Never Enough Birds

Since dipping a toe into the bird pool, my librarian friend, Shayne and I want to swim all the way across. “I’ve always wanted to be an expert at something,” she confesses. I agree that would be cool, and we decide let’s learn all about birds.

After discovering that the biggest clues in bird identification lie in the auditory realm, we sign ourselves up to spend a weekend with the Audubon experts for the course, Birding by Ear. What better place to begin our journey towards expertise than Cape May, NJ, listed by National Geographic as the world’s best destination for birding?

The weekend of the class, Shayne, another birding friend named Kathy, and I rent a charming little spot not far from the observatory. We settle in for as much birding as we can stand. Shayne has procured a copy of the movie The Big Year to get us into our theme. As we watch Steve Martin, Jack Black, and Owen Wilson turn the challenge of identifying the most species of birds in a calendar year into comedy, we crow deliriously as the cast crisscrosses the continent trying to count more birds than the other guys. Even though the idea sounds laughable, none of us can shake the desire to follow suit and conquer a birding challenge.

It might not be realistic to expect any record breaking, but I start my own life list (the list of accumulated species I’ve sighted and identified during my lifetime) the very next day.

First part of our learning session, we spend classroom time learning how to describe and listen for the various chirps, chips, songs, and alarms, many of which are almost identical. I turn to my friends. “I wish they all said their name, like the Chickadee, and the Whippoorwill.”

“I wish they didn’t all sound like, ‘Tweet, tweet,’ ” Shayne returns.

We practice distinguishing a Prairie Warbler (imagine him singing zee-zee-zee right up a scale) from the trill of the Chipping Sparrow. We hear recordings of birds that sound like ping pong balls, versus bouncing balls, Robins with sore throats, buzzes, frips, dee dree drr, and even some that say, “drink your tea,” or “free beer.” By the time we finish I am thoroughly confused and must agree with Shayne. They all do chirp or tweet.

Next, we pile into vehicles. I stick closely to our teacher while in the field. (I’m afraid he may think I’m stalking him since I learned he illustrated some of the images in the field guide I’m carrying, and I forced him to autograph them.) I grow proud of myself as I correctly say, “Ovenbird,” after hearing “teacher-teacher-teacher,” the third time. But farther down the road, our teacher pulls his truck over after hearing a flight call out his open window. “Hear that?” We all listen attentively. I can’t distinguish one sound from the rest, but Shayne nods at the chik-brrr and says she hears a Scarlet Tanager. I’m astonished and impressed, but feeling a little hopeless that I’ll make much progress in birding by ear.

Not long after our class, Shayne learns about a grassland bird survey looking for citizen scientists willing to do counts in our county. I’m not sure I’ll be much help, but we attend the training and go home with CDs to study. I listen time and time again until the voice-over “Grasshopper Sparrow,” and the “bubbly sound of the Bobolink” seem permanently ingrained in my mind, even if the accompanying bird noises are more wobbly in attachment. We put our practice to the test and hope we don’t skew the data. Unfortunately, the bird Shayne longs most to hear, the Upland Sandpiper, never gets into our counts.

The unearthly bubbling whistle of the Upland Sandpiper is indeed the strangest sound on our grassland bird CD. It rises and falls slowly, arcing and descending almost like a construction worker’s whistle as a supermodel walks by. Every time we practice or do a count Shayne says, “I really want to hear that bird.” I determine to make it happen, but how? The bird is truly rare in our area and none of our birding friends have one on their life list.

On our next birding quest our guide asks if there are any birds we would particularly like to search for, so I ask, “Would you happen to be able to provide an Upland Sandpiper?” She gets us views of many other birds, Meadowlarks, and Night Herons, which I mark on my life list with the date and location, but no Uppies. However, it is not a lost cause. She gives me the number for an Audubon nest counter, an intern who checks Upland nests several times a week on the Lakehurst Naval Air Station. (Of course, those smart birds found a remote drop zone hardly ever used to build their nests. And of course, it’s in a restricted area we can’t just wander to on our own.) I call the number and am beyond excited to tell Shayne we have an appointment to tag along on the nest count this summer!

It's the hottest day of July when we meet the Audubon intern and follow her through the base to a clearing deep in the pine woods. Overgrown grass covers the area between round targets paratroopers aim for during training. We park at the edge of the clearing, and a strange guttural knocking, ku-ku-ku-kdowl comes from the trees. We all pause and listen, then I declare, “Yellow-billed Cuckoo,” out of nowhere.

“Wow. How’d you know that?”

“I’m not sure. It just came to me.” I’m pretty pleased when we figure out, I’m right.

The sun beats on us mercilessly as we follow the fit young intern from nest to nest. We keep our distance and watch her checking sites when the eerie sound rises. Shayne and I are wide-eye and gape at each other. “That’s really it!” Soon we see the Uppies too, observing their nesting behaviors along with the little nighthawks we disturb between nests. The haunting call repeatedly stops us as we trek across the terrain. Every time the whistle sounds, we pause in wonder and listen.

I’m almost faint from the heat at the end of our exploration, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. Since our first trip to Cape May, I’ve added hundreds of birds to my life list. I may not have a Big Year, but this sure is adding to a big life. And the somber trill whistle that falls in pure tones from shallow Upland Sandpiper wingbeats will haunt me all those days.

Your turn: Do you have a favorite bird song or natural sound?