ABA Blog

A Different Kind of Wildlife Photography

A cougar cub (with its mother's tail) caught by remote camera. Noah's backyard fence is visible in the upper left. (Click to enlarge.)

I stumbled into my first camera trap a few years ago while birding on Panama’s famous Barro Colorado Island. As I walked quietly down a jungle trail, listening for bird sounds, a startling flash burst through the undergrowth like a stroke of lightning. I soon discovered that the flash belonged to a motion-sensitive camera, which belonged to a National Geographic photographer working on a story about ocelots. He got a good shot of me.

Not long afterward, news of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker’s rediscovery broke, and I traveled to a Florida cypress forest to join a search crew from Auburn University. Half a dozen of us camped out for weeks in the swamp, hoping for a glimpse of the near-mythical bird—and for definitive proof of its existence. Someone decided to put up remote-activated cameras aimed at likely trees, effectively adding to the number of searching eyes in the woods. It was my first real experience with using the cameras, which are especially popular with hunters. Though we never snagged any photos of an Ivory-bill, our setup caught lots of other Florida wildlife: deer, squirrels, armadillos, rednecks. My curiosity was piqued.

A bobcat pauses in front of the camera.

I soon found myself using similar remote cameras for a much different research project in the Australian outback. As part of a long-term study on endangered Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens, my field crew aimed motion-sensitive cameras at a few of the birds’ nests, and discovered that goannas (a type of five-foot-long lizard) were occasionally snacking on hapless young nestlings. The images were fascinating. Not even the most dedicated field tech could sit still long enough to catch the predators in action, so our cameras exposed a dark part of fairy-wren life which would have otherwise remained hidden. One day, for fun, I posted a spare camera at a wallaby carcass just outside our camp, and it recorded a neat video of a dingo scavenging the meat.

A mother black bear with its cub.

But I wasn’t inspired to buy my own trail camera until last winter, when I spent three months at Tiputini Biodiversity Station in Amazonian Ecuador. There, in a huge tract of undisturbed rainforest, scientists maintain a network of remote cameras which, over the past few years, have documented an incredible diversity of secretive jungle fauna: brocket deer, giant anteaters, wild dogs, porcupines, even a type of little-known rabbit. One of their cameras recently caught a Nocturnal Curassow, a species of bird which had never before been photographed in the wild. Many of the photos have been used by National Geographic, which helps sponsor the project. At Tiputini, the cameras are used to estimate population densities of jaguars and other cats, which can be individually identified by patterns of spots on their sides. It is all very cool.

A pair of cougars wanders past.

When I returned home to Oregon, I immediately purchased a remote camera and posted it behind my backyard, which abuts private timber lands. I had no idea what it might capture. Rural Oregon doesn’t exactly boast the wildlife list of Amazonian Ecuador, but there were interesting possibilities—and, even if the camera only photographed deer, it would be fun to download the pictures.

Almost exactly a year later, I am blown away by the results.

It turns out that my property hosts more wildlife than I ever imagined. Last summer, I was astonished to discover that a mother cougar and half-grown cub were regularly visiting my yard, just a hundred feet from my back porch, even walking down my driveway in broad daylight. A solitary bobcat also made several cameo appearances. In the fall, my camera trap caught a mother black bear with twin cubs slipping into the yard after dark to eat fallen apples, along with a coyote, fox, skunk, opossum, and raccoon. Despite living here for 27 years, I had only vague ideas that most of these animals ever visited my yard. The remote camera prompted a revelation: Most wildlife, even in familiar backyards, goes completely undetected. There’s more outside than meets the eye.

Grown, twin fawns nurse from their mother.

Camera traps have become so popular with hunters that a dozen manufacturers compete with each other in an ongoing technological arms race. You can now buy remote cameras with infrared flash, hi-def video, GPS, specialized software, cell-phone access, microsecond reaction times, and the ability to take tens of thousands of images on one set of AA batteries. Top-end units cost nearly $1,000. As with many other gadgets these days, there are almost no limits to what a motion-sensitive camera can do.

Most of these features have already trickled down to mid-range options, so, unless you are dying for the best that money can buy, I’d recommend springing for something in the $150-$200 range. The most important choice is between incandescent flash (which uses more battery power, potentially scares wildlife, and produces color images) and infrared flash (which uses less power, doesn’t disturb wildlife, and results in ghostly black-and-white images). When comparing models, pay more attention to trigger delays and detection zones than megapixels. But don’t get too caught up in fine differences, which might drive you nuts. (I wanted color night photos, and got an incandescent camera: a ScoutGuard 565. It works great.)

A raccoon walks by in the rain.

Of course, you have to know where an animal will be ahead of time, which makes these cameras less suitable for regular birding. My backyard camera has only recorded four species of birds so far (Wild Turkey, Hermit Thrush, Steller’s Jay, and Northern Flicker), and those pictures are terrible; the system wasn’t designed for such small subjects. Still, a few scientific studies have already used remote camera traps specifically for bird research. As the technology improves, these cameras may get better at capturing smaller birds, too.

Meanwhile, I have new respect for the wildlife in my backyard. It’s a jungle out there!

Video: Releasing a Rosy-Finch; Looking Out for their Future

Michael Hilchey at the crest. Photo ©Raymond VanBuskirk

For many of us there, the high point, altitudinally and ornithologically, of the ABA's recent Albuquerque Rally was visiting the famous rosy-finch banding station at Sandia Crest. Above, you can see Michael Hilchey, one the dedicated crew from Rio Grande Bird Research that keep this valuable and challenging project going. At the far right, the feeder and finch trap are visible.

Below is a shot of Raymond VanBuskirk, another of the rosy-finch researchers, returning a just-banded Black Rosy-Finch to the flock. Check out the concentration on Raymond's face. These guys, along with all the RGBR gang, are fun, dynamic folks. But, boy, do they bring serious attention and care to the work they do. It's a pleasure to witness.

Raymond focussing. Photo ©Jesse Swift

I went up to Sandia the second of the three field trip days. Things started off very well, with single male Gray-crowned and Brown-capped rosy-finches visiting the feeder shortly after we arrived. A bit more waiting and some skillful trap operation, and we were fortunate to see one gorgeous male Brown-capped Rosy-Finch in the hand, a bird which had been banded there some years before.

Raymond VanBuskirk holds "our" Brown-capped Rosy-Finch. This species breeds almost entirely in Colorado. I wonder if it might be one of those that nest on the tundra of Pike's Peak, visible from ABA HQ?

 Once this lovely bird was quickly weighed and measured and otherwise processed, Raymond gave rally participant Pat Blyer the honor of releasing it. I shot a quick video of the event that I thought you'd enjoy.

 

After an eventful and exciting first couple of hours, our patience and cold tolerance got a bit of a workout. Though it was hardly a brutal day on the mountain weather-wise, it was chilly for sure, especially when standing still for long periods. But we still hadn't seen Black Rosy-Finch, ironically the most numerous rosy species wintering at Sandia.

So we waited...

And we waited...

And we huddled in the vans and ate our lunches. Then we waited some more.

But in an instant, the waiting and the cold were forgotten, as a squall of Rosies shot up over the ridge crest and settled in the trees above the feeders.

Rosy-Finches aren't exactly nervous...they can be incredibly confiding sometimes. But boy, are they ever active! We marvelled as the flocked flowed all around the feeders, and we used our newly-honed ID skills to pick out all three species, plus the distinctive gray-faced "Hepburn's" form of Gray-crowned. It was a thrilling couple of minutes.

We left Sandia Crest smiling and headed lower, where the birding was a little warmer and more diverse. But our time at the banding station was really something to treasure. I've known of the Sandia finches since the early 2000's, so getting to see them and the project members in action is something I've waited for quite a while. It was more than worth it.

As great as our time up high with Raymond, Michael, the rosy-finches was, in some ways we learned even more from the presentation they gave to the entire rally group Sunday night. In it, they shared not only some of the exciting discoveries they have made and important questions they are working to answer, but also how much the Sandia flock, both avian and human, has meant to the shape, direction, and quality of their lives. It was inspiring, all the way round.

Speaking of those discoveries and questions, as miraculous as rosy-finches and their extrordinary life histories are, there are many, many reasons to be concerned for their future. Climate change poses an exceptional threat to them, living as many of them do in tiny islets of tundra habitat which are shrinking rapidly. High altitude stocking of non-native trout and other game fish may also be having a serious impact on their survival. And there are the more prosaic but still essential issues of where exactly the rosies that winter at Sandia, their southernmost outpost, come from and go back to.

All of us from the ABA who got to visit with the birds and birders of Albuquerque came away with a deeper appreciation of the vibrant birding scene there. And we wanted to do our small part to help the rosy-finch study and the other ongoing projects of Rio Grande Bird Research continue. 

The final night of our rally, we passed a basket for donations to the finch study, collecting nearly $700 from the ABA audience. On top of that, the ABA donated $1000 to RGBR in support of all the great work they do, which includes not only rosy-finch project, but also banding in the bosque along Albuquerque's Rio Grande, and the painstaking study of Black-throated Warblers done by Ashli Gorbet, another of our primary leaders on this rally, along with her husband, Larry.

I'd like to invite you to participate in all the great times and sound conservation science that is being done by ABA members like Ashli, Michael, and Raymond. If you're able to contribute funds to support their efforts, you can send checks payable to Rio Grande Bird Research. Write Rosy-Finch on the check if you want to restrict your gift to that project. Mail to P.O. Box 6557 Albuquerque NM 87197

And if you'd like to join Raymond and Michael in New Mexico or elsewhere, check out their newly-formed tour company, High Desert Birding Adventures.

Additional info on the history of the rosy-finch project can be found at www.rosyfinch.com. For the most current updates go to the Sandia Rosy-Finch Project Facebook page. Audubon magazine did a great profile on Raymond, Michael, and the rosy-finches that you can read here.

Thanks to all of you in Albuquerque who welcomed the ABA to your patch! We're looking forward to seeing all the great things you'll do in the future.

Some of the RGBR gang at Sandia Crest. From left: Jason Kitting, Steve Cox (another of our core rally leaders and president at RGBR), Mary Ristow, Nancy Cox, Lee Hopwood, Micheal Hilchey, and Raymond VanBuskirk. Thank you ALL for welcoming the ABA! photo ©Jane Kostenko

Loneliness of the Antarctic Birder

Noah pauses with King Penguins on South Georgia.

I was prepared for the cold, the heavy desserts, and the stinging smell of penguin guano, but, as a newly hired staff ornithologist on three cruises to Antarctica this season with One Ocean Expeditions, one fact caught me unexpectedly off guard: Hardly any passengers on today’s Antarctic itineraries are birders.

Don’t get me wrong; there are always a few. Each boatload of about 90 passengers on my three trips included several birders serious enough to maintain a life list. A couple of hardcore types were usually lurking around the ship, and those few invariably spent their time hanging out in a tight group on the panoramic top deck, eyes glued to albatrosses and penguins in one drawn-out fit of ecstasy—yes, Antarctica is a mind-altering destination as a birder. (My advice: Just go. It will change your life.)

A Chinstrap Penguin on the Antarctic Peninsula.

But most of the people on board weren’t birders at all, which surprised me. Some of them weren’t particularly concerned with any of Antarctica’s wildlife, at least in the beginning. One woman actually told me at the start of her trip: “I don’t care about penguins. I just want to see ice.”

Fair enough, but such words made me shiver—and not just from the cold. How could anyone not get excited about penguins?

When I mentioned this to a fellow crewmate, he didn’t seem concerned. “All the serious birders came to Antarctica 20 years ago,” he said. “They checked it off their lists. Seen one penguin, seen ’em all.” He’d spent time with other expedition companies down south, and it was always the same story: These days, Antarctic cruises are populated more by general tourists than wildlife enthusiasts.

The Antarctic cruise ship, Akademik Ioffe.

Maybe Antarctica isn’t what it used to be, I reflected. Since the 1960s, the number of tourists visiting Antarctica has grown from a few hundred annually to nearly 30,000; more than 80 different outfitters now run trips to the ice. In some ways, the destination no longer lives up to its hostile reputation. You can book a basic Antarctic cruise for less than a comparable trip to, say, Venezuela, and, for the first time in history, Antarctic voyagers can expect to gain weight on their journey. This December, the temperature on the Antarctica Peninsula was warmer than at my house in western Oregon.

It’s possible that all the serious birders are now patrolling remote fringes of the ABA Area and third-world jungles, having already ticked their Antarctic lifers as my crewmate suggested. But the paucity of birders in Antarctica probably simply reflects our own small numbers compared to the exploding popularity of Antarctic travel in general. My ship was packed with curious software engineers, diplomats, photographers, business owners, and travel buddies, overall one of the most diverse and interesting groups of people I’ve ever encountered. Very few Americans (another surprise); they came instead from all corners of the planet, with by far the largest groups from Australia and Great Britain.

Zodiac cruising on a calm Antarctic afternoon.

The thing that brought the group together was travel. I talked to more than one person who had visited at least 100 countries, and a 14-year-old who had visited 50. When a speaker asked how many people were checking off their seventh continent, about a third of the hands in the dining room went up.

And adventure, plenty of adventure. This season, I hiked with one of the first women to cross Antarctica on foot; dug a hole in the snow and slept by penguins; flew a kite in the middle of the Drake Passage; drove a Zodiac through a field of moving pack ice; got covered in Humpback Whale snot; drank a glass of whisky chemically recreated from Shackleton’s personal stores with half-million-year-old glacier ice—and toasted Shackleton’s grave; stripped down to boxers and swam with icebergs; and got formally married to a penguin in front of a hundred people (what happens in Antarctica…). Every day on the ice is all out.

A Wandering Albatross inspires future birders.

So, birds are often a bit of an afterthought in Antarctica—which is funny, because Antarctic bird colonies are one of the most awesome natural spectacles on Earth.

I thus made it my mission to interpret Antarctica’s birds to everyone, not just the few diehard birders. “I want you to all become bird appreciaters,” I began my first seabird talk. “All I ask is that you spend enough time on deck to learn to identify a Wandering Albatross. And, when we get into a penguin colony, go ahead and take 5,000 photos—but then put the camera down, sit quietly, and spend half an hour just watching them.”

At first, I couldn’t tell whether anyone was paying attention. My on-board bird presentations competed with polar photography groups, historical visits, bar talks, movies, Pictionary games, and endless five-course meals.

But after the first couple of shore landings at penguin colonies on South Georgia Island and the Antarctic Peninsula, even the most urban voyagers snapped into bird mode. The diplomats started asking questions about seabird identification. The engineers couldn’t stop showing off their photos of penguin chicks. Evening bar conversation trended from where-have-you-been to what-did-you-see-today discussions, often centered on birds.

The great thing about Antarctica’s birdlife is that anyone can become a quick expert. With practice and coaching, it’s possible to learn all 30 regular Antarctic birds by the end of a week in the field—even with no prior birding experience. I couldn’t stop smiling when an Israeli woman approached me on the bridge one morning and asked, in halting English, “Is that a Southern Giant-Petrel?”

The other great thing about Antartica's birds, of course, is how incredibly awesome they are. Just before Christmas, I watched a grown man cry while watching two adult Emperor Penguins on an ice floe. Big, real tears welled up in his eyes. How many times do birds get that reaction?

Adelie Penguins in a snowstorm.

I can’t claim credit for converting new birders on these trips; the birds themselves ignite that mysterious spark. But I can say this: Having spent a prior field season in a remote research camp on the other side of Antarctica with only two other researchers for company, it was a different experience to be able to spread my own knowledge to so many fresh ears. It’s fun to see penguins, but it’s almost as fun to see other people see penguins for the first time.

Back home, I received an email this week from one of the season’s most enthusiastic birding converts, a student from a university in Michigan.

“In the real world, as it turns out, there are more birds than simply a dozen large, easily distinguishable flying creatures,” she lamented, having returned to the States with a new, birdy mindset. “I’ve been reduced to pointing helplessly and exclaiming, ‘Look! A bird… of some sort.’”

Aye, that’s the spirit!

Barrow's Arctic Bonanza

The Ross's Gull Expedition to Barrow, Alaska is an upcoming ABA Event, Oct 4-8, 2013. Our own John Puschock has led this tour four times with his own company and will be a guide on our event. We asked him to talk a little about his 2012 tour.

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Ever since the first edition of A Birder’s Guide to Alaska (part of the ABA Birdfinding Guide series) was published, I wanted to run a tour to Barrow for the fall migration of Ross’s Gull.  The idea of seeing flocks of this species passing by the northern tip of Alaska sounded fascinating. But would others feel the same? Could I get people to sign up for a tour? I didn’t know if anyone would be interested in going up there for just one target species. The book mentioned Ivory Gulls formerly being there in early October too, but it implied that with the sea ice no longer being around at that time of year, the Ivory Gulls were no longer showing up then. But in 2008, two small private groups, one included Larry & Michael Schwitters and the other had ABA board member Lynn Barber, separately visited Barrow in early October. Not only did each group see Ross’s Gulls, they also saw one or two Ivory Gulls. Now that I knew there was a reasonable shot at seeing several hard-to-get Arctic species (and a chance for polar bears!), it was time to make the tour happen.

I ran the tour for the first time in 2009, and with thousands of Ross’s Gulls (with perhaps over 10,000 on one phenomenal day), an adult Ivory Gull, and several Spectacled Eiders, it immediately became my favorite one. Since then, I’ve run the tour every year. Each one has been different, but it’s still the tour I looked forward to the most. Here are some highlights from the latest tour, which went from Oct 3-7 last year:

We didn’t have to wait long to find our first “good” gull, and by “good” I mean something other than a Glaucous. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a great gull, but some things are reversed in Barrow. Unlike in the Lower 48, here it is the haystack that hides the needles. In this case, the needle was a Slaty-backed Gull on the beach a few hundred yards from where we had just gotten out of the van. As luck would have it, a front-end loader was coming down the beach right then. The gulls flushed before I could set the scope up, but the Slaty-backed flew right by us on its way to a nearby lagoon. My camera, of course, was sitting snugly on the driver seat of the van. (I doubt I’ll ever learn the lesson to always carry it.) Anyway, the Slaty-backed settled on the back side of the lagoon, and everyone was able to get scope views.

I didn't get a photo of the Slaty-backed Gull, so here's a shot of Glaucous and two immature Thayer's Gulls (center and far left).

About an hour later, we came back to the Slaty-backed spot. This is where the locals butcher the bowhead whales caught during the traditional fall hunt. One was brought in the night before, so there were plenty of scraps for the gulls. As we were scanning through them, a group took flight, and I noticed one that looked just a bit paler. My first thought was “It would be nice if that was an Ivory Gull”, but I was expecting to see an immature Glaucous Gull as I brought the camera to my eye. Whoops, no! It was an adult Ivory Gull. I’ve had one on every tour, but only one, so I still sweat finding one. It was a relief to get it right at the beginning. It cooperated by circling us twice before flying off down the shore.

Ivory Gull.

After lunch that first day, we drove to the north end of the road that parallels the coast to do some seawatching. We were still in need of Ross’s Gull. After scanning for a bit, someone noticed a pod of belugas swimming along the shore towards us. These were the first I’ve seen at Barrow. There were adults and immatures in the pod. While the adults are white, the immatures begin life dark gray and lighten as they age. There were a few tiny ones in the pod, probably less than a year old. We followed them down the shore, driving out ahead of them, and watched them pass. We repeated this several times until…

Baby belugas.

As we watched the belugas swim by a third time, my co-leader, Marlene Wagner, spotted two gulls flying just offshore and getting closer. They looked smaller and more tern-like. As they approached, we could make out a pinkish color on their underparts and saw their distinctive body shape – Ross’s Gulls! As it turned out, these were the only ones we saw on the tour. Previous tours saw hundreds or thousands, and this time we had just two. Maybe migration was later this year? I don’t know, but seeing these flying over a pod of belugas was cool nonetheless. And we had another first for this tour to make up for not having insane numbers of Ross’s…

OK, I cheated. This photo is from the 2011 tour when the Ross's Gulls were much more cooperative.

The next day we were back where we first saw the belugas. I was scoping gulls on the beach about a mile away, near where the remains of the bowhead whales are disposed. I noticed a large lump on the beach that I didn’t think was there the previous day. I quietly asked Marlene to take a look, and she confirmed my suspicion -- it was a sleeping polar bear. As we watched, it started to move, revealing that we were partially wrong. It wasn’t just a polar bear, it was actually three: a mother with two cubs. After soaking them in, a juvenile Sabine’s Gull put on a show foraging in the surf right in front of us, and then as we walked back to the van, an adult Ivory Gull, presumably the one from the previous day, flew right over our heads and briefly landed on the beach before continuing on. It was quite a show. (The next day, a Barrow resident took us out to the point, where we got much closer looks at these bears plus two more.)

Polar bears near Point Barrow. Please forgive the blurriness; they were taken through the van window.

Well, I’m close to my word limit for this post, so just one more of my favorite moments from the tour: We were back at the spot with the whale scraps. Marlene was wandering around, looking through the gull flock while the rest of us scoped the sea. We heard her shout “Hey”, so we turned around, and there between her and us sat the Ivory Gull, giving us our best looks yet.

Ivory Gull (and Marlene).

Ivory Gull.

Open Mic: More Than Just a Number

At the Mic: Tom Leskiw

Tom Leskiw lives outside Eureka, California with his wife Sue and their dog Zevon. He retired in 2009 following a 31-year career as a hydrologic/biologic technician. His essays, book and movie reviews have appeared in a variety of  journals. His column appears at www.RRAS.org and his website resides at www.tomleskiw.com

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Saturday, 15 January 2011. 9:15 am. Estero Llano Grande State Park, World Birding Center, Weslaco Texas. Sue and I once again worked the area where the White-throated Thrush had been seen yesterday. A light rain was falling, as were my hopes for relocating this notorious skulker. Rain jacket and pants seemed a bit overkill for this semi-tropical woodland, but experience had taught me that long hours in damp clothes, well…they dampen one’s spirits. And I was determined to get this bird, even if I had to continue my vigil until darkness fell. I snuck a glance at another birder who was working the far corner of the open area, when a birder wearing flip-flops and track shorts burst into the clearing. “I’ve got the bird!!” he whisper-shouted.

We raced to follow him down the narrow gravel lane that bounded the preserve. A man and woman stood there—not celebrating, but, rather, looking sheepish, nonplussed. Then, came perhaps the most-dreaded phrase in a birder’s lexicon. “It just flew,” they stammered. “Somewhere off to the left.” “How far?” Flip-Flops wanted to know. “Did you see it fly across the lane?” “I don’t know. We lost it,” was the reply. So, we started scanning for the bird, searching high and low in the dense, shadowed woodland. After some time passed, I figured it would be best to not have all eyes looking in the same general area, so I made my way slowly back down the lane. “There it is!” said someone. I moved back to where the throng of birders had assembled. There, wet and sodden, was my life White-throated Thrush. Flip-Flops—sorry, I’ve forgotten your name—smiled broadly, winked at me, and spoke. “And just like that!” And just like that, indeed, I said to myself. Then, aloud: “My 700^th bird for the Lower-48 states!”

     The birding bug bit me in 1983. At the time I was a landscape photographer who spent a portion of the winter in desert locations that included Arizona’s Organ Pipe National Monument. Before I knew it, I’d purchased a 300mm lens so I could photograph the birds that frequented saguaro “cactus condos.” However, upon my return to California, I didn’t know any birders, and trying to see birds in the low-light, dense confines of redwood forests never caught my fancy. Thus, my interest lay fallow for a time.  

    Then, in 1987, I read that Gary Lester was leading a field trip to Elk Head to look for Tufted Puffins. I had entered the wrong date in my day planner and missed the trip. However, Gary returned to Elk Head with me the following day, my first inkling into the generosity and sense of sharing within the birding community. Later that spring, I took his bird field seminar that was offered through Redwood National Park. Gary, Lauren and their family lived several blocks from me, so the next several years were frequently punctuated with his impromptu phone calls. “There’s a male Costa’s Hummingbird on our fuchsia.”… “Black Swifts are passing over the house again.”… “I’m looking at a Cape May Warbler in our birch tree right now.”

    Following an Audubon Christmas Bird Count (circa 1990), I asked John Sterling and John Hunter if I could tag along to chase some local rarities. A year or so went by, and I began to dream about reaching 300 bird species in Humboldt County. Somewhere along the line, I began to envision that 700 species in the ABA area might be attainable. Later, I began to ponder if it might be possible to reach 700 in the ABA area without going to Alaska. I have absolutely nothing against Alaska, somehow, it just never seemed in the cards to get there.

     But I’m getting ahead of myself. Throughout this sometimes crazy, (nearly) quarter-century quest, I’ve tried to focus on the experience itself, on the goal of learning—as intimately as possible—about this great country of ours. I saw only one of my ABA area birds in Canada and I’ve still yet to make it to Alaska. It’s difficult to put into words, but my reason for steering clear of the “Land of the Midnight Sun” had something to do with loyalty. Because Alaska’s union with these “united” states is merely a political fluke (Attu being situated west of the east tip of Siberia), tallying the birds there seems somehow unfair, contrived. Furthermore, limiting my search to the Lower 48 allowed me to focus on the amazing biodiversity to be found here.

    I’m reminded of lyrics from Dave Mason’s “Can't Stop Worrying, Can't Stop Loving”:   “A man needs the challenge or a man couldn’t be.” Not a few times during this past decade, I reconsidered the wisdom of excluding Alaska from my census area. Maybe it can’t be done, I’d concede. At least not unless I drop everything and do a Big Year, which wouldn’t exactly “Play in Peoria,” if you know what I mean. 

    It’s only human nature to dwell on the one that got away. In this case, the one that eluded me wasn’t a bird, but, rather, a boy—a potential birding convert. I was in Texas’s Big Bend National Park, retracing my steps along the Window Trail, jubilant and basking in the glow of having found my life Lucifer Hummingbird. A group of boys caught up with me. Elated, they recounted the incredible view from the Window and how they’d just witnessed a snake swallowing a frog. One of them pointed to my bins and asked me why I’d traveled to the canyon. I explained that I’d come in search of a hummingbird, as the area—at least at the time—was the most-dependable place in all the U.S. to see it.

     As some of the other boys began to sidle off, the inquisitive one asked what the hummingbird looked like. Quickly, I sized up their group. Red-faced and sweating, they clutched their empty (pint!) water bottles. Clearly, the rest of the group wanted to beat the heat, get back to camp. I considered just how difficult it can be to get someone onto a hummingbird and how easy it might be to turn a group of tired, hot boys against birding. Just then, their leaders appeared. “Let’s hit it, guys,” they said. If only there’d been a little more time… maybe I could have gotten the kid onto the Lucifer.

    It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I’ve shared this journey with many good friends, birding acquaintances, and guides across the country. I never would have realized this goal without your help. There isn’t room here to mention you all, but know that you have my thanks.

     As I studied the Texas Rare Bird Alerts this winter, I realized that I lacked a bird-finding  guide for the Lone Star State. So, I contacted my birding compadre, Erika Wilson, who agreed to lend me her brand-new copy of the ABA guide for the Lower Rio Grande Valley. Paper-clipped to the guide was a note: “Have a great trip! Keep me posted on all your bird finding as you go.”

     In 1992, an event occurred that prompted me to resume writing after a lengthy sabbatical. Doc Harris, the dean of Humboldt County, California birding was poised to record his 400^th species for the county, the first to accomplish what was then regarded as an improbable feat. So, I chronicled the occasion in the Sandpiper, our local Audubon newsletter, starting contributions to this and other venues that continue to this day. My writing has improved during the intervening years. I’ve tackled many subjects, but birds, birding, and bird chases remain at the core of what inspires me to write. It struck me that Erika’s note applied, not only to the Texas trip, but also to my writing in general: recording my experiences in the field—for me, and to share with others.   

    Looking back, I think of all the out-of-the-way hamlets, urban parks, wildlife refuges, fish hatcheries, sewage treatment plants, sod farms, migrant traps, people, islands, and oceans I would never have experienced, were it not for birds. The images emerge, fade, and are renewed in my cerebral cortex’s own PowerPoint projector: Black and Brown Noddies, Masked Booby, Sooty Tern, and Magnificent Frigatebird soaring above the azure waters of the Dry Tortugas. And later, a Swallow-tailed Kite and Stripe-headed Tanager with Wes Biggs. A Thick-billed Murre in Humboldt Bay—thanks to a timely call from David Fix. Machias Seal Island for Atlantic Puffin and Razorbill followed by the Bluenose Ferry to Nova Scotia for Great Skua and Wilson’s Storm-Petrels with Brian Patteson and Ned Brinkley.

    And solo, a long night trying to sleep upright in a Jeep Cherokee near the Lesser Prairie-Chicken lek near Campo, Colorado. Ferruginous Pygmy-Owl with Jeff Gordon in the oak mottes of the King Ranch. Slaty-backed Gull, courtesy of Rob Fowler and Matt Wachs. Running alongside Guy McCaskie after hearing the shout that the Fork-tailed Flycatcher had been relocated. White-tailed Ptarmigan—and Grizz!—at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park with Jude Power. Green Kingfisher along the San Pedro River and Montezuma Quail and Five-striped Sparrow in Sawmill and Sycamore Canyons, with Troy Corman.

     The adrenal rush of confirming a beyond-improbable, second-hand report of a White-winged Tern at the Arcata Marsh one sunny Saturday morning. Island Scrub-Jay on Santa Cruz Island with John Sterling and the rest of the merry band of “Vagrants.” Great Gray Owl in a Yosemite red fir forest with John Hunter. Streak-backed Oriole near Tacna, Arizona with Erika Wilson and Elaine Emeigh. Craveri’s Murrelet and Baird’s beaked whale with Debi Shearwater. No one could forget the olfactory affront of the Brownsville Dump for Tamaulipas Crow with Joseph Brooks and Garry George. And a two-fer, the day before #700: a Crimson-collared Grosbeak amid the restored splendor of Allen Williams’s backyard in Pharr and the clockwork-like 4:45 pm appearance of the Black-Vented Oriole at the Bentsen Palm Village RV Resort.

    Each phone call, every set of directions I obtained from folks I might never meet face-to-face reinforced my belief that I’d joined a continent-wide community. Some of the fond memories center around birding comrades who are no longer with us. Running into Stuart Keith and Arnold Small while searching for the Crescent-chested Warbler at the Patagonia sewage treatment plant. Chasing the Lesser Sand-Plover with Luke Cole while attending a meeting of the Western Field Ornithologists in Humboldt County. The pilgrimage to Scheelite Canyon on Fort Huachuca for Mexican Spotted Owl with Smitty (Robert T. Smith). Swapping stories with Northcoast Environmental Center’s executive director Tim McKay at a Del Norte CBC compilation.

     Yes, 700 stories and more. All tangible, memorable, genuine. No tepid, pixilated, ersatz excuses for real encounters in real places. If the legions of those mesmerized by Wii and Xboxes only knew…    

The Best Christmas Count

Sunday, December 18, 1977. The week had started out dreadfully cold in the Chicago area. It was -12° during count week, and there was a good amount of snow on the ground. In the days running up to the count, a warm front pushed in, bringing some more snow with it, and temperatures that climbed into the 40s.

I was 14, and this was my second Christmas Count, ever. My friend Alan picked me up in the black hours of early morning, and we made the hour-long drive to the Morton Arboretum without incident ... well, with one incident, actually.

The day before had been well above freezing, but with all that snow still on the ground, it got quite cold at night. As we came down a gentle hill on Route 53 at some unheard-of hour of the morning, Alan's trusty Datsun B210 hatchback decided to do some figure skating. He completely lost control of the car, and we wound up sailing through a red light at a big intersection, backwards. Luckily, even the cops were safely snugged in their beds that early on the Sunday morning before Christmas.

Okay, so except for that, it was a pretty sleepy ride. We did some owling, and then just after dawn, met the rest of the counters at the visitor's center parking lot to get handed our assignments for the day. The Lisle Arboretum Count, started in 1937, is one of the oldest, and some of the people participating have done so for decades. They get the best areas assigned to them. Places with intriguing names like "Hemlock Hill" or "Thornhill"—two spots locally famous for winter finches and other good birds. And December of 1977 was shaping up to be a good finch year.

I got assigned to the far east side, which is almost completely monotonous deciduous forest. My day would be relegated to counting Chickadees, Nuthatches, Blue Jays, and maybe a Brown Creeper. So be it. I was out birding.

The 1,700-acre arboretum has a 9 mile driving loop through the grounds. I was to be dropped off on one side of the loop, where I would make my way cross-country to a parking lot on the other side. I was assured that someone would then pick me up, and take me to my next assignment.

I've mentioned in other posts that I didn't come from a family of means ... so, well, let me take a moment to describe my winter gear that day.

On my feet were heavy cotton duck "snow boots", with 3 pairs of cotton socks inside. Layer one was cotton "waffle-knit" long underwear. My pants were heavy brown corduroy (this was the 70s, after all). Up top I had a heavy polyester sweater, and a reversible "snorkel" parka (navy and blaze orange) ... topped off with a polyester knit cap. The entire ensemble cost $22 at Wieboldt's.

The Chicago area had seen some record cold and heavy snowfall during the week prior, but the morning of the count, temperatures were headed well into the 40s. My route took me through knee-to-waist-high snow, and I think I made 50 yards before I was soaked to the skin. But I was 14. 14-year-olds are indestructible. Unstoppable, even.

Trudge trudge trudge. Stop. Look. Listen. Trudge trudge trudge. Stop. Mark down a chickadee. Trudge trudge trudge.

I had made it to the midway point and was faced with an open area and a hill. I was approaching the hill from the south, and the snow drifts were up to my pubescent chest. I plowed into the first one, determined to go straight up the hill, and I was stopped dead. The snow was so full of water, so heavy, that when I compressed it, it turned into a wall.

I stood thinking for a moment and catching my breath...

...when a bird call that I had never heard before came tinkling out of the heavens. Sweet, soft little notes. I looked up, and out of the blue sky a flock of birds appeared and landed in the trees crowning the hill.

I put my binoculars on them and, even though I had never seen one before, I knew instantly what they were: Pine Grosbeaks!

I counted. 53 of them!!

The trees at the top of the hill were a collection of Ash, and they happily settled in and began stuffing their cute little rosy and gray faces on the millions of dangling seeds.

I knew this was a good bird, but I didn't really know just how good. I continued on my route, and eventually made my way back to the loop road where I found no one waiting for me. So, I began walking back toward the visitor's center. Soon Alan came along and picked me up, and on the short drive to lunch I told him about my birds.

The little cafe at the visitor's center was full of bird-counters, and I was telling everyone there about my 53 Pine Grosbeaks. Some smiled. Some asked where. Some couldn't be bothered with the rantings of a kid who found a flock of Purple Finches (in the 1970s, House Finches would have been even more rare than Pine Grosbeaks).

A couple people decided that it was worth checking on, so after lunch I took them out to show them. We followed the trail I had plowed, and when we got to the hill discovered that the flock had grown to 80 birds.

And pandemonium ensued.

Within an hour or so, everyone had forsaken their assignments and was making it over to "Ash Hill". They needn't have worried. The flock stayed for nearly a month, and remains to this day the largest gathering of Pine Grosbeaks ever recorded in Illinois. It was also the last flock of any size of this species ever recorded in the state. There have been 15 records—28 individual birds—in the 35 years since the winter of 1977.

The countdown dinner was held that evening in a banquet hall (now a landmark) called The Sabre Room. Everyone was there ... and for one night, I was a hero. It was the best Christmas Count, and maybe the best Christmas, ever.

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What's your favorite Christmas count memory? Please share in the comments below!

Tell Us Your Sandy Stories

 

A week ago today, I was riding with Ryan Tomazin to Pittsburgh International Airport. We’d just been at the Brooks Bird Club’s 80th birthday bash. Despite the dreary weather, a good time was had by all. I mean, what’s not to like about a Chan Robbins keynote, all-you-can-eat buffets, and even a vintage Ms. Pac-Man machine. (Inside joke; some of you will get it. The rest of you, just laugh along.)

On the ride back to the airport, though, I was just a tad apprehensive. The storm of the century was on its way. It had been raining steadily for a few hours now, and the temperature was down into the low 40s. There were already reports of cancelled flights, and I wondered if I would be impacted.

“We’re coming up on Cheat Lake,” Ryan announced.

Cheat Lake is a huge reservoir just south of the Pennsylvania line. It’s one of the best places in West Virginia for water birds.

Ryan asked, “Do you see anything?”

In fact, there were birds down there.

“Canada Geese...I guess.”

Ryan kept on driving.

At the airport, the flight board was lighting up with that dreaded sequence of letters: C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D. My flight was westbound, however, and I was back in Denver that night. Whew.

 

When I checked my email the next morning, Ryan was in full-on I-told-you-so mode. An epic fallout was under way at Cheat Lake, and the action had started just an hour or so before Ryan and I had driven over the I-68 causeway late Sunday afternoon. My “Canada Geese,” it turns out, were probably Atlantic Brant. Morgantown birder John Boback had found 20+ on the lake, and John and others were reporting lots of scoters, loons, and whatnot. Those are fine birds for inland West Virginia. Ryan, if you’re out there, please forgive me for the blown call.

This was only the beginning.

The next day, I got an email from Mike Fialkovich, a birding pal from my late teen years. He described what has to be one of the most astonishing birding phenomena I’ve ever heard of.

First, a bit of context. It was Tuesday, October 30th, “The Day After” for folks along the New Jersey and New York coastlines. In southwestern Pennsylvania, where Mike lives, Tuesday was the day they’ll never forget.

Spurred on a report by not just one, but two, rare Pomarine Jaegers at Green Run Lake, Fayette County, Pennsylvania, Mike stopped by after work on Tuesday. Nearing the lake, he noticed a decent flock of “gulls.”

Except they weren’t gulls.

They were jaegers, some twenty-nine (29) of them, mostly or maybe entirely Pomarines. Seeing just one (1) jaeger of any species is a thrill for me. Seeing one way inland in Fayette County would be especially impressive. But 29?! I’ve never seen that many jaegers in a flock at sea. I’ve never seen that many on the nesting grounds. I really can’t wrap my brain around the idea of 29 jaegers all in one spot. Yet there were, out on the lake, then all picking up, then landing again, then rising again, and so forth.
Left: Pomarine Jaeger. Photo by Nate Swick.

Other birders had arrived, and they and Mike watched in awe. After a while, the birds rose up again in the swirling snow, kettled like hawks, and flew off into the snowstorm.

I can’t think of a more potent symbol of Sandy’s might than Mike Fialkovich’s 29 jaegers swirling in the snow at Green Run Lake. Strong hurricanes blow powerful seabirds inland; Sandy was notably strong, and Poms are inarguably powerful. Yes, Sandy was strong, but Sandy was no mere hurricane. That’s a lesson that was affirmed for Pittsburgh birder Jack Solomon and me two nights before Sandy’s landfall.

 

It was the last night of the Brooks Bird Club meeting, and it was getting on toward midnight. Jack had been teasing me—he’s been doing that for 30 years—about the folly of standing in cold rain listening for nocturnal flight calls.

“Let’s take it outside, Jack.”

The instant we walked out of the lodge at Blackwater Falls State Park, we heard buzzy flight calls, loud and clear. Jack was genuinely impressed, but bedtime or the bar—I’m not sure which—beckoned, and he went back in. Me, too, to get my VN-8100PC. When I got back outside, the birds were still going at it, still going over.

The experience was mesmerizing. I thought I heard a few Common Yellowthroats, and maybe a Palm Warbler. But what were all those other calls? Well, I was recording them, and I’d find out after I got back to Denver.

To cut to the chase, they were almost all Blackpoll Warblers. They were up there, calling constantly, pretty much the whole time I was there. Bill Evans has cautioned that I may have been hearing a lot of repeats—birds circling around the relatively bright lights of the lodge. I suspect he’s right; however, for reasons that I won’t bother you with, I also think there was a steady passage of birds that night.

     
Blackpoll Warblers recorded on nocturnal migration over Blackwater Falls State Park, near Davis, Tucker County,
West Virginia, 11:15-11:20 p.m., Saturday, October 27, 2010. Recordings by Ted Floyd.

The whole time I was out there, winds were light but steady out of the north; it was foggy, and a very light rain—more of a mist, really—was falling. This was the other half of what would become Superstorm Sandy; this was the cold front. The birds—the Blackpolls, a few other warblers, a Hermit Thrush, a White-throated Sparrow—were getting out ahead of the storm. Forty-eight hours later, Blackwater Falls would be under a blizzard warning.

I just thought of something: My Sandy story starts even earlier in the week.

 

On Wednesday evening, Oct. 24th, I was getting ready for my travel the next day to Pennsylvania and West Virginia. I had a zillion and one things to deal with, but my kids would have none of it.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

It was indeed snowing—a lot harder than I had thought it would. A quick check of the Denver Post’s website informed me that forecasters had “beefed up” their forecast; at least half a foot would fall on Denver, and then there would be another shot Thursday night into Friday. It was all part of the same system that would eventually make its way east to combine with Hurricane Sandy, and then transmogrify into Superstorm Sandy.

The reach of Sandy was long indeed. Fortunately, I was spared the worst of it. I got out of West Virginia before the blizzard. My Sunday night flight from Pittsburgh took me west, not east. Nevertheless, I experienced Sandy at three different, if somewhat peripheral, levels: With Ryan Tomazin, I witnessed the beginning of the historic Pennsylvania–West Virginia fallout; with Jack Solomon, I listened to the anxious flight calls of warblers leaving ahead of the storm; and with my kids, I got to see what I now know to be the precursor of it all.

I said three levels, but, you know, there’s a fourth level.

 

I wasn’t there with Mike Fialkovich, but his story is nevertheless spellbinding for me. What can I say?—I enjoy vicarious birding. I love hearing other birders’ stories.

On that note, perhaps my favorite Sandy story involves ABA President Jeff Gordon. Jeff had been at the Cape May Autumn Weekend, and he couldn’t make it out on time. After a few days stranded in the Philadelphia area, Jeff finally booked a flight through Chicago. Now despite what Winging It Editor and native Midwesterner Michael Retter may say, Chicago’s airports are cursed. And Jeff’s experience there proves it. His flight out of Midway was greatly delayed because of—wait for it—a busted toilet. In fact, the lavatory was so crippled, they gave the passengers a whole new airplane.

Enough. If I haven’t lost count, that’s five Sandy stories now. Some of them involve no birds. Some of them don’t involve me. Some of them involve neither birds nor me. But all of them involve birders, in some way or another.

Sandy affected so many of us.

Let’s hear your Sandy story or stories. One request: Please include the human dimension of your story. Whom were you with? How did you and your companions cope? Yes, tell us about jaeger fallouts and Blackpoll night-flights; but we also want to hear about Ms. Pac-Man machines and busted airplane toilets.

And, on a serious note, I’m sure I’m speaking on behalf of all my colleagues at the ABA when I say that I’m well aware of Sandy’s terrible toll. Jeff Gordon and I and others on staff are blessed to have gotten through it safely, but we know that other ABA members weren’t as fortunate. (For those birders interested in helping those who have seen the worst of this storm, the American Red Cross disaster relief fund is a worthy outlet.)

If there’s a silver lining in the cloud of Sandy, it’s the indelible reminder that we’re all in this thing together. Please use the “comments” section below to tell us how you and your birding friends were affected by Sandy.

 

Birding by Webcam

A screen capture of the Southeast Farallon Island webcam from September 25th, showing a Nashville Warbler clinging to the lighthouse antenna.

On the morning of September 14^th, a birder named Matt Brady turned on his computer in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, opened an internet browser, and clicked on the Farallon Islands webcam to do a little virtual birding. The live camera, maintained by the California Academy of Sciences and mounted atop the Southeast Farallon Island lighthouse about 30 miles west of San Francisco, was pointed at that moment at an antenna array—the highest point on the isolated island, which is a migrant trap. A little bird flitted into view and perched. Brady squinted at his screen. He realized that it was a Yellow-throated Warbler, a very rare species in California—almost 2,000 miles away from where Brady sat comfortably at his desk in Louisiana.

He immediately called the crew of biologists stationed on the Farallones, who, several times zones ahead, were just rolling out of bed. A vagrant like a Yellow-throated Warbler is a big deal on the island; despite decades of daily coverage, there had been only five previous records. The crew, all serious birders, sprinted out the front door of their hundred-year-old house and up a steep hill to reach the lighthouse. Sure enough, the warbler was up there.

A color-banded Townsend's Warbler alights in front of the webcam.

That may have marked the first time a vagrant bird has ever been spotted, identified, reported, and chased via webcam—a significant moment in postmodern birding. Pretty soon, others caught on; such luminaries as Alvaro Jaramillo and Kenn Kaufman began posting regular sightings in a Facebook group called “SEFI Remote Birdwatching” created this fall by Matt Brady. In September, viewers identified a Blackburnian Warbler, American Redstart, Ovenbird, and Chestnut-sided Warbler on the Farallon webcam, all rare species in California. On September 25^th, a Hermit Warbler, Nashville Warbler, and Magnolia Warbler appeared within a span of a few minutes.

An Ovenbird "photographed" with a screen capture on the Farallon webcam.

It wasn’t long before Farallon webcam addicts started competing with each other to see who could identify the most species of birds onscreen. A Google spreadsheet was created to keep track of who had seen what. Although more than a dozen birders have submitted their totals so far, Matt Brady’s webcam list far exceeds anyone else’s. At last count, his personal total was 35 species out of 40 recorded thus far from the webcam, including 12 species of warblers—or, as Brady calls them, “weblers.”

“The most important variable is how much time you spend staring at the cam a day,” Brady advises. He admits to keeping a small window open with the webcam running in a corner of his computer screen while he studies. For the first time in eight years, he is not spending this fall season with the crew of Farallon biologists; the webcam lets him stay in touch with the place he knows so well.

The webcam zooms in on Brown Pelicans, Brandt's Cormorants, and Western Gulls.

Others have also become dedicated watchers. A birder named Christian Schwarz has been keeping a laptop propped next to his main work computer with the Farallon webcam running full screen, full time. “All my coworkers think it’s a really boring screensaver,” he remarked. 

Hardcore webcam watchers have even invented an ironically derisive term for real, in-the-flesh sightings: “meat birds.” When a rare Prairie Warbler was seen on Southeast Farallon on October 5^th but failed to pose for the webcam, virtual birders scoffed at an update posted in the webcam’s Facebook group. “This sighting is irrelevant,” one remarked.

A Hermit Warbler perches in view of the webcam.

The star at Southeast Farallon this summer, a Northern Gannet that was first spotted on April 25^th and has hung around ever since—the first of its kind ever recorded in the Pacific Ocean—eluded virtual viewers for a while. But on September 13^th, Californian birder Oscar Johnson logged on to the webcam and caught a glimpse of the distinctive bird flying past, and, on October 9^th, Matt Brady was able to point and zoom the camera at the gannet perched on its favorite rocky cliff. At home in Oregon, I happened to log on just at the right moment to watch the famous bird preen, stretch its wings, and settle down on a rocky ledge, live on my computer monitor but hundreds of miles away. 

Clearly, you can’t count webcam birds on your life list, and neither can you count meat birds on a digital list. But the question highlights an increasingly gray area. Today’s birders use such advanced technology to identify birds—image stabilization, parabolic listening devices, high-speed cameras—that the birds we “see” sometimes aren’t even detectable by normal human standards. In one sense, a webcam is just an extremely powerful spotting scope. So, where do you draw the line? Must the same photon strike both the bird and your eyeball?

Red-breasted Nuthatches have made several webcam appearances this fall, as part of an unusually heavy influx on the Farallones.

The Farallon webcam runs year round; September (and early October) is the best month to look for migratory songbirds, but you never know what might show up—Great White Shark attacks on Elephant Seals have also been observed on the webcam. Recent virtual sightings have included a Brown Booby, Wandering Tattler, Golden-crowned and White-crowned Sparrows, Brewer’s and Red-winged Blackbirds, and even a passing Violet-green Swallow. 

If you want to test your digital skills and patience, the link is below. Me, I’m off to find some real birds—in the meat, so to speak—closer to home.

http://www.calacademy.org/webcams/farallones/

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Click here to read Noah Strycker's past ABA blog posts.

Birding After LASIK

I was chilled out on Valium when it happened, but I remember distinctly that everything went very blurry, almost black, when a laser sliced a flap from the front of each one of my eyeballs near the crux of the LASIK corrective vision procedure earlier this month. It was unnerving to stare at the ceiling of the surgery room but no longer be able to see it. Birders are well attuned to their sight.

By the time my interest in birds coalesced in the fifth grade, I was already wearing glasses full time. When I first learned to use binoculars, I had trouble seeing the entire field of view, so I learned to whip the frames off my face with one hand while simultaneously lifting optics with the other. Glasses were irritating. They constantly fogged up, got scratched, and got lost.

After a decade of struggling with glasses, I reached my limit on a spray-drenched pelagic trip off the Oregon coast. So much salt kept crusting my lenses that I broke one of them trying to wipe it clean for the hundredth time, and ended up staring at blurry specks instead of albatrosses for the rest of the afternoon.

Enough was enough; I got contacts. But even contacts cramped my adventurous style. I had to put them in every morning and take them out each evening, and remember them on trips. When I spent a summer in a remote Antarctic field camp, contact solution filled half my tiny suitcase, and I had to stuff bottles of it inside my sleeping bag to prevent the stuff from freezing at night. I hiked the entire 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail last summer while packing contacts, and, though I got pretty good at jabbing the delicate lenses in my eyes with dirty fingers each morning while using a flashlight to illuminate the mirrored back of my iPod inside my tent, I dreamed of perfect vision.

Well, that dream is attainable these days—for a few thousand dollars. After years of contacts, I went for LASIK. It’s a relatively quick, laser-assisted procedure to reshape the corneas of the eyes so that they focus better and provide clearer vision.

For me, it’s been a mixed experience. Before the procedure, my corrected vision was near 20/10. A month afterward, it’s blurry at 20/20. That’s a big difference, especially when you’re trying to pick out field marks on shorebirds a half mile away. Everyone reacts differently, and some patients take a long time to stabilize—I’m still seeing halos around lights after dark—so my vision might still improve further, but, meanwhile, I’ve been pondering the implications of eyesight for birding.

What’s the difference between 20/10 and 20/20 vision? A 20/10 person can see from 20 feet what an average 20/20 person can see from 10 feet. Those two people can be looking at the same bird and see the same field marks while one is standing 20 feet away and the other is twice as close.

20/20 is average, and many people see in the 20/10 to 20/15 range (the limit of human sight is about 20/8). But that means that 50% of our population is on the other, blurrier tail of the curve. Next time you’re in the field, take a look around: Many birders are physically seeing a significantly different world than you are.

These numbers might seem like splitting hairs, but acute vision matters for birders who are forever straining to spot minute differences in plumage and nuance. Eagle-eyed sight gives a real edge to those blessed with it. One study of professional baseball players found that the average major leaguer has 20/12 vision, and suggested that 20/20 is just not good enough to recognize the path of a fastball in time to decide whether or not to swing at it. I wonder if some birders are quicker than others simply because they have better eyesight.

Of course, vision doesn’t affect birding by ear. I do about 70% of my birding by sound alone. Birders with below-average sight might compensate by paying more attention to auditory clues. And small differences in vision probably don’t much affect the view through binoculars or a scope, which effectively bring birds right into the foreground.

Post-LASIK, I haven’t noticed a huge difference in birding. I can pick out Semipalmated Sandpipers, Willow Flycatchers, and Vaux’s Swifts just as well as ever. But I occasionally can’t quite sort out little specks, like distant raptors, as clearly as before, and I sometimes go for my spotting scope sooner. On a recent camping trip, though, it was thrilling that after I went to bed I could see … the stars!

I’m not complaining. LASIK has freed me from a lifetime of glasses and contacts. And that, my friend, is so uplifting that it could be a MasterCard commercial.

Binoculars: $1,000

LASIK: $4,300

Spotting a lifer with your own two eyeballs: Priceless.

Young Birds & Young Birders

I'm enjoying my last day of summer break, doing a little back-to-school shopping (yeah, teachers do that too) and taking some trips down memory lane as I review some pics & vids from the last few weeks' worth of adventures.   Some of my most rewarding experiences this summer involved birding & naturalizing with young birders, particularly the privilege of leading at Camp Colorado and taking my most important client (my son Garrett) around Colorado's high country.  I also enjoy summer's chance of finding young birds, both to celebrate successful nesting and to entertain the hope that the next generation of birders and nature lovers will still have productive habitats and special birds to see.  Here's a little video that combines both themes- I hope you enjoy it.  -Bill Schmoker