Birder to Birdwatcher: Confessions and Revelations from a Patch Observer

My introduction to the world of birds came late in life.  I was thirty-one and living in Aberdeen, a town in northeastern South Dakota.  My early mentors were both named Dan.  Dan One was a degreed ornithologist who zealously pursued birds.  Dan Two, was a laid back amateur who preferred perching in a lawn chair and letting birds come to him.   Despite their behavioral traits – one scientific, the other anecdotal and folksy – both were very influential and supportive as I fledged my way along, convinced that I would never be able to tell one sparrow from another.

Those early years of birding were exciting and my new interest felt natural.  I was curious, enjoyed the outdoors and really liked the solitude of birding.  I also liked the challenge of competition.  I took easily to the idea of checklists as a type of score keeping.  Each check mark came to represent a victory.  This concept was central to my motivation to go out and look for birds.  In some ways it became more about the birds I had not seen than about the ones I had.

An ovenbird had been my “spark” bird, and from it an obsession was hatched.

I became that weird, suspicious character stalking the elm-canopied streets and overly manicured city parks of town.  Binoculars permanently collared my neck, becoming my most pronounced field mark (I did not have an alternate plumage).   Soon I was migrating to a nearby wildlife refuge at least once a week and peeping down every county back road.  My home range expanded quickly as I searched for new habitat and boxes to check.

Like most birders, I kept a variety of checklists: yard, county, state, year and life.  This desire for checkmarks lead to a turning point in my birding life – a quest to see 300 species, within the borders of South Dakota, in one year.  With 438 species on the official state list, this seemed a reasonable goal, though not achievable without considerable travel.

I was now living in the Black Hills on the western edge of the state, in the blend zone between eastern and western regions.  Birding on the prairie and eastern side of the state, especially during migration, would be essential if I was to reach my goal.  So, I traveled, chased, and checked.  By the end of the year, as successful as my quest had been, I found myself discouraged and unfulfilled – not to mention the pangs of guilt over my carbon footprint.

Tired of “chasing”, obsessing over checklist numbers, and traveling, I was in need of good molt.

My appreciation of simply being in the field and observing whatever nature presented had been parasitized by the pace of my quest, fixation on target birds, and list totals.  What I had always described as my “passionate obsession” had seemingly lost some flight feathers.

It was time to learn from my lawn chair mentor and just let the birds come to me.  I established my home territory – a three and one half mile radius from our home at Hanna, a now abandoned mining community.  This “Hanna Circle” was to become my “patch.”

Limiting my range proved difficult at first.  I found myself verdant with envy when reading listserv reports of migrating warblers, shorebirds and other species that I was unlikely to see in my new patch.  The urge to chase was difficult to cage.

My focus shifted from searching to observing – from birding to bird watching.  Immediately, I began to recognize the rewards of this new and slower pace.  I was beginning to appreciate birds as individuals instead of members of a particular species – with a corresponding box to be checked.  I stopped using common birder expressions like “good birds” and “trash birds” coming to regard such terms as disrespectful and inappropriate.  I now understood my wife’s displeasure every time I uttered the expression “just a robin.”  My binoculars became judgment free, equal opportunity lenses.  I was happy and enjoying birds more than ever.

Daily hikes into the diverse habitat surrounding our home became routine.  This led to familiarity with the area and the activity of its inhabitants.  I was now keeping a daily journal, noting individual numbers, nesting and behavioral activity, weather conditions, and whatever else seemed relevant, such as wildflower blossom dates and butterfly flight periods.

I am now able to compare daily, weekly, seasonal, and yearly observations – and marvel at the serendipity of the bird watching experience.  Not possessing the power of omnipresence – something every birder must desire – I know that many species have escaped my observation.  I know this because of the many unexpected sightings I have made.  My Hanna Circle list now totals 210 species.  Many of these, 61 to be exact, are one-time wonders and another 43 species have been observed three or fewer times.

I believe that most birders would be uncomfortable with a year list which is consistently and substantially less than 200.  I have no qualms with listing or chasing – to each their own – but it’s not for me.   My commitment to observing birds simply cannot be measured by marks on a checklist or miles on an odometer.

I have become a passive “lister” duly noting what I observe while not aggressively seeking more.   I am content with a more simple experience, blithely meandering the forest as with Doris Day singing a chorus of “que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Birder or birdwatcher?  Is there a difference, or is this a nuanced description of the same thing?  To me, they are not the same.  I have spent considerable time thinking about my relationship with birds and the natural world.  Like birds, we have behavioral traits which define us and we adapt individually to circumstance.  My evolution from avid birder to bird watcher is probably a rare morph, but it has taken me to a comfortable place: home.

By D. George Prisbe-Przybysz