get under way with the recap in just a moment, but, first, let’s do the numbers:

• Date: June 13, 2013.
• Time: 4 a.m.–8 p.m.
• Distance: About 25¼ miles, according to Google. But Google’s Distance Calculator doesn’t compute a vertical vector, which point we’ll return to.
• Species Total: 125. I think it’s fair to say that 125 species is a “good” total—perhaps a great total—even for a traditional (car or bike, bins and scope, good teammates, etc.) Boulder County Big Day in the third week of June.

My “Bare-Naked Big Day” route. Click here for a zoomable version of the map with stickpins showing the locations of notable birds seen or heard along the way.

 

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky at 4am, but starlight was notably dimmed by heavy smoke from the Black Forest fire to the south. At a little pond to the north, western chorus frogs a few Woodhouse’s toads were going off. What would be first bird, I wondered? I soon got the answer: a sputtering Western Kingbird [04:07:59], one of the most expected and characteristic sounds of astronomical dawn in early summer in Boulder County. The next bird was delectably unexpected, but not at all implausible: an Eastern Screech-Owl [04:10:48], an uncommon permanent resident in the county. Those two birds, it occurred to me, wonderfully emblematize the East-meets-West quality of birding in Boulder County.

I started walking. Due east. So much for my “plan” to head west.

A Pied-billed Grebe [04:14:49] went berserk in a cattail marsh, a Mallard [04:17:01] quacked, and a Yellow-headed Blackbird [04:19:13] “sang” a “song” that only Mark Peterson could love. The anurans were still going at it, Capella and Fomalhaut were rising in the northeast and southeast, respectively, and an Eastern Kingbird [04:23:52] started calling. Next up were a female Great Horned Owl [04:27:53], a Killdeer [04:32:03], and an impressively bright meteor.

I passed South Teller Lake. A Blue Grosbeak [04:32:42] burst into song, and, a few minutes later, the Red-winged Blackbirds [04:35:44] were going at it. Next up were my first and only Common Nighthawks [04:36:35] of the day, followed by the first of the great throng of American Robins [04:37:47] that would keep me company all day long. A Western Meadowlark [04:38:24] followed, and then a Spotted Sandpiper [04:41:58]. I passed a few houses, where some House Sparrows [04:43:54] were stirring.

An instant later, I heard one of the greatest of avian “voices”: the spooky winnowing of a Wilson’s Snipe [04:43:55]; this non-vocal sound is given as air rushes through the tail feathers of a male in aerial display. It was still nearly an hour to sunrise, but a Grasshopper Sparrow [04:47:35] was singing steadily. This species often sings right through the nighttime hours.

The dawn chorus was going at full tilt now: Mourning Dove [04:53:40], Vesper Sparrow [04:54:16], Bullock’s Oriole [04:58:32], Barn Swallow [05:05:22], Yellow Warbler [05:06:03], Common Grackle [05:08:41], and House Finch [05:09:51].

I was getting into taller and wetter grass now, and I heard the strange, pulsing song of a Dickcissel [05:10:22]. A Big Day is no time to indulge my penchant for counting birds, but I couldn’t help myself: I would encounter a minimum of eight along this stretch of the trail. Until a few years ago, the species was uncommon, perhaps merely casual, in Boulder County. In recent years, though, the bird has been reliable here at Teller and elsewhere.

I nearly missed the next bird: a Savannah Sparrow [05:15:37]—two or three of them, actually. If I’d had a better plan (see Big Day essential #3, above), I’d have had a checklist with me. Glancing at a checklist every four or five minutes is an excellent way of pacing yourself, and of reminding yourself what to focus on—right now. I guess so. But I also don’t much care for routine and predictability, at least not while I’m birding. (Oh, but if you’re a contributor to Birding magazine, don’t you dare miss a deadline or mess up a possessive gerund.)

The next bird, my twenty-seventh of the morning, was the first I detected initially by sight. It wasn’t yet sunrise, but the shape of a flying European Starling [05:16:36] is distinctive. A moment later, I would hear its burry flight call, and that reminds me of something: Very, very few of the species on my list were seen-only. That’s not to say the silent birds weren’t special. I’ll talk about that later. Back to the dawn chorus: Western Wood-Pewee [05:21:00], House Wren [05:21:35], and Red Junglefowl [05:26:58].

What? A rooster? Are you crazy? Tell me this: What sound is more evocative of daybreak in the countryside? The idea that the species somehow doesn’t belong, that it doesn’t “count,” is patently absurd. The crowing of a rooster, the sweet smell of hay, a tractor rumbling to life, the first rays of sunshine—those things are the very essence of the new day.

More birds: Black-capped Chickadee [05:28:00], Black-billed Magpie [05:29:48], American Goldfinch [05:31:21], and, just east of Teller Lake No. 5, my only Bobolink [05:33:47] of the day.

Sunrise!—and time for some feedlot birding: American Crow [05:36:32], Brown-headed Cowbird [05:37:15], and Rock Pigeon [05:38:57] with the cows and horses at Teller Farm.

I crossed Valmont Road and continued in a generally northward direction, picking up Cliff Swallow [05:46:04], Red-shafted Flicker [05:47:01], Eurasian Collared-Dove [05:50:58], Blue Jay [05:52:03], Downy Woodpecker [05:52:33], Belted Kingfisher [05:55:34], White-breasted Nuthatch [05:56:01], Great Blue Heron [05:56:10], Red-tailed Hawk [05:56:11], and Common Yellowthroat [06:00:25].

Breakfast time, and what better place to pause than the typically productive southern floodplain of Boulder Creek. An Eastern Warbling-Vireo [06:02:50] sang directly overhead, and I audio-recorded its song. (No binoculars for me, but, yes, I brought along the VN-8100PC.) This was the first of a whopping eight of its kind I would find during the next several hours. I heard a Song Sparrow [06:04:26], I saw an American White Pelican [06:08:00], and I saw and heard—how could I not have?—a flock of Canada Geese [06:13:32].

Next up were two decent birds for Boulder County. First was a Willow Flycatcher [06:16:10] singing from a perch along Boulder Creek; the species (indeed, the same individual?) has been present here for several summers, and it may represent an unusual subspecies for Colorado. Second was a first-spring male Orchard Oriole [06:23:58] singing exuberantly from a tangle just north of the creek; this species reaches the extreme limit of its range in eastern Boulder County.

I wrapped up breakfast with a Yellow-breasted Chat [06:30:03] singing by the creek and a flyby Double-crested Cormorant [06:32:03], and then continued north across the floodplain. A few Bank Swallows [06:42:12] cruised about an irrigation ditch, and it was time for the long slog across Gun Barrel Hill. The Gun Barrel terrain is high, dry, and hilly, and the avifauna is relatively sparse. But you can find some good birds here.

Like the singing, skylarking Cassin’s Sparrow [06:42:58] that greeted me at the very beginning of the ascent. Until a few years ago, the species was unheard of in the county. But a few summered in 2009, a few more in 2010, a whole bunch in 2011, then almost none in 2012. What about 2013? An obvious migrant was discovered in May, and now there’s this bird. So they’re on a five-year run.
(Left: Photo by © Tony Leukering.) 

Continuing across Gun Barrel Hill, I added Say’s Phoebe [06:59:37] and Lark Sparrow [07:03:24]. Then a long stretch with no birds, and then a dandy: a Cassin’s Kingbird [07:40:08]. The bird wasn’t unexpected, I have to say: I’d seen one there earlier in the month, and multiples were seen back in May. In this vicinity, Gun Barrel Hill borders a residential stretch with decent plantings of piñon pines and junipers—great for birds with affinities with Colorado’s canyonlands.

I rounded a sharp bend and headed straight west. To my right, a few Horned Larks [07:47:30] were singing; to my left, a female American Kestrel [07:49:19] peered from a nest box. More piñon–juniper lay ahead—good for a singing Chipping Sparrow [07:51:44] and a Spotted Towhee [08:01:42].

Note to self: Bird here more often. This southwest corner of Gun Barrel Hill is the perfect refuge for birds straying from the canyon country of southeastern Colorado.

From Gun Barrel Hill, I meandered through the sprawling Heather Wood subdivision, and then south to the Boulder Creek crossing at 75th Street. Here I enjoyed another one of those bewitching East-meets-West episodes: American Dippers [08:21:05] bringing food to a nest and a watchful Eastern Phoebe [08:23:52].

As I crossed 75th Street, so as to get over to the always productive Walden–Sawhill Ponds complex, I noted a who-needs-binoculars adult Bald Eagle [08:30:59] and a screaming and circling Swainson’s Hawk [08:31:01]. The birding at Walden–Sawhill was slow but steady, yielding American Avocet [08:55:26], Snowy Egret [09:03:43], Wood Duck [09:07:14], Northern Rough-winged Swallow [09:13:11], Tree Swallow [09:14:19], Osprey [09:14:43], Hairy Woodpecker [09:16:59], Black-headed Grosbeak [09:20:36], Cedar Waxwing [09:22:49], Lesser Goldfinch [09:23:53], and Indian Peafowl [09:37:17]. (Click here if you need to be persuaded of the “countability” of the last species in the preceding enumeration.)

Walden–Sawhill is always good for non-avian spectacles, of which I saw several. For example: an adorable baby raccoon making some impressively loud whistling and warbling sounds. Also: several dozen birders out looking for a county mega found a few days earlier by Boulder County super-birder Christian Nunes. I delighted in the birders’ fine company, but assiduously avoided their optics and neurotically changed the subject at the first hint of conversation about finding birds.

I wound down my time at Walden–Sawhill with a careful inspection of Cottonwood Marsh. It took some patience, and I had to squint and crane my neck, but even without binoculars I was able to see Cinnamon Teal [09:56:06], Gadwall [09:57:58], White-faced Ibis [09:59:36], Great-tailed Grackle [10:11:00], and Western Grebe [10:11:33].

For a whole hour, I added nothing to the day’s list as I walked a long, barren stretch north along 75th Street and then west, west, west along winding Valmont Road. But things picked up near the intersection with 63rd Street. A house had feeders, and the feeder had a male Black-chinned Hummingbird [11:18:22].

I hooked up with the Boulder Creek Trail, and, over the course of several miles, added several more birds to my list: Lazuli Bunting [11:25:05], Cooper’s Hawk [11:58:04], Cordilleran Flycatcher [12:21:11], Violet-green Swallow [12:54:20], and Turkey Vulture [13:07:13]. I had an Alison Kondler sighting, too, along the trail. And as nice as it was to cross paths with Alison, I sighted something even more glorious: a water fountain, and not only that, but a working water fountain with cold water.

As I entered downtown Boulder, I channeled my inner John Vanderpoel. I was in Full Chase Mode now, and I detoured into the center of the city for a Chimney Swift [13:25:54].

Speaking of detours, I next made a big one: a sit-down, indoors lunch with Kei, Hannah, and Andrew. Somewhere out there, Jack Solomon is saying, “I told you so.” The food was good, but better still was a change of footwear. Kei and the kids brought me my bionic boots, essential for the next leg of my journey, and check this out: They brought me clean, chilled socks. I can’t begin to tell you how good they felt. (Back to the boots for a moment: Yes, Joe Roller, the same pair that delighted you so when we birded together in Bolivia.)

Eventually, I resumed my Big Day. Walking straight south up 9th Avenue, I practically stepped on a lovely adult male Yellow-shafted x Red-shafted Flicker [14:55:45].

Eh? You’re counting a hybrid?—between two subspecies, no less?? Relax. It’s my list. Not yours. But I’m not spoiling for a fight: I’ve elected not to count the bird. The things I do for the cause of birderly comity... :-)
(Right: Photo by © Bill Schmoker.) 

At the summit (seriously!) of 9th Street, I ticked an unproblematic Broad-tailed Hummingbird [15:07:41], soon followed by a flyover Pine Siskin [15:08:48]. I next found my way to Ski Jump Trail, where I spotted a promising raptor that obligingly sailed right over, resolving itself into a Golden Eagle [15:21:21]. As I proceeded into the ponderosa pines, I found a couple of inevitable birds: Western Tanager [15:25:20] and Virginia’s Warbler [15:33:45]. And finally—finally!—I got the day’s first Common Raven [15:37:19]. How I missed that species back in Boulder proper is beyond me. (And I had a Vulcan mind meld with John Dillon: How come dog owners in Boulder County carefully and lovingly drape plastic bags full of dog doo from branches along the trail?)

From Ski Jump Trail I worked my way down to Gregory Canyon, which, in mid-June, is Boulder County’s version of The Magic Hedge. First up were a couple of birds that I think many of us associate with eastern North America: Rose-breasted Grosbeak [15:43:09] and Gray Catbird [15:45:00]. Then a light rain shower and a couple of inarguably western birds: Western Warbling-Vireo [15:51:51] and White-throated Swift [15:55:18]. (Don’t like the warbling-vireo? A little birdie tells me a forthcoming scientific paper may change your mind.) Then another “eastern” bird: Red-eyed Vireo [16:01:49]. Then a slew of westerners: Mountain Chickadee [16:01:59], Plumbeous Vireo [16:10:25], Bushtit [16:12:19], and Steller’s Jay [16:15:05]. And the most cosmopolitan bird of all: a wailing Peregrine Falcon [16:31:53] pulling up for a landing on a rock outcropping.

Gregory Canyon’s non-avian life forms were diversionary. I paused for a garter snake (Thamnophilus, sp.) and a fence lizard (Scleoporus, sp.); where’s Joey Kellner when you need him? I delighted in all the two-tailed swallowtails and Weidemeyer’s admirals, I was transfixed by a plague of Putnam’s cicadas, and I was vexed by a beautiful green hairstreak in the genus Callophrys; where’s Dave Leatherman when you need him? Finally, the wildflowers were enchanting; where’s John Tumasonis when you need him?

Back to birding. An Olive-sided Flycatcher [16:47:08] cried out, a reminder that Gregory Canyon quickly ascends into the boreal zone. As if to emphasize the point, a calling Hammond’s Flycatcher [16:56:06] flew in close. Other birds followed in a steady procession: Pygmy Nuthatch [16:57:08], Rock Wren [17:02:04], Green-tailed Towhee [17:08:32], Canyon Wren [17:21:02], Red-breasted Nuthatch [17:21:24], MacGillivray’s Warbler [17:21:46], Gray-headed Junco [17:41:13], Wild Turkey [17:46:06], and a strikingly black-backed adult male Arkansas Goldfinch [17:47:05].

About a horizontal mile—and a substantial fraction of a vertical mile—from the trailhead, Gregory Canyon Trail becomes Long Canyon Trail. Along this stretch, the birdlife begins to take on characteristics of the spruce–aspen zone, and, accordingly, I found Brown Creeper [17:51:06], Audubon’s Warbler [18:00:40], Lincoln’s Sparrow [18:21:16], and Ruby-crowned Kinglet [18:22:08].

Long Canyon Trail ends at Flagstaff Road—which keeps going and going. And so did I, picking up a flushing Townsend’s Solitaire [19:04:14], a chorus of Hermit Thrushes [19:09:23], and a pair of Type 2 Red Crossbills [19:16:33] chippering their way across a clearing.

 

Kei and the kids pulled up beside me at 8:00 p.m. It would have been impolitic of me to ask that they just hang out there for two hours, you know, so that I could get up into better habitat for bluebirds (I thought I heard one) and sapsuckers (I saw drillings), and then Common Poorwill and the three species of small mountain owls.

Besides, it wouldn’t have been in the spirit of my break-all-the-rules Big Day. There was something fitting about walking—no, riding, finally riding—away from an easy five, probably closer to ten, additions to my list.

And there’s always next year.

In the meantime, I have a few questions, and you probably do too:

1. Let’s start with an obvious one. What birds did you miss?
Answer: Cottonwood Marsh and the various other ponds surely harbored a few silent birds that were too far away to ID without binoculars. Blue-winged Teal, anyone? Green-winged? American Coot? A night-heron or even a bittern roosting in the cattails across the way? And there was a decidedly interesting hawk at the base of Gregory Canyon; binoculars would have resolved it into an uncommon Broad-winged, or not.

2. Those are the birds you missed by going “bare-naked.” What birds did you miss by going “green”?
Answer: Along this particular route, nothing. On the contrary, I saw many, many more birds than I would have seen by birding this route in a car, or even a bike. I’ll take it a step further: This route would have been impossible and illegal except by foot.

3. That suggests another question: Did you gain any birds by going “bare-naked”?
Answer: It’s hard to prove, but I think so. Speaking for myself (but also, I suspect, for a great many of you), I find that binoculars are a crutch. Without binoculars, I enjoy a heightened sense of awareness. I’m always looking around. I’m always paying attention. I suspect I would have missed one or two species, maybe four or five, during all that time I would have been peering through binoculars at only a tiny fraction of the airspace visible to the naked eye.

4. Did you misidentify any birds?
Answer: Ouch. Let me back up a step here: I misidentify plenty of birds with binoculars. During the course of my Big Day, I endeavored to see birds at least as well as I would have with binoculars. That means I had to wait on some birds (cf. Golden Eagle), and let others go (cf. possible Broad-winged Hawk). But let’s take the broader view: Even if I missed a few (e.g., ducks at Cottonwood Marsh) and messed up a few (could the White-faced Ibises have been rare Glossy Ibises?), practically everything out there was slam-dunk. I’m increasingly impressed by just how unimportant binoculars and telescopes are. Optics are The Great Lie of birding.

5. Okay, but don’t binoculars enhance the birding experience?
Answer: That’s the conventional wisdom, but I’m seriously starting to question it. Ask me the next question.

6. What were your favorite birds of the day?
Answer: You think I’m going to mention a handful of “heard-only” birds, don’t you?—the winnowing Wilson’s Snipes, the dulcet Canyon Wren, the heavenly chorus of Hermit Thrushes. Actually, no. I can think of three sightings that surpassed any of those heard-only detections.
    First was a Cedar Waxwing so close I could see the mid-morning sun reflected in its eyes. I just stood there, and the curious bird sidled down the branch to practically within arm’s reach. Is any bird more exquisite than the Cedar Waxwing? That question is definitively—and affirmatively—resolved, I believe, by beholding a waxwing with your own eyes, and nothing else.
    Second was a Western Kingbird doing something I’d read about but never seen: landing, actually landing, on a Red-tailed Hawk it was driving off. The panoramic view, without binoculars, heighted the drama. And with binoculars, would I even have bothered to look? I mean, it was just a “boring” Red-tail...
    Third, and best of all, were all the American White Pelicans at the Walden–Sawhill complex. Is there anything more glorious than pelicans soaring and spiraling against a clear blue sky? Conversely, is there anything uglier than a pelican’s ugly mug? We all know about not seeing the forest for the trees. Do birders have the same problem? Can we not see the bird for the feathers?
(Left: Photo by © Bill Schmoker.)

7. You don’t plan ahead (except when you’re terrorizing contributors to Birding), but, come on: What’s your plan for next year?
Answer: I guarantee you, I won’t do this again. What I mean is, I won’t do the same route again. Here’s another guarantee: I’m hooked, and I’m doing it again. Somehow, I’m going to get from the marshes around Boulder Reservoir to the steep foothills of the Mesa Trail complex...

8. Are you finally going to submit to Listing Central?
Answer: First things first. Kudos to my colleagues Greg Neise and David Hartley for their hard work in providing this brilliant resource to the birding community. To answer your question: Yes, in due course. Especially if Neise gets around to creating an entry for bare-naked Big Walks.

9. Has anyone else ever done a Bare-naked Big Walk?
Answer: I wonder. I doubt it. Sixteen hours, twenty-five miles, no bins. But maybe Kenn Kaufman will inform me that, more than a century ago, Lynds Jones (1865–1951) was all over the bare-naked Big Walk.

10. Can your record be broken?
Answer: Easily. For Boulder County, my money’s on Joel Such and Marcel Such. Here’s a thought that’s personally gratifying: For once, the big coastal counties are at a relative disadvantage. Remember, no optics. Seabirds and such present challenges for the bare-naked birder.
    I’ll take this a step further. I suspect my record will be demolished. I can’t say where, or when, or by whom. Of this I’m certain: 125 species—okay, “only” 120 if you don’t like my taxonomy and if you’re a peacock-hater—will be surpassed, by a very wide margin.

 

I have a final question, for you. What are your stories and strategies for bare-naked Big Walks? I’d love to learn more. Who knows—next year, I may even get a few of you to accompany me! Mark, Frank, and Chuck: Let’s do the Pittsburgh CBC bare-naked and on foot. And Noah: Next time, don’t sweat it when you lose your binoculars.

 

It’s All So Arbitrary

Ted Floyd’s ABA blog post last week has gotten me thinking, first specifically about the arbitrariness of big year starting dates, and then about all sorts of other arbitrary things, bird-related and otherwise. Below are a few arbitrarily chosen thoughts on the arbitrariness of big year timing, bird species definitions, what birds are “countable”, and birding area definitions.

In Ted’s post (go read it now), he discussed the beginning of his big year that began in June (not January!), and not even on June 1^st but on June 8^th. He also discussed the overall arbitrariness of our calendars beginning on January 1^st, which is clearly an odd thing, but I won’t discuss further.

Why are big years begun at the beginning of the calendar year; why not begin whenever you want? It’s odd that everyone’s birding big years, all of them as far as I know, until Ted, begin on January 1^st. Which date the big year begins shouldn’t make any difference in the final result, except no matter when you begin, you are likely to be more worn out at the end than at the beginning. Being worn out on a snowy dark, cold December day is much different than being worn out on a beautiful, uplifting spring day.  If there are aren’t many likely new year-birds around in December it doesn’t much matter if there is little energy left. But could a weary big year birder at the end of a big year in May do the needed nonstop birding to have a chance of finding a large number of new year-birds? It would be like beginning a career at the end of life, a bigger challenge I think than beginning it in the “prime” of life. But many people do find the energy to make career changes later in life, and I expect one could find sufficient energy to go birding at the end of a big year no matter when it ended. It’s all in the motivation.

A big year birder not only makes an arbitrary choice on when and where to do the big year, but also faces other arbitrariness imposed by others. Normally (with the exception at least of Ted), big year birders try to follow the ABA rules on which birds are “countable” (i.e., wild birds) and how the species are defined. If you really want to consider arbitrariness in a birder’s world, think about speciation. Birds just don’t fit neatly in any type of species definition. Just consider all the back-and-forths of lumping and splitting species – e.g., Northern Oriole, Traill’s Flycatcher, Northern Flicker, etc. that have occurred, and continue to occur.

This lumping and splitting of bird species is not just a plot to get us to buy new bird books – there are real reasons for the uncertainty on where the lines should be drawn. If one were going to start from scratch to delineate bird species, one could easily double or triple the number of species that were defined by using color variations or geographic separation or song differences or…. Alternatively, you could halve or reduce even further the number of species by lumping together anything that has ever interbred. We’d probably have just a couple of gull species in the U.S., which would certainly make life easier for us non-larophiles. When a big year birder arbitrarily chooses a year in which to do the big year, if the birder follows the rules on how the species are defined, the number of possible species for the big year will depend on which year the big year is done, and in particular, on whether any bird species have lately been lumped or split.

The bottom line for all of this is that you’ve got to start somewhere if you are going to do more than just admire the beauty of birds, if you are going to write down birds seen at all. You’ve got to call them something. It’s helpful to be able to discuss these birds with someone, so some type of generally accepted classification system comes in very handy for this. But it’s still very arbitrary.

And if you are going to try to see as many birds as possible in a given time period (i.e., do a big year or big day or big hour…), the time period has to start at some specific time on some specific date, and the area (a county, a state, the ABA area, etc.) needs to be defined in which the big whatever will be done. (I’ve arbitrarily decided not to discuss further the clear arbitrariness of county, state and country borders and the definition of the “ABA area”.) January 1^st is as good as anything as a beginning point for a big year, but, as Ted said, it’s definitely not the only possibility. I really do like his idea of starting on a different date than January 1^st. I also can’t stop thinking about the idea of doing overlapping big years that his post brought to my mind. It’s hard to wrap my brain around what it would be like. For example, what would it be like to be in May of a particular year and have a House Sparrow, an American Robin and a Cliff Swallow be a new year birds for a big year that had begun May 1^st, with only the Cliff Swallow being new for the overlapping big year than had begun four months earlier on January 1^st? And then imagine doing more than two overlapping years at the same time. I have been imagining it, but I’m not sure that even I am a gung-ho enough big-year birder to attempt it. We shall see.

 

#ABArare - Dark-sided Flycatcher - Alaska

Mainland Alaska just got its first Dark-sided Flycatcher (and I believe mainland North America too, but correct me if I'm wrong).  Thede Tobish, Nick Hajdukovich, Lisa Oakley, and Luke DeCicco found this Code 4 species at Barrow, Alaska on June 17.

 

photos by Luke DeCicco

The bird was found near the DEW line site northeast of town (map here). There are signs that this is a restricted area, but DeCicco reports that a person on site said it was OK to bird this area, though they were cautioned to be careful about contanimants. At this time, it's unclear if others should check in before birding this area or if blanket permission was obtained.

To get to this site, drive northeast on Stevenson St. (the road that parallels the Chukchi Sea shoreline) to Dewline Rd. Turn right and continue to its end. The Dark-sided Flycatcher was found at the west end of the two long buildings.

Previous ABA Area records have come from Alaska's islands in the Bering Sea region. There is also a record from Bermuda.

Blog Birding #139

It's no secret that waxwings are known to occasionally over-imbibe on overripe fruit, but they're lucky that have someone like Birdchick Sharon Stiteler willing to perform necessary sober-driving services:

The bird indeed was trying unsuccessfully to fly and pushing its head into the ground. It was unable to stand and lurched around in a circle. I’ve volunteered for a couple of bird hospitals and know enough to when a bird is in serious trouble. I picked it up and felt around for broken bones and all felt intact. I blew on the waxwing’s breast, spreading the feathers apart to look at its transparent skin and get an idea of its physical state. The bird was robust with healthy muscle tissue, it was not starving and surviving well enough to find plenty to eat during our cold wet spring.

The oystercatcher situation on the west coast is fraught with inter-specific intrigue. Steve Tucker (aka Seagull Steve) of Bourbon, Bastards, and Birds tries to get to the bottom of it:

On much of the continent, ID of oystercatchers is a carefree and stressless task. You either have Black or American, or none at all. Simple. Enter Southern California, which has moderate numbers of Black Oystercatchers, and occasionally American Oystercatchers, which allegedly occur so often that they aren't even a review species anymore. The two species hybridize frequently, primarily in Baja California, but those birds regularly move north into California...giving us Black, American and hybrid oystercatchers to find. This is complicated enough, right?

 J. Drew Lanham, of Wild and in Color, has decided that instead of solely identifying birds, he's going to work on identifying with birds:

Having the pleasure of being at the Biggest Week in American Birding again this year, I got to talk about “seeing beyond the bins” in a keynote address to urge birders to think about the birds they see as feathered marvels with stories to tell.  Kim and Kenn Kaufmann  press the conservation issue hard and so I felt at home. As an official  out of the closet “Angry Black Birder” I challenged us as a community of watchers to do more—to not just watch but to get outside of the “birdy box” and think about conservation and how both birds, people and other creatures all fit into the equation.

Ken Schneider, of Rosy Finch Ramblings, discovers a nest of the ABA's Bird of the Year, the Common Nighthawk, and watches the fledgling grow:

The Common Nighthawk is the American Birding Association's 2013 Bird of the Year. In April they migrate through our South Florida neighborhood and some stay to breed here each year.  Our daughter visited the newly reopened Hall of Birds at the Field Museum in Chicago and took this cell phone photo of one of my nighthawk images that was used in their new interactive bird exhibit.

Birders, by virtue of their time in the outdoors, often find themselves in situations that the general public never sees. Jeff Bilsky, writing at Utah Birders, describes one such encounter:

After getting home from work today, I opted to head up to a spot I haven't hiked since last fall. It's a location I found east of Little Dell Reservoir and below Big Mountain Pass. It is a seemingly seldom used trail that winds up the mountain north of the main road and then heads east towards Big Mountain and back down past some beaver dams. From here, you can bush-whack your way through 100 yards or so of trees and reach a more used trail. The whole route can't be more than a mile - if that - and has in the past produced Dusky Grouse and an assortment of other common mountain species to view - as well as Deer, Moose, and Beavers. Today, as I was hiking along towards a portion that transitions from open mountainside to aspen grove I heard what sounded like a bark.

 

 

Mercury Poisoning and its Effects on Birds

John Beetham of DC Birding Blog, whose curation of noteworthy bird notes every week is among the very best of any subject on the web, draws attention to a recent study that offers a great deal of insight into one of the more insidious and quiet killers of wild birds in North America, mercury poisoning.

photo by nebirdsplus via flickr

We're well aware of mercury's effects as a neurotoxin on human populations such that stringent restrictions are placed on its disposal, but methylmercury has been documented in several bird species as well and while we don't know the extent of how it manifests in birds, we do know that it can impact learning and memory (much as it does in humans). This means that birds affected by mercury in their environment can have difficulty memorizing and retaining songs, among other things.

That study Beetham elaborates on was one authored by Sheila Scoville and Oksana Lane and published in the Bulletin of Environmental Contamination and Toxicology concerning the analysis of the tissues of a young Saltmarsh Sparrow, particularly the bird's brain, which suggested disturbing things about the omnipresence of mercury in many ecosystems.

From John's post:

Based on feather samples taken from adult birds at the study site, it can be inferred that this fledgling's mother had high exposure to mercury at the time that she laid her eggs. This is analogous to in utero exposure in humans. In humans, in utero exposure can lead to brain abnormalities like Minamata Disease. This fledgling Saltmarsh Sparrow showed abnormalities in its cerebellum that would have similar effects on motor control and coordination. Birds with these sorts of defects would have trouble recognizing and escaping danger, thus making them more susceptible to predation and accidental deaths.

While this fledgling Saltmarsh Sparrow is only one data point, the findings have disturbing implications. Since mercury levels among adult birds were so high, many other young Saltmarsh Sparrows are presumably exposed to mercury at the time of egg formation. We cannot know how many of them have brain abnormalities like the one documented in this study, but it seems safe to assume that the problem is widespread.

It's hard to know precisely what to do about this issue. Chief among contributing factors are coal-burning power plants, which are the single greatest source of methylmercury in the environment. In addition to climate concerns, it seems critical that we shift away from coal as an energy source to reduce the amount of mercury entering these ecosystems for the sake of those birds, and other wildlife, that are clearly feeling the stress.

The full paper is available here.

Get Your BOY Stickers and New Items in the Shop

Our new membership drive last month was a huge success, with 178 brand new members joining the ABA during that 2 week period. Welcome to those of you who signed up and thanks so much to those of you who continue to support the ABA through your continued membership. 

If you missed the stickers in the Jan/Feb issue of Birding that featured the Common Nighthawk Bird of the Year cover, and we know that some of you did, we want to make sure you get them. There's no better way to make yourself known as an ABA member out in the field.

So if you're missing the BOY nighthawk sticker please drop an email to Liz Gordon at lgordon AT aba.org and she will get you set up.

Also in ABA related paraphernalia, we have some new items in the ABA Shop that may interest members or future members (please join!). ABA patches are now on sale, with the new circular logo that we debuted in sticker form earlier this year. Also you can get ABA logo'd luggage tags for the traveling birder.

Of course, the ABA shop is your place for ABA apparel, jewelry, pins, binocular straps, and various other doo-dads that any birder would want. Come check it out!

Rare Bird Alert: June 14, 2013

As we head into the middle of June, the reports of significant vagrants from the ABA-Area slows significantly. That is, unless you're birding in Western Alaska. This week's RBA could very well just be called the Alaska Alert, with a few additions from everybody elese. 

Before we jump into that parade of rarities, there is one possible first record to note. A McCown's Longspur, a putative Washington first, was report from the Seattle area this week. The initial report was not corroborated as of yet, and while I don't feel super comfortable saying that the streak of firsts definitively goes on based on this record, it's certainly intriguing. Perhaps we can retroactively apply it if it is found to be conclusive. 

But back to Alaska. Those bird guides tucked in at the Last Frontier's last frontier have been finding some ridiculous birds. The list from Attu includes Far Eastern Curlew (ABA Code 4) Gray-streaked Flycatcher (4) (at left by Isaac Helmericks) Dark-sided Flycatcher (4) Common Cuckoo (3) Siberian Rubythroat (3) Brambling (3) Smew (3) Wood Sandpiper, Eastern Yellow Wagtail, and Gray Wagtail (4). Eyebrowed Thrush (4) was both on St. Paul in the Pribilofs and on Kiska in the Aleutians. And at Gambell, a Eurasian Hawfinch (4) and a couple Olive-backed Pipits (3) were impressive.

A repositioning ship in British Columbia waters off Vancouver Island, had a single Least Auklet as well as a Manx Shearwater. 

A Least Flycatcher in Logan, Utah, is one of only a few accepted records for that state. 

A completely remarkable record for Colorado was a Magnificent Frigatebird in the skies above Jackson. 

In New Mexico, a Greater Pewee was seen and heard in Socorro. 

Only the third and fourth ever for South Carolina, a pair of Fea's Petrel (3) in waters off Charleston is a phenomenal record and nearly overshadowed by the reports of 212(!) Black-capped Petrels. 

In North Carolina, a Brown Booby (3) off Dare was seen in the wake of Tropical Strom Andrea, and a small flock of Black-bellied Whistling Ducks were seen in Henderson. 

That storm almost certainly had something to do with the Magnficent Frigatebird seen around Assateague, Marlyland, too. 

The latest of several this spring, a Western Grebe was notable for Rondeau, Ontario. 

Over in Quebec a White-winged Dove was seen near Sept-Îles. 

And always good on east coast, a Franklin's Gull was found near Avon, Newfoundland. 

My apologies for any mistakes, typos, or omissions in this post. I've been offshore for the last two days helping with the ABA tubenose IFO and was a little tired putting this together.

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Omissions and errors are not intended, but if you find any please message blog AT aba.org and I'll try to fix them as soon as possible. This post is meant to be an account of the most recently reported birds. Continuing birds not mentioned are likely included in previous editions listed here. Place names written in italics refer to counties/parishes. 

Readers should note that none of these reports has yet been vetted by a records committee. All birders are urged to submit documentation of rare sightings to the appropriate state or provincial committees. For full analysis of these and other bird observations, subscribe to North American Birds <aba.org/nab>, the richly illustrated journal of ornithological record published by the ABA

 

Kayak Kam 2

A couple of years ago I posted about a photo rig for kayaks.  I like the setup but it is mainly for pretty committed bird & wildlife photography (serious tripod & head, big lens, etc.)  As I was getting ready for a little paddling trip a couple of days ago with my 7-year old son, I devised a simple little way to have a camera at hand in the boat without the major rigging job.  This method works well for moderate setups like 100-400mm or 80-400mm zooms on DSLRs, for a smaller kit like a mirrorless DSLR rig, or for a super-zoom camera.  

Heading out into birdy territory by kayak.  Probability of splashes coming on board:  HIGH

The thing about kayaking is that lots of splashes come on board from the alternating paddle strokes.  The little cups on the paddle shaft help to keep much of the water outboard, but even on a sunny day there's going to be water droplets sprinkling down into the boat.  Putting your camera in a dry box (such as a pelican case) or in a dry bag will keep it snug but deployment will be slow if a bird suddenly appears.  As a compromise, I put a boat cushion down on the keel in front of me to rest my camera rig on (this pads the camera and keeps it up out of any water pooling up on the bottom of the boat.)  Then I drape a dry bag over my camera to shed any droplets coming aboard.  If a photo opp presents itself I can just pull off the dry bag & grab my camera.  Also, if things get dicey (like heavy rain, waves splashing into the boat, etc.) my dry bag is immediately available to slip my camera into for a more secure storage situation.

My fairly compact Nikon 80-400mm rig is in reach between my feet, resting on a boat cushion and draped with a dry bag.

Incidental splashes are kept off the camera by the dry bag.  If conditions worsen, the dry bag is immediately available to properly seal in my camera rig.

My camera is immediately ready for action by just pulling the dry bag aside.

Bird photo opps appear quickly, so having your camera at the ready can pay off.  Trumpeter Swans, Crex Meadows Wildlife Area, Burnett County, Wisconsin, June 2013.

As I said before, mixing camera gear with watercraft amplifies the risk factor significantly.  When deploying a camera in a kayak or other small boat you are always one mistake or accident away from unrepairable disaster so get real familiar with your boat and check your rig on dry land before attempting!  Oh, and have fun!!

 

My Big “Year”

 

Annie Dillard, in her magisterial Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, conducts a thought experiment:

“I wonder how long it would take you to notice the regular recurrence of the seasons if you were the first man on earth. What would it be like to live in open-ended time broken only by days and nights? You could say, ‘it’s cold again; it was cold before,’ but you couldn’t make the key connection and say, ‘it was cold this time last year,’ because the notion of ‘year’ is precisely the one you lack.”

For all of us in the higher latitudes, the four seasons are one of the most obvious and intuitive aspects of life on Earth. Not a one of us can remember a time when we didn’t know the endless cycling of spring, summer, fall, and winter.

Yet not a one of us figured it out on our own. The four seasons are abstract and, when you think about it, arbitrary. Why not two seasons, or five? The four seasons are received wisdom, a human construct.

So it is with so much of what we know. Think for a moment about such phenomena as gravity, evolution, the round earth, and the heliocentric solar system. None of us discovered any of that. We learned it—from books, teachers, parents, and other sources. And let’s be honest: The vast majority of us never really learned it. We were told it. We believe.

 

The idea of seasonality depends, as Dillard notes, on another idea: the idea of the year. We all know how long a year is: the amount of time—about 365¼ days—for the Earth to get around the Sun.

That’s easy for us to say.

Pretend again that you are Dillard’s first man on Earth. You haven’t yet noticed the seasons. One thing you do start to notice, though, is the position of the sun: It gets higher in the sky for a while, then lower, then higher again, then lower, and so forth. Finally, after hundreds or thousands of years of accumulated human thought, some brilliant thinker achieves the key breakthrough: Each solar cycle is almost exactly the same amount of time. Call it a year.

Alright, we’ve finally discovered what a year is, and how long it is. (Do you know, by the way, how long a year is? Did you know that the amount of time from one summer solstice to the next is not fixed? And I’m not talking about the very slow effect of precession of the equinoxes. I’m talking about non-trivial anomalies from one year, er, “year,” to the next.) Now we need to agree when to start each year.

I know!

January 1st, at the stroke of midnight. With a stroke of inarguable tautology, we declare January 1st to be New Year’s Day, and that, as they say, is that.

 

Like many birders, I keep a year list. Check that: I keep year lists, plural. I’ve been doing it since I was thirteen years old. I can’t help myself.

After three-plus decades in the business, I’m an old pro at this. Oh, each year is a variation on a theme, but it’s the overall theme, the overall sameness of it all, that I’m struck by. The following is oversimplified, but I think it’s basically right: For birders in the higher latitudes of North America, there’s a steady build-up in excitement for the first five months of the year, and then a long—and frankly demoralizing—slowdown for the rest of the year. Don’t take my word for it; talk to Big Year guru Lynn Barber about it.

Why? Why does it have to be that way? Why does a Big Year have to start on January 1st? We all know the answer, of course: Because that’s the rule. Fine. But that’s missing my point.

I’ll cut to the chase. I just started a Big Year. Two of ’em, actually: a Colorado Big Year, and a Boulder County Big Year. My two Big Years started simultaneously at 20:23:09 GMT (2:24 p.m. local time) on Saturday, June 8th. I’ll continue for approximately one sidereal year, i.e., until around 8:11 p.m. local time on Sunday, June 8, 2014.

Already, the experience is shaping up to be wonderfully different from any other Big Year I’ve ever embarked on. My first year bird was a Red-eyed Vireo, singing its head off. How many of you have started an ABA Area Big Year with a Red-eyed Vireo?
(Left: Photo by © Bill Schmoker.) 

 

My birding pals in Boulder County, Colorado, are engaged in a friendly competition for the biggest bird list in the Julian year that began at midnight on January 1, 2013. Good for them. I wish them well.

But I’m glad I’m doing it my way. With no effort at all, I’ll be over 150 species by the end of the first month of the “year.” I’ll still be adding stuff at a brisk pace in July and August. Come September and October, I’ll be getting all sorts of “FOY” (first-of-year) birds. November–March will be leisurely—and productive. Then the end of the “year”: more year birds in April, then a bunch more in May, then a final rarity or three, I suspect, in the first week of June. I’ll wrap up my Big Year at the absolute zenith of avian activity in Colorado.

My objective—and this may sound weird—is not to see as many species as possible. Instead, I’m in it for the experience, for the novelty. I’m going for quality, not quantity. So rest easy, Colorado listers: I pose no threat to you.

Or maybe I do. White-winged Juncos, Yellow-shafted Flickers, and Myrtle Warblers count for me. So do Indian Peafowl, Mandarin Ducks, and Front Range Chukars. And if the Rufous-collared Sparrow comes back to Clear Creek County, I’m definitely counting it. There’s more: All the great birds around Cheyenne, Laramie County, Wyoming, count for my Colorado list. If I see a bird in a mist net, that’s fine by me; if I identify a bird after the fact by sound spectrogram, I’m counting it; and—oh, yes—dead birds count.

O tempora! O mores!

Hang on a second.

Yes, I’m breaking all the rules. Are you sure, though, that you’re as compliant as you think you are? As Ken Hollinga, Michael Retter, the late Craig Roberts, and others have pointed out to me, the “rules” aren’t necessarily what we think they are.

Then again, I’m not really breaking the rules, er, “rules,” so much as I’m cheerfully ignoring them. I’m not in this for the game, or sport, or competition. Um, that’s okay. I’m in this to learn about birds, and the world they—and we—inhabit. The rules don’t serve that purpose, not for me anyhow.

In my world, Boulder County pheasants and Chukars are equally countable. For me, a White-winged Junco is as distinctive—as “countable”—as a Cassin’s Vireo or Thayer’s Gull. As far as I’m concerned, birds in nets and even dead birds are interesting, worthwhile, and properly ticked. And—what the heck—Cheyenne is close enough, and good enough, for me.

Here’s the bottom line: Two days into my two new Big Years, I’m having more fun than ever before. Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Open Mic: The Field Glass Ceiling

At the Mic: Brooke McDonald

Brooke McDonald is a technical editor for an environmental consulting firm in Northern California. In her free time she birds, gardens, plays with her dogs, and researches an obscure Calvinist sect.      

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Most birders are women. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s 2007 report, “Birding in the United States: A Demographic and Economic Analysis,” 54% of birders are women. At the Space Coast Birding Festival in 2011, 69% of attendees were women; at the Rio Grande Valley Birding Festival in 2010, 60-65% of attendees were women; and at The Biggest Week in American Birding, around 60% of attendees have been women. Tropical Birding estimates that two-thirds of their American clients are women, VENT estimates that 60% of their clients are women, and another leading tour company said that 54.6% of their clients booked for upcoming trips are women.

However, by any measure, women are poorly represented in the upper ranks of birding. 

• Women have 11.2% of the top ten eBird state lists for each U.S. state.
• Women are 9.3% of all state bird records committee members—a number that drops to 7.8% if the committee secretaries are excluded.
• There are eight women out of the American Birding Association’s top 100 ABA-area listers.
• Women are 3.6% of California county big day record holders.
• Finally, there has been only one woman out of the 35 current and former members of the American Birding Association’s Checklist Committee.

    This disparity was explored in a paper by Caren Cooper and Jennifer Smith titled “Gender Patterns in Bird-related Recreation in the USA and UK” published in 2010 in Ecology and Society. Cooper and Smith classified birding into four categories of increasing difficulty: Supportive, Participatory, Competitive, and Authoritative. They found that women’s participation decreased at each successive level. For example, membership in the National Audubon Society, a Supportive activity, was 63% female; Project FeederWatch and the Christmas Bird Count, Participatory activities, were, respectively, 66% and 37% female; inclusion in the ABA Big Day and ABA List Report, a Competitive activity, was 20% female; and service as an eBird state editor, an Authoritative activity, was 7% female.

    Unlike the challenge of bringing people of different races and ethnicities into the birding community, this is not an issue that can be resolved by simply introducing more women to birding. Women are already here, but they are not attaining high status in the community.  

    Authority in the birding community is a function not only of one’s skills but of confidence in one’s skills. According to Cooper and Smith, men are more likely to be overconfident in rating their own birding skills while women are more likely to be under confident. But what factors are responsible for this difference in confidence levels? 

“A lot of women tell me that they’re glad to see a woman taking the lead in the birding world.” — Debi Shearwater 

Most of the women I spoke with said that some male birders either ignore women entirely or are crushingly dismissive, patronizing, or condescending towards them. 

    “A lot of men just won't take a woman seriously,” said Susan Myers. “I get it all the time—people walk right past me. I'm the only one carrying a scope and I'm standing out front calling the birds and I’m magically invisible.”

    One woman who wished to remain anonymous told me about a female friend of hers who had rediscovered a bird that had been presumed extinct. A meeting was held to discuss the status and conservation of the bird, and during this meeting, the woman in question was totally ignored—until one of the men asked her to make coffee.

    Sheri Williamson said that some men have displayed outright incredulity at the fact that she wrote a field guide. She went on to say, “It's hard to get into a position of influence if you're not accorded the respect you deserve.” 

“It’s so much harder when you’re dating a birder to get taken seriously.” — Catherine Hamilton / photo from The Central Park Effect

Many women in the birding community are treated as the lesser half of a couple, coasting on their partner’s superior ability and only faintly reflecting their partner’s superior skills. Even women who were serious birders before they met their partners are often treated as if any birding ability they have was gained just by exposure to the rarefied air surrounding their partners. Women who actually were introduced to birding by their partners are treated as though this somehow cheapens and invalidates their interest in birds. If a younger woman is single, she’s often treated as a groupie and a follower, and not a serious birder in her own right.

    For example, the new film A Birder’s Guide to Everything is about three young birders who take off birding for the weekend… and a girl who goes along for the ride. As Next Magazine put it, “the group sets out for Connecticut with Ellen, a fetching photography lover from school, in tow,” while Variety said, “Pretty young shutterbug Ellen tags along to record their finds.” 

    Donna Dittmann said that when she was 19 or 20, a top ABA-area lister told her that she had a large California list only because she “hung with the big boys,” an accusation that never would have been leveled at a young man with her skills and experience.

    Sheridan Coffey said, “If we are together, most people will talk to my partner first, asking him questions and ignoring me.” She went on to say, “I am sometimes treated like his secretary, getting emails asking me to ask him if he will lead a group, or go to a festival, while not inviting me.”

    Catherine Hamilton, in a blog entry in 2011, wrote that she was called a harlot at an AOU meeting just for having the audacity to date another birder. “I stand here, with a small army of presumed Hester Prynnes behind me, wearing their binoculars in lieu of a letter, and I call you out, in the names of sexism, chauvinism, and tawdry pettiness. You know who you are. You know it is not just about one comment, one reputation. Is there really any question why there are so few young and youngish women in the birding world?” 

“If you play down your own knowledge and skills consistently enough, you can't blame people for buying into it.” — Sheri Williamson / photo by Laura Kammermeier

Women are often afraid to bird in some areas, but strong field skills are developed in part by birding in a variety of places. Debi Shearwater brought up the fact that women venturing into secluded areas do face real threats. Phoebe Snetsinger was gang-raped in Papua New Guinea, and many excellent birding spots have a reputation for being unsafe. These fears can keep women from birding alone, and bolster the stereotype that women view birding primarily as a social activity.

    Women are less likely to assert themselves in the field, more likely to admit mistakes, more likely to take their cues from other birders, more likely to use a querying tone when “calling” a bird, and more likely to discuss birds after they have been identified, all of which may be interpreted as evidence of poor birding effort and weak field skills. Women are less likely to report suspected rarities and are more likely to qualify their sightings, probably for fear of being publicly eviscerated by other birders, but bird reports that don’t sound confident are unlikely to be accepted.

    One of the women that I spoke with even qualified her own excellent birding skills, weakly stating, “I feel like I know my stuff.” As Susan Myers observed, “We are taught right from the start to qualify everything.” Julie Zickefoose said, “I think that as women we are trained from an early age to always defer to men. I'm trying to turn that ship around in my own mind.” Lynn Barber said, “I think many new women birders are hesitant to ask questions, especially of males, and may have difficulty in getting a mentor.” 

“It is hard for men to mentor women.” — Shawneen Finnegan / photo by Dave Irons

Lack of mentorship is a serious problem that holds female birders back. Birding with elite birders is how most people develop elite skills themselves, and men may simply have access to a larger pool of potential mentors. Mentors also introduce people to birding culture, teach field etiquette, and prevent new birders from making blunders that undermine their credibility. Women are major community builders and organizers in the birding world, but as far as field experience goes, Jennifer Rycenga said, “Women don't get a lot of mentoring, but give a lot of it.”

   “I enjoy helping others learn,” Julie Zickefoose said. “In fact, I'd rather go birding with a newcomer, because it's fun to be able to impart information and watch someone grow in confidence and ability.”

    “Mentorship is an area where I think women have an edge,” Sheri Williamson said. “We just need to connect more young female birders with female mentors. Giving special encouragement to young women in birding can only help birding, birds, and society at large.”

    If there were more women in mentorship roles in the birding community, women’s confidence in their own field skills would be improved and there would be more women inspired to ascend to the upper ranks. As it stands, however, most of the strong mentors in the birding community are men, and there are social factors that keep men and women apart, especially men and women of differing ages and relationship status. Some men who would otherwise be mentors can thoughtlessly destroy the confidence of less skilled birders.

    “Being a phenomenal birder doesn’t give you the right to be a complete asshole,” Catherine Hamilton said. 

“Generational links between women are missing.” — Jennifer Rycenga / photo by Bob Droege

The age structure of the birding community may also partially explain the absence of high-profile women. Older women are often dismissed as “kitchen window” birders. Shawneen Finnegan said that while becoming a top-notch birder is far easier when one begins watching birds at a young age, many women begin birding later in life. Jen Brumfield observed that men were the default leaders in previous generations, and Jennifer Rycenga pointed out that girls have historically been discouraged from cultivating interests in a single-minded manner, pursuing the sciences, and playing outside.

    Will a change in generational attitudes naturally result in more women gaining leadership roles in the community? Another hobby that is nerdy, intense, and male-dominated—but young—is video gaming, and gamers have had a great deal of productive discussion recently about how some men not only insist that women demonstrate extensive gaming credentials before they’re grudgingly accepted as fellow gamers, but also see some women as “imposters” who are only feigning interest in gaming. Within the last few weeks, I observed an exchange on Facebook where several young male leaders in the birding community made harassing comments in response to a picture of a young woman wearing binoculars, indicating that even though more overt forms of sexism may vanish, there are still ongoing subtle forms that need to be addressed.

    “I doubt any of us are totally innocent, having grown up in a culture where women are still struggling to be taken as seriously as their male counterparts in virtually all aspects of life,” Sheri Williamson said.

“I think anyone, male or female, is capable of developing extreme field skills.” — Julie Zickefoose / photo by Nina Harfman

Birding can be a fraternity in the best or the worst sense of the word. One woman I spoke with seemed to accept as the natural order of things that there’s a “pecking order” in birding that men suffer under too, but most of the women I talked to maintained that women birders get the worst of it. There is a lot of cliquishness in birding, and while men who get into birding are often quickly accepted into the group, many women are treated as outsiders even after years of birding.

    There may be excellent women birders out there who have become so frustrated with the hazing and casual sexism that they have rejected the birding community entirely, and there may be many women who are overlooked in a birding culture that considers the size of one’s list as an important measure of one’s worth.

    “Some of the top listers are not necessarily the most skilled birders in the state,” Jen Brumfield said. Shawneen Finnegan concurred, saying, “A big list doesn't equal a high level of birding expertise.” 

 

“I think a lot of birding is a boys’ club and women may feel excluded.” — Susan Myers / photo from Oriental Bird Images

While several women that I spoke with alleged that women just aren’t as motivated as men are to make a name for themselves in the birding world, this comes uncomfortably close to the specious argument that there are few women CEOs and corporate managers because women just aren’t interested in corporate advancement. That said, men and women may well seek different things from birding, although whether those differences are innate or a product of culture is impossible to determine.

    Gender Patterns in Bird-related Recreation in the USA and UK qualified it thus: “…Our results suggest that males are more likely to be achievement-oriented in their motivation, seeking to meet some standard of performance, whereas females might be more likely to be appreciation-motivated, participating to reduce stress or gain a sense of connection with nature.” 

    “I probably have a pretty huge life list, because I seek new birds avidly wherever I go, and I go to a lot of cool places,” Julie Zickefoose said. “But what lights my fire is having a good close encounter with a bird—any bird—that teaches me something about how it lives, thinks, reproduces, feeds.”

    “I think it's the nature of women to have a more holistic approach to things,” Susan Myers said. “There is nothing less like hunting than keeping a list. A lot of these hardcore listers have no interest in the behavior of the birds. They want to see it, tick it and get the hell out of there. It's the women who behave more like hunters. They want to understand the birds, know the behavior, know the environment.”

    Ultimately, women in the birding world need to have more confidence in themselves.

    “We should learn to trust ourselves and not always go running off to find an ‘expert’ to confirm what we probably already have figured out for ourselves,” Julie Zickefoose concluded. “If female birders frustrate me, it's because so many of them never allow themselves to arrive.”

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References:

http://www.cawatchablewildlife.org/pdfs/2011%20Space%20Coast%20Festival%20Economic%20Report.pdf

http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol15/iss4/art4/

http://digitalmedia.fws.gov/cdm/ref/collection/document/id/176

http://jezebel.com/5922961/the-fight-against-misogynism-in-gaming-enlists-some-big-names

http://mydogoscar.com/birdspot/2011/08/09/h-is-for-harlot/

http://variety.com/2013/film/reviews/film-review-a-birders-guide-to-everything-1200442639/

https://www.nextmagazine.com/content/tribeca-film-festival-birder%E2%80%99s-guide-everything

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Thanks:

(Special thanks go to Lynn Barber, Jen Brumfield, Sheridan Coffey, Donna Dittmann, Shawneen Finnegan, Catherine Hamilton, Laura Kammermeier, Susan Myers, Jennifer Rycenga, Debi Love Shearwater, Sharon Stiteler, Sheri Williamson, and Julie Zickefoose. I had additional discussions with Jennifer Schramm Cutillo, Liz Deluna Gordon, Noah Gaines, Jeff Gordon, Clay Kempf, and Clayton Tschudy. Some numbers and details were provided by Iain Campbell, Victor Emanuel, Marci Madsen Fuller, Kenn Kaufman, and Kim Kaufman. Finally, Dave Irons, Dave Moseley, and Rick Wright provided feedback on various iterations of this piece.)