I’m late in running across your thought-provoking column, but really appreciated the sentiments you expressed in it. They apply, or at least should apply, equally not only to beginners, but also to those of us longtime birders who, like me, are concerned that the emphasis placed on identification and list-building detracts from the joy and wonder that observing even “ordinary” birds can yield. I elaborated on this in an article I wrote some months ago for the local Audubon chapter of which I’m vice-president, and am taking the liberty of appending it below.

Many thanks again for your sentiments!

Sincerely,

John C. Rumm
Cody, Wyoming

Slow Birding: Shifting Your Approach from “What Is It?” to “What Is It?”

It’s been getting blustery of late, with trees swaying, leaves swirling and temperatures dropping. Days like these, when autumn seems ready to give way to winter, are tailor-made for settling down in a comfortable chair, putting your feet up, and watching the birds outside your window. Lately I’ve been doing just that, and I find myself paying special attention to House Sparrows. They’ve been flocking to our yard in large groups and foraging on the ground, picking up grass and hay seeds, bits of dirt or gravel, or whatever else suits their fancy. And, on several occasions, I’ve noticed some engaging in peculiar behavior. These sparrows—males, all of them—light on the top rail of the fence surrounding our horse corral, sit for a moment, and then suddenly “corkscrew” themselves into the air, rising about four feet and then spiraling back down to the rail. It’s like nothing I’ve ever noticed them do before. I’m eager to learn more about their behavior. Is it some sort of display? Are they marking their territory? Are they alerting other sparrows to the presence of something tasty? What is it they’re doing? I don’t know—but I’m curious enough that I want to spend more time observing them.

Exploring the forests and fields of Trail Wood, their farm in Hampton, Connecticut, the naturalist-writer Edwin Way Teale and his wife Nellie delighted in finding species they’d never encountered before. “Whenever we discover a new [one],” Teale wrote, “our first question is: ‘WHAT is it?’ But always there is a second question, or rather the same question with a different emphasis: ‘What IS it?’ And that is a more difficult question to answer. It encompasses the abilities, the habits, the life story of the individual. That answer usually entails patient and prolonged study in the field” (A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm [1974], pp. 18-19).

As Teale noted, that second question requires a shift in emphasis, from “what” to “is.” But more than that, it also entails a shift in approach—from identification to observation, from recognition to understanding. Adopting this different approach can transform how we experience the world around us.

Here is how a day-long birding outing typically happens: You get up before the crack of dawn, wolf down a quick breakfast, grab your binoculars or spotting scope, a field guide or two, perhaps a notebook and/or a camera, lunch or some snacks, a thermos of coffee or some water, and rush out the door. Reaching your destination, you start looking and listening, hoping to find birds you’ve never seen before so that you can check them off your life-list. If everything works out well and you have a really great day, adding lots of species to your list, it’s liable to be one of those experiences you’ll treasure. On the other hand, if all you wind up seeing are the same old birds you’ve seen countless times before, your experience may seem tedious, even boring—one of those dreaded “slow” birding days.

No one, it seems, wants “slow” birding days, the days when you see only the commonplace or the familiar. If birding is a game, a spectator sport, the worst that can happen is to invest in the effort to see new birds, yet come up empty.

In The Feather Quest, his account of the year he and his wife Linda spent birding across North America, Pete Dunne describes how, as birders hone their skills through experience, they find it “unnecessary to puzzle over common, everyday birds,” preferring instead to tackle increasingly difficult identification challenges. “There is a price, of course,” he writes, explaining that “as skills grow, the sense of wonder that supports beginning birders diminishes. What replaces it is discovery. Wonder is something a child can hold in its hand, a feather or a bird fallen from the nest. Discovery is a prize garnered by ambition and skill. It is not as great as wonder. But it is very close, and it is also very addictive. Once a birder has a taste for it, there is only one thing that can satisfy the craving, and that is more ” (p. 41).

“Slow” birding days fail to satisfy that itch, that craving, which drives hardcore birders farther afield in search of new birds for their lists.

Yet with all due respect to Mr. Dunne, whose writings I otherwise admire, I’d argue that we birders can’t, and shouldn’t, be so cavalier about losing that childlike sense of wonder. Keeping it alive requires that shift in emphasis of which Teale wrote—from “WHAT is it” to “what IS it.” Whereas birding involves disaggregating birds—quickly differentiating or identifying species through their distinctive, diagnostic field-marks—this alternate approach is holistic, based on observing the whole bird in relation to its environment over an extended period of time. And, instead of seeking new birds to check off on your life-list, this approach is aimed at seeking to better understand those “common, everyday birds” you encounter all the time—like House Sparrows, for instance.

Think of it, in short, as “slow birding.”

A philosophical approach, slow birding is to observing birds what the “slow food movement” is to eating. As defined by the movement’s founder, the Italian gastronomist Carlo Petrini, “slow food means giving the act of nourishing oneself the importance it deserves, learning to take pleasure in the diversity of recipes and flavors, recognizing the variety of places where food is produced and the people who produce it, and respecting the rhythm of the seasons and of human gatherings” (Petrini, Slow Food: The Case for Taste [2004], p. xvii). Similarly, slow birding means deriving pleasure from the act—and art—of watching birds, delighting in the diversity of their forms, colors, sounds and behaviors, recognizing the variety of habitats they occupy, and respecting how they interact with the changing rhythms of the seasons, and with other birds.

Like slow food, slow birding focuses on the local—the birds in your backyard, neighborhood, or nearby wild area. You can even engage in it, as I have been doing, from inside your own home. It is leisurely and unhurried, with time in the act of observing birds being passed rather than spent. Simply put, as unobtrusively as possible, and with a minimal investment of effort, the “slow birder” observes the life of a single species of bird—its comings and goings, its behavior patterns, its foraging and feeding, its changes in plumage, its courtship and mating, its nest-building and egg-laying, its parenting, its marking of territory, its defense against predators. And, in observing, the “slow birder” not only sees and listens, but also asks questions—looking at the birds around him or her with the wide eyes, and wondering curiosity, of a child. Where is it right now? What is it doing? How and why is it doing that? How long has it been doing it? What was it doing before it started doing what it is doing now? Is it alone? What is it doing in relation to other birds, either of its own kind or other species? What is the weather like now, and how might it be affecting what the bird is doing?

“I think the value of the game of identification,” Rachel Carson eloquently wrote in The Sense of Wonder, “depends on how you play it. If it becomes an end in itself, I count it of little use. It is possible to compile extensive lists of creatures seen and identified without ever once having caught a breath-taking glimpse of the wonder of life. If a child asked me a question that suggested even a faint awareness of the mystery behind the arrival of a migrant sandpiper on the beach of an August morning, I would be far more pleased than by the mere fact that he knew it was a sandpiper and not a plover” (p. 83).

Deliberate, purposeful and patient, slow birding is a way to recapture that sense of wonder.

Peter Dunne may well be right that once a birder has acquired the taste for field identification, only “more” will satisfy it. More than a taste, however, slow birding offers the observer something to be savored and fully appreciated—a feast for the mind.

So, on one of those bracing fall or winter days, find yourself a comfortable chair, kick back, look out your window, and spend some quality time slow birding.

But watch out—you may find yourself getting hooked on it!

So pleased to hear this resonated with you. Mentoring, mentoring, mentoring seems to be the evolving theme. And thank you for spreading these ideas through your own blog. Doing so helps build that “Birder’s Welcome Wagon of epic proportions!” Cheers!

You’re already a keen observer, so in time you’ll build the skills. In the absence of field time, surround yourself with information on the Internet or magazines. Troll your local birding listserv (http://birdingonthe.net/mailinglists/CAYU.html) to become familiar with locations and bird names and patterns.

If there’s anyway you could take the Spring Field Ornithology course through Cornell you’d love it! Make visits to Cornell Lab of O occasionally. Try to meet a few good birders and invite yourself on a trip.

Subscribe to a birding magazine or join the American Birding Association just to observe for now and when you have more time you’ll be that much ahead of the game.

Also, are you still under 19 by any chance? The NY Federation of Bird Clubs has a young birder program that provides mentoring. http://www.nybirds.org/ProjNYSYBC.htm

Keep it up no matter what. And good luck.

Everyone who enjoys bird watching began their hobby, sport, passion, profession or obsession for birding somewhere, at some age, and advanced their knowledge and skills from that point to where they are now.

You are so very right that “birding is as relevant today as it ever was—indeed more so due to the rapid pace of habitat destruction that threatens populations.” Not only bird populations but other species as well.

If we don’t turn on the kids (and adults) of today to nature and all that is around them, I feel that we will be lost.

Your bullet points are right on. We need to coach and mentor others as well as making them feel welcome, whether in the field or in a meeting.

This post was so important and timely to me, that I wrote a post on my blog titled “what makes you a good birder” simply to send my readers that may not know you, here, to read this post.

Thank you for your insight and honesty. I hope your ideas, especially those bullet points, get spread all over birderdom!

Another problem is that at my school: SUNY Binghamton, there is no Audubon or birding group or organization that I know of, so I can’t learn from those who are more experienced than me, as there is no setup to facilitate that.

As a newb, a mentor or teacher program would help me the most. I like to read my Sibley’s Guide, but there is nothing like being out in the field who knows the birds of the area to help you learn how to identify and spot birds.

Once you have the ‘birding bug,’ you can become as proficient as you want to be with time and effort — which has the added value of requiring you to be outdoors in fabulously birdy settings. But it’s not a race, so take your own sweet time. Look at every bird…

Also, know that most birders are willing to help you along with advice on locations and identification, so don’t be shy to ask. You can find them at beginning bird walks, birding festivals, and local nature centers. There are also many social webs of birders that have formed on the Internet…blogs, Facebook, Twitter, eBird, etc.

I wonder: As a newbie, what do you need MOST to help you enjoy birding?

Thanks!