SPRING
(Observe)
For the (love of the) birds It’s 3:30am on a Thursday, and I’m sloshing through a flooded stream near the confluence of the north and south forks of the Rivanna River in rubber boots that are just about an inch too short, straining to hear bird calls through a deafening chorus of spring peepers. I’ve done crazier things in the name of bird lust than get up at the witching hour to squelch through an exurban marsh, but I’ve got nothing on my companions. Stauffer Miller and Pete Myers have been to the ends of the earth, from Borneo to Barrow, Alaska, studying avians. Today, they’ve set their sights closer to home. Along with friends Dan Bieker, Rob Capon and Gretchen Gehrett, they’ve begged off obligations to take on what’s become an annual tradition: a Big Day, where they work together to identify as many bird species as possible in a 24-hour period within set geographic boundaries. In this case, it’s Albemarle, the 726 square-mile county they all call home. They have stiff competition: themselves. The number to beat is 122, the single-day record they set in 2012. That’s just shy of half the bird species ever observed here. There’s no hint of dawn in the sky above us as we wade into the heart of the marsh at the center of a depression about a half-mile across, a hidden spot on private property in an upscale development off Polo Grounds Road. We’re in what feels like a remote wilderness of fog and frogs, even though Route 29 is barely a mile away as the crow flies. Myers plays the calls of wading birds through a speaker in a small backpack. Then we hear it: a soft, drawn-out chirrup somewhere ahead and to our right. “A sora!” Myers says—a chicken-like waterbird with massive feet and a bright yellow bill. Not that we can see a thing. “That’s a bird we’ve never had on this count,” says Miller. “Ten after 4. We need to get back.” We’re supposed to meet the others at a rendezvous point at Barracks Road Shopping Center in 20 minutes. Mucky water soaks into my socks. It’s going to be a good day.
CHRIS PECORARO
What does it take to break Albemarle’s one-day birding record?
Pete Myers, left, and Dan Bieker scan for shorebirds at King Family Vineyards in Crozet.
“It’s just a thrill to know that these birds are still out there, surviving,” said Dan Bieker.
Until the 1920s, it was accepted knowledge that the only way to positively identify a bird was to kill it first. All that changed in a generation, when scientists like Harvard museum curator Ludlow Griscom, the founding father of field ornithology, developed the practice of observational identification, using sight and sound instead of shotguns. Some of those early experts pioneered the idea of the Big Day, showing off their skills by racking up as many IDs as possible in friendly competitions. The idea really took off in the 1980s, when the New Jersey Audubon Society started holding the World Series of Birding, a one-day fundraising contest that challenged teams to comb the Garden State for a single 24-hour period. These days, the event—which happens in May each year—draws hundreds of birders who raise about half a million dollars annually for wildlife conservation.
24
A successful Big Day requires much more than an encyclopedic knowledge of birds. If you’re looking to set records, you’d better know exactly where to go to cross off a few unusual but reliable species. Thus, our first stop: a landscaped pond on the Martha Jefferson campus on Pantops. We pull over on the side of an access road and the team trains a high-powered flashlight on the water, not even bothering to shut off the car’s engine. Sailing through the beam is a stately mute swan. Check. Fifteen minutes later, we’re rolling through dark farm fields southeast of Charlottesville, making frequent stops to stand silently, ears trained on still-quiet fence rows. The numbers are ticking up very slowly—whip-poor-will, screech owl—but that won’t be the case for long. The countryside is about to bust open with birdsong, and the team is hustling to get into prime position. Miller has a pre-dawn spot in mind—a lonely stretch of Blenheim Road that crosses the Hardware River about seven miles north of Scottsville. After that, it’s back roads all the way to a farm pond off Langhorn Road. “At sunrise, you can only be in one place,” Capon says.