Quotes from Kenn Kaufman

But in the early 1970s, we were not birdwatching. We were birding, and that made all the difference. We were out to seek, to discover, to chase, to learn, to find as many different kinds of birds as possible — and, in friendly competition, to try to find more of them than the next birder. We became a community of birders, with the complications that human societies always have; and although it was the birds that had brought us together, our story became a human story after all.

On a day like this, I can't imagine anything better that might happen in a person's life than for them to start paying attention to birds—to become aware of this magical world that exists all around us, unnoticed by many but totally captivating for those who know its secrets. This kind of spring day, with its bountiful myriads of colorful sprites just arrived from tropical shores, has to be one of the greatest gifts of life on Earth.

The list total isn't important, but the birds themselves are important. Every bird you see. So the list is just a frivolous incentive for birding, but the birding itself is worthwhile.

Birds are beautiful. After a lifetime of study I still love to look at them and listen to them, even the common species.

This is the West. We expect things to be tough out here.

Careful readers will note that the guy who "won" was hardly a shining example of birding ethics. What kind of person would pay thousands of dollars for flights and car rentals to chase a rare bird and then try to avoid paying a couple of bucks to get into a state park? Real birders carry their share, do their part, try to support the resource that supports birding.

One night early in my travels I had had a dream about a birder who rode through the West, identifying everything in sight, and his binoculars were made of gold. The next day I had bought some cheap gold enamel and painted mine. The gold soon faded to a sickly greenish yellow.)

Listening, I suddenly realized who the man was. This was the legendary leader of the northern California birders, Rich Stallcup, the Pirate of Point Pinos.

It was one of those mornings when you realize, with chilling clarity, that birding is a ridiculous activity.

But a few minutes later, talking to me, he repeated his original point: the important thing was that it had not felt like a skua. "When there's a skua in the neighbor hood," said Rich, "you know there's something happening. It's a big, tough bird, it's a pirate . . . you can feel the excitement pouring out from it. You'll know it, for sure, when we see one.

The American Ornithologists' Union, in a decision published earlier that year, had decreed that the White-winged was just a local variety, not a full specieis. So much for the Black Hills' only claim to birding fame. The juncos themselves, of course, did not seem to care; watching them, neither did I.

I had figured out something that seemed important: every bird had its place. None was "free as a bird." A few kinds were found all over the continent, but they were the exceptions.

Californians spoke derisively of all the exotic birds that had established feral populations in Florida, conveniently ignoring the fact that the Los Angeles basin was also full of escaped parrots and the like.

A new perspective was dawning on me. As a crass young bird-lister, I might have said: a trip to the Tortugas is good, because it adds species to the total. But a better viewpoint would be: working on a list is good, because it gives me an excuse to come to the Tortugas. After this Big Year was over, I hoped, I would be wise enough to come back to this place for its own sake.

The spark for a relationship might come for free—a look, a word. But the fuel to keep it going would always be expensive.

BAD LUCK on the road can last only so long; then you die, or your luck improves.

Son, can I help you with something?" the man asked. "Maybe," I said. "I think that guy up there is about to shoot my backpack.