I’ve always wondered what my 400th bird species in New York State would be. Thirty something years into this life of birding would imply it had to be something good. Unless of course, it’s not. It could have been the dreaded clerical achievement, the by-product of the annual meeting of the American Ornithological Union deciding to raise a subspecies to full species status and wham, you wake up one morning with a new species on your list. No, the 400th needs to be something worthy. And you need to get out of bed for it.
Fast forward to May 24, 2015. One final check of reports on the spider web of online birding sites New Yorkers utilize before I hit the hay and there it was: a Franklin’s Gull was photographed earlier in the day (at Plum Beach, Brooklyn no less). A breeder of the Upper Midwest and Canada, Franklin’s Gulls migrate through Texas from their wintering grounds on the west coast of South America. They occasionally show up in western New York in fall, but to have a breeding plumage adult anywhere in New York in spring is a big deal. Not just a state bird for me, a coveted life bird as well, a worthy candidate. Similar in appearance to our most common summer gull, the Laughing Gull, this search was going to be the proverbial needle in the haystack.
Emails were sent. Calls were made. A plan was hatched. My friend Rob and I would search alternate sites knowing a large group of birders would scour Plum. After coming up empty we eventually headed there ourselves deciding to start at the far western end. Seemingly out of the ether I watched the bird materialized a long way out in the channel to our southeast. To the delight of the twenty or so birders down the beach, we managed to communicate the location over the phone. Views were distant, but clearly identifiable before the bird departed unseen. Franklin’s Gull was my 400th species in New York. I’m not sure what I expected to happen, an adrenaline rush, high fives, an end zone dance? I don’t know, but nothing did. In fact, after congratulations from Rob I felt kind of empty. I chalked it up to being tired. I just couldn’t reconcile the moment with the feeling. It got me thinking.
You see, as a new birder the flood of information can be intense. Eight hundred regularly occurring species in the US give or take a few. Then there’s sexual dimorphism in the majority of those species (the males and females look different). If that wasn’t enough many songbird species look completely different in spring and fall. Get the hint? There is a lot to figure out.
As I kid, I would thumb through my grandparents Peterson field guide. The possibilities were endless. Illustrations of bluebirds and curlews seemed almost mythical in that moment. To this day I’m not sure if it was my desire to see them or the overwhelming feeling I never would that stirred something in me, but either way the effect was profound.
And then it began. When I was ten years old I was given my own field guide. Each species I saw would earn a check next to it’s name in the index. Life birds! Early on it’s magical. Ask any birder when they saw their first Scarlet Tanager and they could tell you. Even if like me, it was over thirty years ago (on a roadside trail off Oneida Drive in Silver Bay, NY if you’re wondering). Moments seared in memory like stamps on a timecard.
I had been watching birds for years before I actually counted how many species I had seen. I vaguely remember being in my early 20′s and realizing I had seen 175 species in New York, I gave myself a mental pat on the back and thought “Hmmm. Pretty cool.” Ten years and a fair bit of effort later that number became 300.
And then something started to change. I became acutely aware of numbers. At that time the New York State list was roughly 430 species. After 300 species the majority of annually occurring breeders and migrants diminish rapidly. Basically, it becomes a tough road to see new birds.
My 300th species in New York was a Boreal Owl in December of 2004. My 350th was a Golden Eagle in November 2006. Fifty species in two years. My 375th was a Loggerhead Shrike in November 2010. Half the new species in double the time.
Birding with friends over the years we would say things like, “Wouldn’t it be awesome if a (insert most coveted bird here) flew over right now? Yeah, I need that for the state.”
That single word “need” represented a sea change for me. What used to be exploring the unknown and experiencing things for the sake of experience and understanding quietly morphed into filling in blanks. The joy of discovery reduced instead to relief if a target species was seen, disappointment if not.
Add to this the rise of competitive listing on the coat tails of the ever-popular Ebird database’s Top 100 list and it seemed a perfect storm was brewed. (Yes, I have had strangers walk up to me in Prospect Park and after introducing themselves announce they’re gunning for me! Nice to meet you too.) The cherished experience of discovery replaced by a numbers game measured in success and failure, in gamesmanship, but without joy. Four hundred should have felt special, but it didn’t.
Milestones can and should be evaluative moments in time. It’s human nature. Take stock. Adjust perspective. What I have come to understand as I crossed this particular threshold is that for me, 400 was less a milestone and more a nod to the miles travelled. It speaks to effort, but really says little of ability.
As I entered my checklist into Ebird, describing the field marks I was able to ascertain during my brief and distant sighting this notion was driven home. This just wasn’t me.
Days later I made it back to Plum with my friend Doug. To my relief the gull eventually appeared on the south flats. A slow approach was rewarded. For the better part of an hour the bird actively fed and defended whatever patch of sand it stood on. Without fanfare in the warming afternoon light the opportunity to study this incredible bird was afforded to a small group of us. It was amazing to see this species alongside Atlantic Brant, Laughing Gulls and Eastern Willets, birds it probably never encountered before. The gull may have been out of place, but in that moment I was right at home.
The best experiences in nature both answer and ask questions and this was no exception. My time with this bird left me with a greater understanding of the species yet wondering about its journey here and how it was able to identify and adjust to a food source not native to it.
As the Franklin’s Gull screamed up the beach one last time it dawned on me. Although perhaps not at first, my 400th species had just showed me exactly what I needed, and it wasn’t another “tick.”