Barred owl.
If you’re in the Northern Hemisphere, and you’re thinking you might like to know a little more about the birds around you, the time is now. Floods of migrants are returning, they’re flitting about in the new leaves of the canopy, they’re singing their guts out. All you have to do is listen.
Ruby-throated hummingbird.
“Birding” and “birdwatching” are not the same. Most true birders I know have learned to use their ears.
Try this. Get up early. Go out in a mixed woodland. And just stand there. What do you hear? Chances are you hear flutes and chimes and twitters and trills, maybe some buzzy notes, maybe some rattles and squeals. Some near, some far. What are their sources? What tiny, antic winged creatures are making these sounds? You just have to follow them and find out.
That’s how I became a birder—my wonder at the natural music of spring. How well I remember, my first spring in Maine, the sense of awe and confusion I had at the crazy calls of all the returning, singing birds. I’d fixate on a particular call and crash through the trees with a pair of binoculars (you’ll need binoculars) until I’d get a look at the responsible party. And chances were it was a small, moving, colorful bird.
They’re not all colorful, of course, but most of them are. And it’s a good thing, too, because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to pick them out in my field guide. (You’ll need a field guide.) And as soon as I did—the sweet moment I found the very bird I’d seen making that sound—I claimed that bird forever. I added it to my list. (You don’t absolutely need a list, but nearly all the birders I know keep one. Or several.) And then I’d chase after another bird.
Red-eyed vireo.
Now, a few decades later, I know nearly all the songs of the birds that hang out in my particular neighborhood of the planet, so when they return in spring (or when I happen upon the year-round residents in the off-season), I know them by their voices. Kind of like how I know the voices of my friends and family. I don’t need to see them to know they’re there. The uninitiated either think I’m some kind of magician, or they think I’m crazy. Meanwhile, I just keep going out into the woods and listening to birds.
Usually—at this time of year, at least—I listen and then I see. Or I don’t see. But I know they’re there.
It doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes, your eyes are the important thing. You’ll be walking slowly around a curve of the trail and a woodcock will suddenly take wing right in front of you. Or you’ll be standing in a poplar grove, and tiny warblers will be flitting through the branches above you, and you’ll be checking them out with your binocs, and one will happen to be a magnolia warbler. But it never sang. Never made a peep. Just passing through.
This early morning on Beech Hill, as Jack and I started along a dark stretch of trail, I saw a large bird rise from the understory ahead of us and perch on a large branch. We stopped at once, of course, and I raised my camera. I thought it was a woodland hawk at first, but through the viewfinder I saw it was an owl. A barred owl—the commonest on the hill—and suddenly it was joined by another, also rising on silent wings to an overhanging limb. It posed for a photo.
Eastern kingbird.
The owls made no sound at all, but the kingbird did. I wouldn’t have seen it otherwise. As, earlier, the first-of-year blackburnian warbler had sung brightly in the lowlands. I never saw the warbler, but I knew it’s voice by heart, and it thrilled me just the same. Two other first-of-year birds—alder and great crested flycatcher—I never saw. But I did see the red-eyed vireo.
A moment ago, in late twilight, I stood out on my back deck and listened. House finch. Crow. Black-throated green warbler. Ovenbird. Cardinal. (I happen to know the individual cardinal, in fact, because half its call, oddly, imitates a song sparrow’s.) The only one I saw was the crow.
The time is now. Do it.
Note: After you’ve gotten a start, you might want to check out my friend Derek Lovitch’s new book, How to Be a Better Birder.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 7 a.m., I hiked all trails.
1. Common yellowthroat
2. Hermit thrush (v)
3. Black-throated green warbler* (v)
4. Black-and-white warbler*
5. Black-capped chickadee*
6. Chestnut-sided warbler
7. Downy woodpecker (v)
8. Ovenbird*
9. Northern flicker (v)
10. Northern parula (v)
11. Veery
11. Blackburnian warbler‡
12. American crow*
13. Red-eyed vireo‡
14. Rose-breasted grosbeak (v)
15. Herring gull* (v)
16. American redstart
17. Gray catbird
18. Magnolia warbler
19. American robin*
20. Eastern towhee
21. Great crested flycatcher‡ (v)
22. Blue jay
23. Ruby-throated hummingbird
24. Song sparrow*
25. Eastern phoebe
26. White-throated sparrow (v)
27. Field sparrow (v)
28. Alder flycatcher‡ (v)
29. Nashville warbler (v)
30. Savannah sparrow
31. Mourning dove*
32. Tree swallow
33. Wild turkey
34. Eastern kingbird
35. American goldfinch*
36. Yellow warbler (v)
37. Barred owl
38. White-breasted nuthatch (v)
Elsewhere
39. House finch
40. Canada goose
41. Mallard
42. Northern cardinal
v = Voice only
*Also elsewhere
‡First-of-year bird
Common yellowthroat.
Tags: alder flycatcher, American crow, American goldfinch, American redstart, American robin, barred owl, black-and-white warbler, black-capped chickadee, black-throated green warbler, blackburnian warbler, blue jay, chestnut-sided warbler, common yellowthroat, downy woodpecker, eastern kingbird, eastern phoebe, eastern towhee, field sparrow, gray catbird, great crested flycatcher, hermit thrush, herring gull, house finch, magnolia warbler, mourning dove, Nashville warbler, northern cardinal, northern flicker, northern parula, ovenbird, red-eyed vireo, rose-breasted grosbeak, ruby-throated hummingbird, savannah sparrow, song sparrow, tree swallow, veery, white-breasted nuthatch, white-throated sparrow, wild turkey, yellow warbler
