I’ve been a pretty casual birder all my life. I do a little birding every day and often take photos, but seldom range far afield. Sometimes I chase local rarities if they’re easy to get to; I’d rather listen to a Giants game from my cushy recliner than tromp through brambles and poison oak for a vagrant thrush, or slip and slide down a muddy riverbank for a rare sandpiper. It is — well, was — a comfortable, easy relationship with a hobby that brings me great joy.
Until a few months ago when a slate-throated redstart was spotted at a city park in San Francisco.
Something about that bird, the first of its species ever seen in California, got under my skin. It was so far away yet so temptingly close. I tried to forget about it but it flitted its way into my dreams. The eBird reports came in by the dozens and I pored over them, lingering over the photos. Oh, those photos. They showed a brilliant little warbler, slate-ish blue-black on its head, back, wings and tail, with a rosy breast and a sweet reddish crown. There was a bold pattern of white spots on its tail. It was a beauty.
The first Sunday after the redstart was reported, I was puttering around the house with an action-packed agenda of vacuuming, Olympics and possibly cake. Two hours later, I found myself buckled into the last available seat on the afternoon flight to San Francisco with only the haziest recollection of how I got there. The plane touched down at 3:45 p.m.; by 4:30 I was watching that lovely redstart hop around the willow branches over my head, singing and occasionally fanning its spotted tail. It was magical.
But it was also impulsive, out of character and even a little, well, embarrassing. Because for me birding’s never been about instant gratification; it’s about serenity, that almost meditative state where time slows down and you feel a deep connection with the natural world. One of the best ways to achieve that is to let the birds come to you. It’s easy to do — you can stake out a stretch of mudflats from a bird blind off Eureka’s Hikshari’ Trail for an hour of peaceful contemplation or do a slow stroll around Butcher Slough Loop at the Arcata Marsh. Or just chill by your kitchen window and see what your yard birds are up to.
There’s nothing chill about shuffling along a dirty airport floor in your socks, nor can it be considered peaceful contemplation to watch strangers paw through your backpack and debate whether your blueberry yogurt is considered liquid or solid (liquid, as it turned out). And there’s very little serenity in being strapped in a tin can hurtling through the atmosphere at 400 miles an hour while having to give your dozing seatmate an occasional brisk elbow to keep him from resting his weight on your intimate areas. Flying is for the birds.
Then there’s the whole “green” factor: Air travel is a significant contributor to climate change. Birders, as a general rule, tend to be quite sensitive to their impact on the environment, though in my experience less so with emissions of a more personal nature. For me to jump on a plane on a whim is like stomping all over my carbon footprint and arguing that the plane would still have flown without that last seat filled is a weak excuse at best. It’s like what my sister told me after I signed up my ex for a gift membership in the AARP: “You knew it was wrong when you did it.” I knew it was wrong.
And the expense? Let’s not even go there. I’ve long been a champion of the low up-front costs of birding as a hobby but not extreme birding like this. Even with a voucher and the loose change from under my couch cushions to offset the fare, it’s gonna be bulk-buy pasta at my house until 2025.
I’ll admit that as impromptu trips go, it was more or less smooth sailing, and I met some really nice people along the way. Also, the hotel I stayed at had a free breakfast bar with one of those make-your-own waffle deals, which is a buttery, syrupy bit of heaven in my opinion. Plus, I experienced my first canine screening at the big-city airport featuring a hard-working black Lab. I wonder if my dog Aggie could land a sweet gig like that and how much it pays.
But I was happy to come home to my good dog, my vacuuming and my familiar birds. We sometimes take for granted that we live in a birding Mecca — the North Coast is essentially the cloverleaf of an avian migration freeway. The birding is terrific year-round, with nearly 500 species recorded within the county limits and new vagrants showing up all the time. Why go anywhere else to see great birds?
The whole wacky adventure was so surreal that if I didn’t have the photos, I might be able to convince myself I’d dreamed the whole thing. It’s not something I plan to repeat anytime soon.
But to experience it one time, for one special bird … it was gloriously, insanely, unbelievably awesome.
Sarah Hobart (she/her) is a freelance writer based in Humboldt County.
This article appears in Combating the Barred Owl Invasion.