Going to the Birds

More than 70 million Americans now count themselves as bird-watchers, and in the process fuel a $20 billion industry. Some birding zealots even travel halfway around the world just to add a new species to their all-important life list.

November 23, 2003|Justin Tussing

At high tide the beach is just a narrow strip; the ocean threatens to erase it completely. It's early, just after 9 in the morning, but Wallis Sands State Beach in Rye, New Hampshire, is filling up already. People are hoping to beat the crowds, the traffic, the sun -- they're very keen to avoid that window between noon and 3. The ocean is as still as a farm pond.

A man comes walking down the beach. He pauses now and then to raise a pair of binoculars. He's probably just looking at the girls in their bathing suits. No, he's glassing the wrack line -- the seaweed and the leaping flies. And he's not a man; he's a kid. He could be a lineman for a high school in a mid-size district -- not a big kid, but solid enough. He keeps raising the binoculars as if he's the only soul on the beach. What's this? The kid's jumping up and down. No, he's shouting. What's he looking at? Oh, someone, get a load of this kid. You'd think he'd never seen a bird before.

But this kid has seen birds before. In this calendar year, he has seen more than 240 different species of birds in New Hampshire alone. He can tell you their genus, their preferred habitat, and where to find them. He can describe their plumage in a manner that might bore you. If only you had asked him what all the excitement was about, he gladly would have shown you. And this would have made you just the second person in New Hampshire to see an unassuming Old World sandpiper called the little stint. The kid's name is Mike Harvey.

After two minutes, there comes a crucial juncture: The bird flies off. Little stints winter in southern Africa. The bird might take off over the Atlantic and not touch down again until it reaches Europe. If the bird isn't seen again, when New Hampshire birders convene to authenticate new sightings, they might find Harvey's record inconclusive.

His claim to the bird is in jeopardy. He hops in his car and drives up the coast, looking for the bird. His bird. He finds it about a mile away, just south of Odiorne Point State Park. He takes notes about the bird's appearance, its behavior. Attaching a digital camera to a spotting scope, he "digiscopes" the bird. He is building a case for the existence of the bird.

And then he does the toughest thing: He leaves the bird. Other birders need to see it. He finds a pay phone and calls a friend who then sets things in motion. Across the state, phones start ringing. Word goes out over listservs and websites. Dinner plans are canceled. People sneak out of the office. For the next five days, Harvey's little stint is the most important bird in New Hampshire.