It all started with a stuffed loon. I’m not usually a souvenir type of girl, but I had enjoyed my trip to Canada last summer, and a stuffed loon, at that moment, seemed just right. It was a small Audubon Society-approved plush toy that, when squeezed, played a recording of the loon’s strange, haunting song. Haunting is the word, because that one bird started me down the road of obsession. I had no idea that my $6 purchase would lead me to where I am now, a birder with a bookcase filled with every single Audubon stuffed bird, 12 different field guides, eight CDs of bird songs, a computerized bird-call gizmo, binoculars, a birding journal, and a special bag to carry all my gear.
I never planned on being a birder, let alone a collector of stuffed toys. They’re more than toys, though. Really. Through them, I’ve learned to identify dozens of birds and their songs. They are not quite anatomically correct, considering they are all about the size and shape of a softball, with the Canada goose the same size as the black-capped chickadee. Still, the colors and markings are generally on target, as long as you can imagine plush fur to be feathers, and can remember that real birds have legs and feet.
During the long Boston winter, I started reading about birds, birding, and famous birders. I went to sleep at night serenaded by ”Birding by Ear, Eastern/Central Region,” and dreamt of spring. I even studied rudimentary birding etiquette: Binoculars are monogamous (don’t ask anyone to share theirs), spotting scopes are polygamous, and never, ever, ask anyone their life list number, the sum total of birds they’ve identified in the field. It’s like asking someone how much money they make.
By late April, I felt prepared: It was time for me to go out into the field, or at least, Mount Auburn Cemetery. My life list, on that cold blustery spring day, was zero. But that was soon to change: As I walked along Mt. Auburn Street, there was a pigeon (excuse me, rock dove), bird number one! — and a house sparrow — that’s two!
I don’t have a car, so every weekend I’d trudge to the cemetery and check the chalkboard to discover what experienced birders had reported seeing. But where were all these Ruby-crowned Kinglets and Northern Parulas? I kept missing those flittering little birds; by the time I focused my binoculars, they’d be gone. I began to understand why John James Audubon used to shoot his specimens. A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush — for identification purposes anyway. One day at Mount Auburn, some other birders came up to me (binoculars around the neck a sure giveaway) and asked me what I had seen. Being honest, I told them: A red-winged blackbird. A grackle. Oh, and a bunch of robins. They didn’t seem impressed and walked away, pointing out some rare migrant warbler species to each other. I was too obviously a novice.
But then came the day when everything changed: It was The Day I Saw the Wood Duck.
I had walked to Auburn Lake and I saw something gliding on the water. It wasn’t softball-sized or shaped, but it looked just like my toy wood duck: It had the crest, the red eye, the white markings on its head. Unmistakably, it was a wood duck, the first one I had seen in my life. I studied it for a good 10 minutes, as it continued going about its wood-duck business; then I took some notes, and started walking away. Another birder, a white-haired bearded gentleman, with binoculars around his neck and a floppy green hat on his head, greeted me on the path. Had I seen the wood duck? It’s quite rare here. Why yes, I said, I had. We both talked about the wonder of wood duckery, and then parted ways, quite happy. Then I spoke to a young woman with binoculars, who told me somewhat dejectedly that she hadn’t seen much: Red-winged blackbirds, grackles, robins. Had she seen the wood duck? I asked. Her face lit up with excitement: No, where was it? I pointed her in the right direction, and she hurried down the path. I walked away smiling: My life list might be small, but I had shared my wealth.
Since that day, I’ve seen many more birds. I won’t tell you the number, but as any birder will admit, it’s not enough. Still, the fall migrations are coming up, and I’m busy studying my stuffed raptors. And though I feel ready, there’s still a nagging question in the back of my mind: Can I afford $1,100 for a really good pair of binoculars?