By Alexandra Marvar
Driving down Route 7 past the left turn to High Lawn Farm in the dead of winter, we came upon a peculiar sight: a dozen or so people, standing in a clump—a rainbow sea of puffer jackets—backs to the road, gazes locked on a distant point in a barren field. “Turn around, turn around!” I grabbed my husband’s arm urgently. But he was already pumping the breaks, looking for a safe place to pull the car over. We both knew what this was.
Birders.
We shuffled silently up to the group. Perhaps some of them were “twitchers,” who will drop everything at the ping of a Rare Bird Alert and rush to spot an unusual species or add a “lifer”—a bird they’ve never seen before—to their “life list.” No one batted an eye at our arrival. There was something more interesting about 50 yards away: a shivering gaggle of 11 colorful ducks.
I recognized them by their neon pink bills from a recent trip to New Orleans, where they should be this time of year: black-bellied whistling ducks.
This flock had flown well off course. But even on an average day, the Berkshires is home to species so alluring they could tempt a “normal” person to take up this healthy, accessible, and—be warned—addictive pastime. Right in the backyard are easy-to-identify, brightly colored passerines like the cherry-red northern cardinal or the ultraviolet eastern bluebird.
Take it from me, it happens fast, going from someone who couldn’t give a flying duck about the avian world to someone who’s transfixed by even the nondescript LBJs (the sparrows and wrens—“little brown jobs”). One day, in 2020, I was downloading the Merlin app, Googling the difference between a crow and a raven. The next, I was considering Kearney, Nebraska, during sandhill crane migration season as a vacation destination, and getting arguments about whether the chirping and twittering in the background of the PGA Tournament broadcasts are realistic and accurate.
Once you embrace the spectacle of birds, you start to marvel at the strangeness. This spring, in the fields around Edith Wharton’s The Mount, the bobolinks will navigate by the stars, flying from as far away as the Uruguayan Pampas. At Canoe Meadows, the yellow warblers will build their beehive-like hanging nests one wisp of grass at a time. Near the Greylock Glen, the wood thrush will sing its eerie song, splitting its sound into two notes at once like a Mongolian throat-singer.
When it happens to you—when you really start paying close attention to the trees, whether at Olivia’s Overlook or while unloading groceries in your driveway—congratulations. You’re birding.
Not a “birder,” but want to give birding a whirl?
If you put out bird feeders, you’ll become instantly popular. But be sure they’re easy to run through the dishwasher to protect your clientele from bird flu. Download the Merlin app for identifying birds by sound, and Audubon or eBird for keeping a running list of every bird you see. Browse a field guide and start to get familiar. It’s easier to identify a bird if you’ve already narrowed down the options from the 10,000 or so species on Earth to the few dozen species that might be around in a particular geography at any given time.
Binoculars first-timers: Spot the bird first, with your eyes and, without breaking your gaze, raise the eye cups to your sightline.
At first, it feels impossible to even notice a gray speck darting between distant tree branches, much less to name it. Then, one day, everything changes. Suddenly, just looking out your window offers a chance to spot a lifer.
