My Arizona Birding 2

Arizona 2

Sandhill Cranes, Willcox Arizona

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The Willcox Golf course is a prime birding area and very close to the town. On this score, an overzealous ebird volunteer corrected me on the distance I’d travelled. I’m getting used to ebird challenges so I rarely now record a species unless I’m damned certain I’m correct and have good pictures to prove it. Being corrected on distance is a new one for me but I guess it matters to some researcher somewhere. Part of the problem in this case was that I had to drive miles to find the stupid place, which is called the Cochise Lake and Twin Lakes Golf Course not, as I thought, the Willcox Golf Course. But I digress.

Waterfowl and shorebirds frequent the sloughs near the course. A sandy road makes a circuit of the sloughs, which, I think, are called playas in these parts. Most stops along the route are productive. A dozen or so Long-billed Curlews feed in the shallows and, near them, two American Avocets. The Avocets are rare here at this time of year and I’m delighted to see them. In the middle distance, huge flocks of Sandhill Cranes arrive and depart in noisy confusion as the sun begins to set. A cold wind that could ‘trim a hedge’ makes standing around watching more a bit of a trial. A Vermilion Flycatcher drops by and poses for pictures. These little birds, black masked and tropical red, always delight me. I also spot a Say’s Phoebe and then a two Black Phoebes and, with that, I call it a day. That night I eat at the local Barbecue, which is okay but. Like many things in the town, the atmosphere is not overwhelmingly welcoming. With that, I’ve done the Willcox nightlife so far as I can tell. In any case, my eyes are strained and I’m bone tired. Enough, Michael, tomorrow you start early. I go back to the motel, get ready for bed and fall asleep before I get through two pages of my book.

Long-billed Curlews, American Avocets and Coots, Willcox, Arizona

My first official field trip of the Festival is to the Cochise stronghold, which means I’m see more than just birds here. I love history, having written over a dozen history textbooks in my time. I also love the history of the old west. Cochise led the Chiricahua Apache against American soldiers and settlers in the in the 19th century. The war started over a cow and ended up costing four thousand lives. I know it would have been death for our little party to be in the pretty park on the stream back then. Today, the Chiricahua have a few ceremonial acres donated to them by a white benefactor. It almost makes one weep to think of the injustice of it all.

Cochise Stronghold Rock Formations

This is the beginning of a long weekend, which means campers and RVs are in the park early to secure a spot for the weekend. The desire to be closet to the washroom results in some amusing attempts to back ten-foot wide vehicles into nine-foot wide spaces. I’m estimating, of course. I don’t need to measure vehicle or space. What I can say is that aluminum being scraped by tree branches makes for some God-awful screeches. This happens to different RVs in different spots at least a half dozen times. It makes birding less serene, that’s for sure.

Some times a group leader doesn’t have the bird luck, not when you’re part of the group anyway. This has now happened to me. I’ve drawn the unlucky leader. The birds just aren’t there for us, with the result that members of the party drift off on their own, or tag along with a new group which seems to have drawn with a lucky leader. I did both. I got a sweetly singing Canyon Wren out of the latter bit of disloyalty. I picked up a few other birds, including a Townsend’s Solitaire, but it was the fact of being in the Stronghold with its echoes of the last days of an independent Chiricahua nation, that resonated the most with me. I’m almost sad to leave but the din caused by arriving RVs backing into too-small sites helps us on our way.

We make a stop to check out a flock of birds that turn out to be lark Buntings. Then we move on to a dairy farm and veal ranch that has a permanent pond. Nothing much to note here — Northern Shovelers, Widgeon and Mallards predominate. I’ve seen all these guys many times before. And then we’re back at the community center and pile off the school bus that has transported us around. I don’t have a trip planned for the morrow so I’m free to explore on my own. Conversations on the bus have given me some options. Next morning, I’ll head south. I’ve heard there’s a Sinaloa Wren down there and I’d like to have that bird!

My Arizona Birding

Arizona

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January — the light level is so low on the coast here that just seeing movement in the brush, in fields, or on the beach is difficult. It’s like looking at a world lit by a 40-Watt bulb. Identifying birds now depends largely on sounds and JIZZ, the notion of ‘General Impression, Size and Shape’ pilots used to identify enemy aircraft in WW2. Even so by January 4th, I’m up to 70 birds for the year and that’s not too bad considering the conditions.

 

Cactus Wren, Tucson

I’m feeling slightly fanatical, braving a downpour to look for a reported Greater Scaup and when that fails, trudging up to the Golf Course to search for Greater White-Fronted geese, but I get no joy there either. I swing back later and there they are — the White-fronted and half dozen Snow Geese too casually fertilizing the greens. A few days later, on a trip to the mainland, I see dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Bald Eagles. Near the Vancouver landfill, they sit in bunches adorning the trees like heavy fruit. As I drive towards the city, I witness the mating display of the eagles, a pair freefalling towards the earth with their talons locked. I’ve heard of this but never before seen the spectacle – marvelous.

In a week or so, I’ll be heading to Arizona for the Wings Over Willcox Festival. There’s bound be sunlight down south, which there was, but not immediately.

A freak rainstorm greeted my arrival in Arizona. Shortly after I picked up my car at the Phoenix airport, the downpour hit hard — a gift, perhaps, to help me feel more at home. I cursed the rain for a few hundred miles, which seemed to have the desired effect because the roads were dry by the time I got to Tucson. Dry but not warm — I needed the jacket I had brought long on the off chance I might need it. As it turned out, this turned out to be often.

Sandhill Cranes are the big draw in Willcox. Thousands of the big birds winter in the area, feeding out on the vast harvested grain fields of Cochise County. Southeast Arizona has lots of other birds too – tons of them. I overnight in Tucson and there is no time, as they say, like the present. Just before sundown I pick up a few birds in a small park in the hills north of town, including a Cactus Wren, Gambel’s Quail, a Black-throated Sparrow, a Gila Woodpecker — sweet!

But I’m not in Willcox yet. I leave Tucson early the next morning and am driving up the Madera Canyon Road. The air is chill and the birds are just starting to move about, a Raven watches me park the car from the upper branches of a ponderosa pine. I need the Chihuahuan Raven, which this guy is not. He hunkers down waiting for the sun, or tourists with sandwiches, or both. I take a short hike along one of the trails. The early sunlight frosts grass and sage and makes it glow. A Junco pipes from a patch of brush, a ‘first up’, ‘I’m still groggy from a rough night’ sound. Soon others join in and gradually the chorus becomes cheerier. Then, suddenly with the first warm rays of the sun, they move. One after another, like objects produced from a magician’s sleeve, they fly out of their cover, staging up as a noisy flock in a juniper and then dart out in all directions to look for food. When they’ve gone, a Bridled Titmouse appears, a very pretty little bird and the first one of these guys I’ve ever seen.

My next stop is the feeding station at the Santa Rita Inn. Other birders are there before me, already in position, occupying benches to watch as birds arrive. Soon bunches of Siskins are hanging on feeders, forming hanging displays that remind me of Tibetan wind chimes. A half dozen or so Bridled Titmouse also hit the seed trays. A Hepatic Tanager appears, so fire-bright in that morning sun that it seems artificial. It lights up the shadows near it — seriously. The Tanager is another life bird for me. Yet another ‘Lifer’ appears — a Magnificent Hummingbird, appearing almost twice the size of the Broad-billed Hummer sipping from a feeder close to the spectator gallery. He cruises in to feed and then departs to perch in a nearby pine.

I leave the Inn and drive higher looking for more birds but I also need to get to Willcox to register for the Festival and I’ve got a drive ahead of me. Besides the birds on the sagebrush flats below the mountains are waking up too. Enroute to the highway, I get more life birds, notable the Phainopepla — beautiful, crested, silky black — a bird I’ve long hoped to meet. A bemused Sherriff’s Deputy stops to tell me to pull my car all the way off the road, “not part way”, and then moves off. I count a few more birds on the flats and then drive through some beautiful, rocky terrain to Willcox.

Willcox reminds me of Vanderhoof, a town in north-central B.C. where I lived and worked for any years. Like many small towns, its population seems to be declining and the small shops and other businesses that once supported the town in the pre-big box store and online shopping age tend to be empty. So far, it’s not a warm January here and at 4500 or so feet above sea level, the nights are consistently freezing. Not that there will be much reason to be out of doors at night in Willcox — that’s pretty obvious. There aren’t many places to eat either. Oh, well, that’s birding for you.

I hadn’t known that Willcox was in wine country, with some wineries very close to town. There’s even a tasting bar and reception. I discover this by accident when the snacks are mostly gone. The wine is good though. It’s nice to see this industry here. Willcox used to be a hub for cattle shipments and I’m sure it was a wild, old town in its heyday but not anymore. Right now, at 8 o’clock at night, eating a protein bar, I get the feeling Willcox would be a ghost town except for the fact that most of the ghosts had long ago departed. Just kidding, Willcox.

The Festival headquarters are in the community center. Several people man the registration desk but I’m invisible and the desk folks suddenly abandon their station without acknowledging me. Apparently, a bus is leaving with a tour, or two busses with two tours. In any case, a herd of birders (or flock?) jam an egress, amidst confusion calling, apparently, for the old Willcox skill of herding cattle. When that kerfuffle dies down, I’m greeted warmly. A half hour later, I’m registered and a volunteer has sent me away with a bag full of literature, some of which is useful. I get a badge but I have to leave it at the desk. I don’t know why.

My impression is that something unforeseen has come up. I later learn the confusion might be a product of a change in leadership and direction at a critical time. I also learn some local politician has linked the Festival to the Wild Turkey recovery people, which leads they tell me to the auctioning off of handguns at a birding festival banquet. That’s a new one for me. As a former hunter (all those years in the north), I’m all in favor of cooperating with hunter groups who promote conservation. I think Ducks Unlimited has saved much wetland habitat and birders owe them a huge debt of gratitude and, I trust, the Turkey people are of the same ilk. I hope so anyway. Still, people from such diverse backgrounds and interests, as birders and bird hunters are, need time to get to know one another. Birders don’t generally expect to be bidding on pistols at their banquets. I’m not sure what the long-term effect of this on the future of the money-generating Festival will be, but I’d worry I owned a local business.

On another note — Rex Allen was a native of Willcox, which was something I didn’t know. I was a big fan of the singing cowboy when I was a kid and I remember fondly his mellifluous voiceovers on the Disney documentaries I loved back then. Unfortunately, I could never seem to get to the Rex Allen Museum when it was open and I wasn’t birding. Willcox is kind of like that. There are birders in town who are out all day but many places are closed in the evening. It’s admirable, I guess, not to worry about lost business but, still, I would have liked to have gone to that flipping museum. The Marty Robbins Museum was also closed. Too bad, I like Marty too.

Point Pelee

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I’ve never seen anything like it, this migration of birders, this simulacrum of a Big Year movie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much fine optical glass and so many Tilly hats in one place in my life either. The warm front that brought birds to southern Ontario has also brought high humidity and thunderstorms. The rain on that first morning comes in big-drop, wind-driven curtains. I meet the tour leader in the northwest parking area and we wait. Another birder arrives and we’re off at last. I providently bought a too-short plastic poncho enroute and it’s keeping me dry where it counts. My extremities will have to fend for themselves. Soon I feel like the bedraggled Brown Thrasher I passed on my way here.

The Kentucky Warbler is in the brush between two roads; it’s singing but only a few have actually seen the bird. The singing stops abruptly so, reluctantly, we move on. There are lots of birds – many species of warblers, brown thrashers, king birds, Empi flycatchers, orioles and swifts and a beautiful female Summer Tanager. Someone has heard the Kentucky on the other side of the broad strip of woodland we’ve been covering and a flock of birders, us among them, dash off to the other side. This happens three times. It’s hilarious and fun. I never did see the bird incidentally.

Finally, the day comes to a close, this part of it anyway. I still have an evening tour planned. I passed a roadside restaurant near the park entrance and drive back. The owner, complaining about a drop on business, looks like he’s ready to close the joint. I order chips and gravy before he goes through with it — grease and gravy is the perfect antidote to the wet and quite tasty too. I rise and the wet denim, which had warmed up as I sat, fell cold and wet on my calves. The clods are threatening but I’m head back into the park anyway..

The weather is worse than in the day, mostly because the light level is low but also because the rain seems like its not going to let up at all. Thunderstorms roll in one, after the other, each one bringing sudden drenching showers. My dollar store poncho is barely holding its own against the elements and I’m flapping in the wind.

A few of us optimists gather in a parking lot, which is to end near a broad field of low willow where American Woodcock live and where males make their courting flights at dusk. Another King Lear-style mini-storm ends the walk almost before it begins. The rain we can handle but lightning is a different story. The walk is cancelled and we disperse. I’m driving out of the park when I notice, in my rear-view mirror, that the sky is lightening. I slow, ponder, and then make the U-turn. The rain has stopped by the time I’m back in the Woodcock field. It’s still too early for the birds to do their mating flights so I drive back to the beach to kill some time. A Brown thrasher, the first bird I saw at Point Pelee, sits in some willows, wet and bedraggled, looking forlornly out over the lake. He turns his head to shoots me an empathetic look. I nod a greeting and move on. For an hour, I wander the forest edge, dodging huge puddles, checking off a few birds, listening in vain for the Kentucky Warbler who has, it seems, moved on.

When do the Woodcock flights begin? I’m not sure. I’m back in the parking lot in plenty of time, waiting and scanning the skies a good half hour before dark. The breeze is chill now and I’m alone and waiting. A ranger in a pickup checks the parking lot and moves on. Thick clouds threaten more rain. Common Nighthawks appear. A raptor I can’t identify passes swiftly to the east. And then, when it’s almost too dark to see, I hear the twittering flight calls of Woodcock. A female buzz bombs out over the willows and then is gone out of sight. I listen to the males for a half an hour before, , hungry and shivering, I head for my barely adequate motel room in Leamington. I have a guided walk tomorrow before I make the long drive to Toronto Pearson to return my rental and catch my flight home.

The morning brings a change in the weather — cool sun and no rain. We meet at The Nature Center. Yellow Warblers seem to be everywhere. The destination is the “tip’ and we board the tram that takes us there. There are birds everywhere, the newest wave of migrants and all of us are glassing the bushes and pointing out birds. We disembark at our destination and xx leads us down the trail, stopping every time a bird appears or sings. I’m logging lots of species. This is the best day yet. By eleven in the morning, I have to leave. My Mini Big Year count is now 145 — only 225 species to go!

My Mini Big Year: Confessions of A ReHatched Bird Nerd

Bognor Marsh

 

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I’m supposed to be visiting my mother but it’s very early in the day.  We haven’t set a time and her memory problems add a certain timelessness to everything. So long as I show up and spend time with her, all will be well. A cold morning now has the makings of a fine spring day. I head for Bognor Marsh; my brother’s best gift to me was tell me about this place. You go out the Derry Line, he says – remember where Uncle Bob and Aunt Rene used to live. Sort of, I tell him. He’s still a local – I’m not. Well, anyway, he says, that’s kind of the area where the marsh is. Once he’s gone off to work, I fire up the GPS and, there it is. I’s a fifteen minute drive.I pass the sign and double back and park – the only vehicle in there. The morning is warm and the woods are filled with wildflowers and bird song. It’s too early for leaves so spotting birds should be much easier. Paradise!

May is my favourite month here. After a long winter, nature has to make up for lost time. No leaves on the trees yet but the rocky ground is carpetted with wild flowers – great swaths of dog tooth violets and tiger lilies, new ferns and wild leek. I hear the drumming of ruffed grouse. A Wild Turkey gobbles nearby and  I glimpse a gray shadow on a low ridge.

And a warm front has brought a windfall of bird species. A Rose-breasted Grosbeak streaks past. I arrange my camera and my binoculars and set out down the forest road. Bird songs are confusingly everywhere. I’m not that good with warblers anyway – certainly not with eastern warblers. I stop and find a seat on a block of dolomite and watch. It doesn’t take long. An Ovenbird sings very close to me, insistent. I search and search with the glasses and finally see him. No more than 5 feet away. I glass the surrounding brush. A male Redstart chases a female – flashes of red and white and then gone. A Yellow Warbler appears and then another. I count five species in as many minutes and move on. Movement off to my right. In the cedars, a pair of Black and White Warblers work the trunk like nuthatches.

I start admiring the flowers. A pair of Scarlet Tanagers almost slip past me but the red and black male is easy to follow through the leafless trees. I remind myself to keep focused.

I’m back at the Marsh on each of the next four mornings. The weather is glorious. Pisshing brings a swarm of warblers each time – Black and White, Blackburnian, Ovenbirds, Yellow-rumped, Black-throated Greens, Northern Parula and others. I even see a Worm-eating Warbler, rare here and likely carried north on the warm front. Now I’m hearing thrushes, a Swainson’s and then the ethereal song of the ‘Swamp Angel’ – the Hermit Thrush. And there are other surprises —a Broad-winged Hawk, a tubby Evening Grosbeak, the Wild Turkey.

The old road runs across the dolomite that underlies the whole county. I carry on until the forest opens and I can follow the boardwalks out into the marsh. Here, tree swallows feed and chase each other – it’s mating season after all. Their feathers catch the sun and flash an electric indigo. A White-throated sparrow runs up the boardwalk and perches in a low willow. Farther in a Grasshopper Sparrow sings, if its insect-like buzz can be called a song.

A Wilson’s Snipe flushes and buzz bombs back into cover. I hear the clunky chortle of Sandhill Cranes and search the distant margins of the marsh for the source. I finally spot the bird, rusty-brown backed strutting and preening. Two more cranes fly overhead. A Broad-winged Hawk appears going the other direction and disappears, its flight obscured by the surrounding trees.

I remember that I’m supposed to be picking up my mother and, aside from taking photos of goldfinches and chipping sparrows, I leave. The birds are different each morning and it takes real willpower to leave when I ought to. Each time, my mother seems to think that when I arrive is when I was supposed to arrive. I don’t correct her. I’m sinning and I know it. Later, on our drive, I spot a Peregrine and, a few miles on, a Merlin. Not bad for good old Owen Sound.

 

 

My Mini Big Year: Confessions of A ReHatched Bird Nerd

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Gray’s Harbor Shorebirds April 25-27, 2014

Gray’s Harbor is a huge shallow bay on the coast of Washington state. The biggest down is Aberdeen, the hometown, I believe, of the late singer Curt Cobain. Aberdeen has definitely seen better days. Changes to the timber industry and other factors have left too few people in too many buildings – that’s my impression anyway. Hoquiam, where the Gray’s Harbor Shorebird Festival is headquartered, is another logging town.  I stay in Ocean Shores, a beach town that never seems overly busy. I like Ocean Shores. I’ve never been to a birding festival before so I approach the activity with some slight trepidation. I used to know a lot about birds, or so I thought, but having been to a few birder nights and been challenged on bird lists I’ve submitted to ebird, I am now acutely aware of how limited my knowledge is. The fact that I once was a keeper of birds in a small zoo and looked after the rare Rothschild’s Myna, African Crowned Cranes, Hill Pittas, African Grey parrots and the like doesn’t mean squat in the birding world. My confidence, gained from being the only person in most groups who knew anything about birds, has evaporated.

Registration is at the wildlife refuge office near Hoquiam. I arrive and pick up my package. I also check out the birding stuff for sale – a good selection. I buy a couple of bird books I’ve wanted, Rite in the Rain notebooks and a pen and, of course, a cap. No one says much.  leave for my car. Someone points out the Great Horned Owl on a platform in a ro of trees. good. I have the owl on my life list but not on my year list. Except that I haven’t yet thought about keeping a year list. That thought gels over the next few days.  I drive to the local airport and the entrance to the sanctuary. It starts to rain and then stops. I’ve signed up for trips that will allow me to escape a tour if necessary.

Wind and rain, driving rain and gale force winds. It’s the Shorebird Festival in Gray’s Harbour, which is the vast bay where the town of Hoquiam sits. I arrive at the viewing area half way around the boardwalk to find a dozen or so birders, coated and hatted against the elements, spotting scopes ready. The tide is ebbing and already large flocks of birds search for places to land. Several thousand Western Sandpipers swirl by me. Two Yellowlegs pass over. Several hundred Dowitchers cruise past. Mudflats appear as the water level drops. Shorebirds alight and immediately begin to feed. A thousand Dunlins materialize to my right. The birds move constantly. Suddenly all take wing. We look skyward. A Peregrine hunts the marsh. Shorebirds rise in bewildering clouds, hoping to confuse the raptor. In a flash the attacking bird plummets through a flock and rises again – a miss this time. The instinct to confuse an attacker with numbers has succeeded. This time.

I’m now soaked to the skin and hungry too. Time to go back to the motel in Ocean Shores to change clothes. Then I’ll get something to eat and warm myself up hot coffee. Two hours later, I’m refreshed and dry and the sun has come out. The beach is on the side of a line of dunes and small marshes.

Sun breaks through, lighting the beach. I pick out moving shapes, shorebirds large and small fling, alighting, skittering along the shimmering line between sand and water. Amazing. Hundreds of birds feed ahead of the advancing tide. Marbled Godwits by the herd, a strange Alice in Wonderland parade of the largish birds. Dowitchers, Dunlins, Western and Least sandpipers keep pace. Behind them the crashing surf. The Godwits drive their strange upturned bills up to the forehead into holes, and then draw them out and slurping down their rather disgusting-looking catch.

It’s not warm but it’s not that bad either. After the rain ended, the wind dropped too. Now it’s a cool spring evening and I walk for miles it seems, following moving herds of birds. Finally, eyes strained and brain befogged. I call it a day.

That night, I eat fish and chips at Bennett’s Fish Shack bar. I’m not an extrovert so ‘The Shorebird Guide’ is my companion. Even exhausted, I’m reading about birds. If anyone notices this strange activity (for a bar), they’re polite enough not to say anything. I keep buying books. I’m tired but I consider going to a movie but bone tired from walking and concentrating, I return to the motel and crash.

The next day, we travel with our knees jammed against seat backs in a school bus to various destinations around Ocean Shores. Lots to see. A Wandering Tattler becomes a reluctant star hiding from its fans. Some of us climb the massive basalt block jetty to get a better look. The bird, staring back at us, poses for the occasional picture – good. Gulls wheel and cry, Scoters and Loons cruise the surf. The guides are volunteers and very helpful. I learn a lot

At Oyehut, we find more birds – Common Loons, Green-wing Teal, Horned Grebes, a Western Grebe and Savannah Sprrows. The raptors are there too. Peregrines work the shorebird flocks, sending up spinning clouds of Westerns and Least Sandpipers, Black-bellied and Semi-Palmated Plovers, Dowitchers and Yellowlegs. The falcons pick out and take their meals at blistering speed, the kill surgically quick. A northern harrier rises out of the dunes in leisurely flight, overhead bald eagles call, an Osprey, carrying a fish, disappears into the distance.

My Mini Big Year: Confessions of A ReHatched Bird Nerd

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I probably should never have watched the movie ‘The Big Year’. Until that time, I had never heard of competitive birding and it still doesn’t make a lot of sense. But, somehow, I got kind of hooked on the idea of building a list – two lists actually: a year list and a life list. My whole approach to birding changed. The how and why is what this tale is all about. Now that I’m half way through my Mini Big Year, it’s time to reflect.

I’ve been looking for and at birds since childhood. I still have the bird books my aunt Rene in England sent me when I was ten. Incidentally, I’m still l scan for Hoopoes when I travel in Europe. I’ve yet to see this bird, the image of which imprinted itself on my young brain, but I keep hoping.

Now, I’ve decided to renew my interest in birds, to go to the naturalist society meetings and to join bird walks. At the start, I learned a lot from young Geoffrey and his father, David, who led some of these walks. Then I learned about ebird from a presenter at a birder night and signed up. Ebird made a huge difference. More about ebird later. A shorebird festival  at Gray’s Harbor, Washington coincided with my yearly short excursion to the coast so I signed up for some tours. So far, I haven’t even thought about a ‘Big Year’. I knew I’d be in southern Ontario to visit my mother in early May. Warblers and other birds would be migrating en masse then. I hadn’t yet thought about going to Point Pelee either,  a five or six-hour drive away.

I hatched the Mini Big Year after the fact, somewhere between going to the Gray’s Harbor Shorebird Festival and Point Pelee. Once I decided to do a Mini Big Year, I had to consider what that meant. Since this was my project and since I was the only competitor, I could make up my own rules.  I didn’t get the idea until January had more or less gone, so my MBY would officially start on February 1. How many species would I shoot for? The winner of the official Big Year recorded, I think, 750 species. I would shoot for half that – 375 (if my math is right). Optimistically, I would record 400 species. I thought it might be fun. What I didn’t expect was that I would get a bit obsessive about counting species. The other thing I didn’t expect was that I would reconnect with my old love of nature and would become, once again, attentive to the timeless rhythms of the seasons in the manner of a hunter.