Greetings All

A fine topic really. I must say that I found much more of the "joy of
birding" in Cocker's book than Burt did. This was especially evident in Cocker's
early years, when the mere feeling of escape drove his outings.

My earliest memories are of trying to outrun Horned Larks and attempting
Ichiro-like catches of Barn Swallows, being taken into the field by my
considerably older brothers. I was about 3 or 4 at the time.

Then there was the surprise that something as utterly elegant as a Cedar
Waxwing could be in my backyard, or that a tiny life -- that of a Ruby-crowned
Kinglet -- would be so bold as to approach me with eyes of curiosity. Perhaps I
was 8.

When I was 10, I "discovered" the local bird club. My first official field
trip was one on which 15 Goshawks were seen along the Chicago lakefront. I
couldn't understand why all the older birders kept on getting excited by these
hawks. They seemed everywhere. I was far more enchanted by the Red Crossbills
(which were generating some excitement in-and-of themselves).

Over the following decade, a transformation occurred. As I became
increasingly familiar with our regular birds in Chicago, as stunning as some might be, I
became a bit enured to them and seeing things that were truly new/novel
required increasing effort. Eventually, it required chasing rarities. And I became
something of a lister, within the strictly defined borders of the Chicago Area,
an area with about a 50 mile radius. At 13, I was able to go to Florida, and
though ticking lifers had some import, I was again transported back to the
sheer joy of just seeing weird new creatures, such as Roseate Spoonbills and BN
Stilts.

Then came college, with the attendent wine, women, and song. Well, a little
more of some and little less of others. Birding drifted out of my life --
mostly. Moving to San Diego, the rigors of medical school and the attentions of
another addiction -- ultimate frisbee -- distracted me from birding. An old
friend, a birder, moved to San Diego a year later. Combined with some injuries
stifling my frisbee "career", I again entered the field and I can still clearly
remember that sense of utter wonderment -- the Western Tanagers, Black-headed
Grosbeaks, and such that had been all around me without me noticing. A trip to
the Salton Sea almost caused heart failure, and that feeling was caused neither
by the heat nor the smell.

Hooked on all that jazz, I birded more and more, and the more I birded, the
more mundane the tanagers and grosbeaks become. Interesting how that happens.
The more active a birder you become, the more likely you are to lose interest
in those common jewels. I became more of a lister, and more on a national
level. The more I birded, the more I felt that I needed to do something with the
accumulated knowledge -- but now I'm headed off onto Why I Write, rather than
Why I Bird.

So, where am I now? I must admit, the driving force behind my birding is the
treasure hunt. The search for the unexpected -- yes, the rarity -- even if it
isn't a "tick" on some list. Interestingly, the thrill of seeing seeing
rarities found by others, even though such leads to a "tick," has simultaneously
substantially faded (though I must say the Redwing and Baikal Teal were quite
nice, but a lot of that comes from the utter fascination of where they came from
- a bit of Siberia in your backyard. A Cape May Warbler just doesn't arouse
the same zing-feeling for me). Additionally, though, all this rarity stuff does
not preclude enjoying the "pretty" birds. I am still, at times, taken utterly
aback by the brilliance of a robin or, gasp, a starling (for those who've
never really truly looked at a starling, I highly recommend it). Having a camera
helps remind me of these things. And increasingly, I bird to learn. How do you
identifiy a "Gray-bellied Brant." What percentage of flickers in Washington
are integrades? Back to my Talmudic heritage.

So, I am addicted. A good day is one with some totally unexpected find
(whether out of season, out of place, unusual numbers, etc) plus a bit of knowledge
gleaned, and a couple fine looks at some pretty bird or other -- all
preferrably without being rained on. Interestingly, however, none of this has ever
quite given me the thrill of that diving catch for a score in the end-zone. I've
yet to figure that dichotomy out.

Enough from me
Steven Mlodinow
Everett WA