The Quiet Gratitude of Spotting a Lifer

I was around the top of Craggy Gardens along the Blueridge Parkway. It was a bit off the main trail in an open space that ended with some dense scrub. Just then, a small, brilliant-colored bird popped up, sang two cycles of its song, then vanished back into the dense darkness. 

I quickly pulled out my notebook that I carried for IDs and scribbled “yellow head - red stripes under wing black and white stripes sparrow size.” 

After my hike and returning to a place with reliable cell service, I pulled up my Merlin app. Going through the checklist of info (sparrow size, perched on a bush, red, black, yellow, white), I got my bird—a Chestnut-sided Warbler.

This was on June 9, 2018, and the memory of that bird is still clear as day. It was one of my most distinct lifers.

A lifer is a big deal. It means that I’m seeing and identifying a bird for the very first time in my life. As you can imagine, the lifers come thick and fast when just starting out in the birding world. The longer one birds, the more exciting lifers become. 

Some birds travel across the country and the world to rack up lifers. Some wear their total bird count like a badge of honor. I’m somewhere in the middle. I haven’t yet gone to exotic places solely for birding, and my total count is more for my information than anything else. 

That said, there is something truly special about seeing a lifer. 

I usually default to assuming it’s a bird I’ve seen before. I’ll get a glimpse of a small bird darting in the bushes, prominent yellow and black on display. Common Yellowthroat, I think to myself. It’s only when I get a closer look with my binoculars that I notice the yellow and black aren’t in the right spots for a Yellowthroat. It’s something different. It’s something new.

There’s an exuberance that comes with the realization. However, I now celebrate in my mind after I scared several birds away with surprised vocalizations. If I’m able to get a photo, I will. Otherwise, I’ll stand as still as possible and be with the bird. When it decides it’s time to move, so do I.  

There is an aspect of collecting about birdwatching, the satisfaction of checking the box next to yet another bird. It’s also the beauty inherent in the variety, in the minute differences between sparrows. The surprise at seeing something new. 

For me, there is also a sense of gratitude for the bird’s presence. Here I am, clomping around the bird’s home, loud and ungainly. And despite that, the little creature tolerates me, even if for a moment.