Birding 101

“If one keeps his eyes open, he will see the teachings everywhere.”
Buddha

“Well don’t you know about the bird? Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word.”
The Trashmen



For a successful birdwalk, you will need to gather a few items to help you along your journey. Firstly, you will need a strong pair of walking shoes, rubber-soled with grooves for negotiating steep hills and muddy places. Long socks as opposed to shin-highs or footies are preferred as occasionally you may venture from the path and get burrs or foxtails stuck in your shoes. One pair of binoculars or a telescope (this is a must for identification and viewing the rich color patterns of feathers). A copy of Peterson’s “Field Guide to Western Birds” or “National Geographic’s Field Guide to Birds of North America” to quickly reference any species you meet along the way. One notepad and pen for documenting species and for noting other points of interest. One wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off your face, (unless the sun is no where to be found). Long- sleeve shirt or sweater or jacket as you will be getting an early start because birds are most active at first light and generally this is a chilly time of day. Other items you will find useful: bottled water, sunscreen, energy bar, sunglasses, camera (long lens preferably), bug spray, map of area, patience, generosity, courage, wisdom, open eyes, an open mind, some stamina and definitely, most of all, an open heart.
My first birding excursion was on a mild spring day, April 2008, at the Thousand Oaks Botanical Garden. Some fog in the early morning that I knew would burn off around lunch. We were running late, my ten-year-old daughter, Sofia, already complaining, “I hate birds”, she exclaimed, throwing herself back in the seat.
“How can you hate birds?” I asked.
“I just do.”
I didn’t know how to respond. When you hate birds, you hate birds. There is no argument for this.
My wife was also not very thrilled at the idea of spending early Saturday morning, when she could have been sleeping in, with a bunch of strangers on a walk to look at birds.
“I can look at birds in my back yard. Why do we need to get up so early?”
“Um…”
“I worked hard all week and now we have to spend my Saturday morning with a bunch of strangers walking in the park?”
“Yeah, well…”
“We can walk in the park anytime,” she whined.
“This is special. This is like meditation,” was my answer but I didn’t really know what to expect either. I had never been on a guided birdwalk before and was a little nervous at the prospect. I was concerned I didn’t know the proper etiquette and might say something stupid or inappropriate which usually find myself doing anyhow, no matter what the circumstances.
The only experience I had as a birder was when I was around nine or ten and found a dusty copy of the Peterson’s Field Guide on our book shelf. I loved the illustrations and found myself venturing into the forests around Mud Bay in northwestern Washington State, identifying fantastic and magical species of birds such as the Flicker, the Kingfisher, the giant Pileated Woodpecker, the tiny House Wren, the Mourning Dove, the Goldfinch, the Killdeer, the Great Blue Heron, the Chickadee, Steller’s Jay, the Cedar Waxwing (one of my favorites), all of which I knew well by my tenth year. I would sketch little drawings of the birds and make notes of their identifying marks and calls.
One of the most awe-inspiring experiences I had birding as a youth was coming upon a network of Great Blue Heron nests atop a grove of cottonwood trees and seeing the magnificent creatures in large numbers shadowed in silhouette, trumpeting and squawking, like giant, mythic sentinels from some lost prehistoric epoch.

We drove around the parking lot of the Botanical Gardens, realizing the park had three different entrances and was quite vast, encircling a series of wooded hills in the Conejo Valley of Southern California.
My stomach grew queasy at the fear of this new adventure and for being twenty minutes late already. Soon we spotted a cluster of cars at the furthest interior lot. A group of people huddled together in a semi-circle. My first thought was they were doing some kind of pre-birding ritual to perhaps appease the bird gods to make for a favorable walk. They looked like players on a football team receiving plays from a quarterback.
My contact was Roger of the Ventura County Audubon Society. I knew nothing about Roger only that he sounded white and older and somewhat kindly on the phone.
“This sucks. I can’t believe we’re doing this,” my daughter imparted with encouragement.
“Just check it out. Could be fun,” I tried to pump her up.
“Yeah, right.” She made a face at me that basically said, “Dad, you’re a loser.” Ten-year-old girls these days have a lot of attitude. If you don’t have one yet, you will soon find this out.
As we made our way across the long parking lot toward the group, I realized they were not doing some pre-birding ritual but looking at nature photos Roger has taken. Roger was a wiry little man with a sturdy build, outwardly unaffected by his seventy-one years on this planet. Still very vigorous and in great shape, he looked like he could walk forever, up any mountain, through any dense thicket, crossing a desert if need be. He was dressed in khakis of an agricultural bent, floppy-brimmed hat. His eyes were intense and I instantly anticipated getting a frontal assault of big male ego energy at our first exchange, but this couldn’t have been be further from the truth. When he spoke his face softened and kindness mixed with deep compassion shone through. He exuded an inner peace and natural openness with the world around him.
“Hey, you must be Roger. I’m Jay. I called and talked to Ann and she told me to meet here,” I stuttered nervously.
“Great.”
“I found you guys online through the newsletter and thanks for having me,” I said.
He looked at me calmly, subdued, with the eyes of a saint.
“Welcome. Thanks for joining us.” He returned to showing a few more photos to other persons in the group.
It was primarily an older crowd, well-educated, well-groomed, clean, tidy. And happy. Everybody was very welcoming. I didn’t expect this because it is still only 8:20am in the morning and sometimes it’s tough for people, including myself, to look like they’re having a peachy-keen time right after they wake up.
Instantly, an older woman with a Safari hat and vest approached me.
“Where are your binoculars? Can’t see anything without binoculars.”
“Yeah, dad. Where are your binoculars?” my daughter prodded sarcastically.
“Uh, well that’s the thing…I forgot them because we were running late.”
“Oh well, we better go,” my daughter snapped.
My heart sunk. I had actually set out a pair of old binoculars but forgotten to throw them in the car when we left.
“I think Dennis has an extra pair.”
This was not thirty seconds into arrival, already someone was willing to help me secure a pair of binoculars. A few words were exchanged with a tall, geeky looking man, Dennis, and I have secured my very own pair of Eagle Optics 6x30 binoculars for the excursion. Before I knew it, my daughter snatched the pair from my hands and threw the strap around her neck, proudly claiming herself “Keeper of the Binoculars”, doling out their use at her whim.
“Hey, I thought you hated birds?” I asked my daughter.
“I do but I’m still carrying the binoculars.”
Raw deal.
Before we advanced to the hiking trail, we were already encountering many species of birds right there in the parking lot. A small group pointed excitedly toward a distant grassy hill with a single valley oak tree that twisted toward the sky. I asked someone what the excitement was. “Red-tailed hawk”. I glassed the hillside and couldn’t find anything in the jittery, limited field of view. A heavy-set man with 60s style square glasses named Matt, tapped me on the shoulder and motioned toward his telescope mounted on a tripod. I looked through the viewfinder and was blown away. I couldn’t believe the rich color pattern I beheld. It looked like a painting. The red-tailed hawk’s coloring was nothing like I had ever seen before. Bright, beautiful, vibrant. I wanted to stare longer but a small line was forming behind me to get a peek through the scope.
I asked my daughter if she was able to view the hawk with the borrowed binoculars. She shot back with a facetious look that is best described as “someone who is mentally challenged looking excited”. From the parking lot we made our way across the grass and up a slope to the hiking trail. I walked close to Roger because I had a burning question I really wanted to ask him but found myself really just wanting to talk to the guy because he had such a soothing, peaceful aura about him that seemed to affect everyone and everything within his range.
“There is a little dark-colored bird, with a light body and a dark crest. It’s a friendly bird and one of its behaviors is to “dip” from its perch and swoop into the grass and return to its spot. I call it a “Grassdipper” but I know that’s not its real name,” I explained.
“Could be a Black Phoebe. Where have you seen this bird?”
“Usually at my house. In my back yard. At the park,” I told him.
“What kind of call does it have?”
“It’s a single tweet. And it moves its tail when it does this.”
“A Black Phoebe. It’s a type of flycatcher. When it “dips” into your yard it is catching a fly which is its primary diet. There’s also a Say’s Phoebe and a Vermillion Flycatcher that are similar. The Vermillion Flycatcher is exceptionally rare though.”
“Is it really vermillion?”
“Bright red.”
We strolled together for a moment and my mind raced for things to say because this was one of the rare moments when I had Roger alone. He was constantly swarmed by members of the society during the walk.
“What kind of work do you do? Are you retired? How long have you been doing this?” I anxiously threw out random questions to Roger just because I wanted to talk to the guy and dwell in his aura of peace.
“About twenty-eight years. I retired a few years ago.”
“So you do this. What else do you do?”
“I roam.”
Two women closed in on Roger to ask him about a strange bird one of them had seen in her backyard that looked like a mini-hawk which he explained was probably an American Kestral or Sparrowhawk.
The trail meandered past endless fields of wild mustard, California sunflower, white alder trees, desert willows, wild lilac and a myriad of valley oaks.
As we walked, I took note of all the birds we identified in my journal. People in the group were more than happy to make sure I got the names and spellings correct.
My daughter was getting into it, excited and dancing now, finding the birds with the binoculars and being stunned by the rich colors.
We saw Alan’s Hummingbird, Western Kingbird, the bright orange-yellow Hooded Oriole, California Quayle, American Goldfinch, California Towee, Western Bluebird, Red-Tailed Hawk, House Wren (although I am confused because the House Wren in California are larger than the tiny House Wren I knew from Washington State), Song Sparrow, Nutcatcher, House Finch, Acorn Woodpecker (who is named thus because he hides his acorns in little holes in oak trees. Roger points this out to us on the walk), American Robin, Black Phoebe (I call this a Grassdipper), Mallard (Male), Bush Titt, Mourning Dove, White-Crested Nuthatch.
We stopped for a water break near a sapphire dragon tree and I noticed there was one man off by himself, smoking. He was the only person who didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. He looked irritable, like someone had dragged him along and he much rather wanted to be golfing or watching a baseball game. He was tall, thin, with a shock of gray hair, sunglasses and pastel clothing that appeared more functional for library wear than a nature hike. He was also the only person without a pair of binoculars or spotting scope. I heard a few people ask him questions like, “Alan, did you sell your boat yet?” or “Alan, are you going to the walk in Ojai next week?” Along the way I threw him a few questions about incidentals just to see what he was about which he only answered with a grunt or groan. When he was alone with his cigarette, I mustered the courage to ask a more direct question, “Why do you do this?”
After a long pause, remaining stone-faced, he answered with an uncertain smile:
“It comforts me.” I was surprised by his candor. He ground his cigarette into the dirt with his jogging shoe.
“But you’re the only one here who seems like they don’t really want to be here.” He looked at me again with mild irritation. (Note to the reader, I am generally only this direct with people I am certain I can subdue in hand-to-hand combat).
“My wife was really into it,” said Alan.
“She didn’t come today?”
“She passed on.”
“I’m sorry.”
That hurt me a little bit. I was being a pushy jerk because I thought he had an attitude and he was really only still mourning the death of his wife. Talking further with Alan, I found out that he was retired from an executive job at a pharmaceutical company, married nearly forty years and had never gone birdwatching with his wife before. He only began when his wife got sick.
“I like to come with Roger because some of the other people who lead these things are idiots, frankly,” Alan confided.
“This is my first.”
“I know.”
“How did you know?”
“You ask too many questions.”
I always have the strange tendency to ask weird questions of complete strangers.
As we walked further down the trail which snaked into an oak forest along a trickling creek, I dropped the bomb:
“Do you believe in God?”
Alan glared at me with absolute incredulity as if I had asked him if he had ever raped his grandmother.
“I’m an atheist,” he replied.
“That’s cool.”
“I believe in the Church of High Overhead,” he said with levity.
I thought of something else to say and we kind of just walked alongside each other feeling that clumsy silence of two personalities who repel each other like the wrong sides of colliding magnets.
Before I moved off to join my wife and daughter who have ventured ahead on the trail, he caught me with a question of his own.
“Do you believe?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“But what do you base that on?”
Dennis, the man who had loaned me the binoculars, chuckled and stepped between us like a ref between two boxers, sensing the heaviness in the air.
“How did we get on this God debate?”
“He started it,” Alan said with a hint of good humor in his expression.
“No. He did. I swear,” I said.
“Let me ask you this. Where is God? Where can I see him?”
Dennis slouched off, shaking his head and flashing an uneasy grin.
I looked at Alan’s eyes that shone slightly through his hundred dollar Ray Bans. I saw some macho haughtiness but there was pain and anguish there too.
I wanted to say something really profound here but couldn’t find the words. You know when you’re confronted with the chance to convey some earth-shattering philosophical concept that could change lives, shift realities, move mountains…but you don’t? All you can focus on is your anxiety as your mind races a million miles an hour. I even entertained the idea of changing a non-believer into a believer with a single, well-delivered gem of inspiration.
I tried to formulate something and it came out all wrong: “It’s really all about what you choose to believe…I mean, who we are as…you know…where we are spiritually…”
He made an exasperated sound by blowing air out of his mouth and skipped ahead of me down the narrow trail. Then it came to me, “Everywhere”. That’s what I should have said. “He’s everywhere!” I wanted to run after him and take his arm and yell right in his face: “Everywhere!” Or scream at him from a distance so it echoed over the distant hills, “Hey Alan! Everywhere-where-where-where!” Hah!
Then I read his mind: Yeah, screw you! You blew it! I don’t believe, jerkface! Because of you, I will never believe! I will die a non-believer and end up in hell because you don’t know how to communicate your ideas! I opened the door for you to say something profound and you stuttered like a school girl! You amateur! You fake! Loser!
I tried to catch up with him and tell him but a man had cornered him in discussion about a sail boat he owned that was collecting barnacles in Ventura Harbor. I had blown it, big time.
We never spoke again the rest of the walk and later I learned that Alan had a stroke a few months after the birdwalk and half of his body was paralyzed. I never heard if he recovered or not.
As we neared the end of the walk, a few people had already left. I looked at my wife and daughter and they appeared energized. They were laughing and singing. My wife’s stress level from the previous week of trying to earn a living and never having enough, had melted away. She was happy and excited.
“Hey Sofi, how did you like the walk?” I asked my daughter. “Did you have fun?”
“No,” was her flat answer but I knew she did by the way she was filled with such joy and excitement.
“I actually had a really good time. I’m surprised,” my wife added. “And best of all, it’s not even eleven yet. We still had the whole day to do things.”
Roger thanked me for coming and said we should join him on a walk to the grasslands of Oxnard by the beach in two weeks. He began to list off some of the species we might encounter. I told him I would love to. When my wife and daughter were out of earshot, I cut Roger off as he continued naming various shore birds.
“Roger, tell me, why do you really do this?”
“This?”
“Birdwatching.”
“I hadn’t really thought about that.”
“It’s just fun for you, or…”
“I have no clue. Why do you do it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I felt a connection. I also read it’s a good walking meditation.”
“You want to know why I do it?” I looked at him, anticipating some heady gem. “I have no clue,” he said and patted me on the shoulder with a sheepish grin.
Back at the car I asked my daughter the big question, “Do you still hate birds?”
“Yes.”