Passions are what make us feel most alive. They come in an infinite variety and as many forms as human imagination and energy allow. Passion should never be confused with compulsion or habit, though sometimes making the distinction can be a delicate matter, or nothing more than a judgement call. For many, scrolling TikTok for cat videos or obsessively watching years of General Hospital can be fun and even all-consuming, but more often than not they’re just another way of killing time. It is also conceivable such activity can reach a level of engagement that rises to the level of passion, and who’s to argue with anyone making such a claim for themselves?
Ravinginbeantown is in itself a kind of catalogue of one person’s range of passions, one that does not even offer a complete picture. To have many passions is to be truly blessed, and one hopes you have more than your share, or at least a few that make life worth living. To have the time and energy and resources to devote to a passion is to be lucky, indeed, and the passionate should never forget this. If you struggle with depression, finding a passion can be a godsend, but this tends to be easier said than done. The current state of struggling humanity reflects this tragedy, as anyone who’s worked in mental health can tell you. It is also likely you personally know people who fit the bill, and there’s always hope they’ll find their passion some day, or their passion will find them. Just don’t hold your breath, and especially don’t expect them to share any passion of yours, which is to invite disappointment, often as not.
To share a passion with others is to discover endless variations of passionate expression. Consider how people relate to birds: some are indifferent, a few are bewilderingly hostile, while most seem to find them an asset to their lives in one way or another, often passionately so. There are any number of reasons for this: birds are animated, they are a prominent reminder of wild nature all around us, many are visual lovely if not beautiful, they don’t spread dangerous diseases that affect humans (at least not so far) – the list goes on and on. And they sing, or if not that at least make interesting and distinctive noises, like the house sparrows on our street who chatter unmusically through the winter, reminding us that nature is hanging in there. There are clearly those among us totally oblivious to all this, but for the rest of us birds enrich our lives, unless we’re a chicken farmer losing stock to pesky raptors, or Tippi Hedren in that Hitchcock movie, which of course was fictional.
While many favor birds in some way, at what point does this rise to the level of true passion? Such a determination is admittedly personal and individual, and at best a judgment call. There are no doubt those who passionately love birds at a personal, aesthetic, and experiential level, and need know nothing more about them. Consider the Victorian poets, nutty romantics in the worst/best possible way, especially when it came to nature. They blessed us with such gems as Ode to a Nightingale (John Keats), To a Skylark (Percy Bysshe Shelley), The Eagle (Alfred Lord Tennyson), and some years later The Windhover (Gerard Manley Hopkins). If you’re a big fan of kestrels, one of the few raptors that can hover in place as the poet’s title suggests, make sure to check out that last one.
Opposite the romantics stand the scientists, passionate about getting the facts straight regarding the biology of it all, chipping away at the mysteries of the natural world and how it works, species by species. The typical birder’s obsession with correct species identification is a passion deeply rooted in science. There are numerous scientific references to birds in the writings of antiquity; one of the first to systematize his observations in that regard was Aristotle, obsessed with systematizing any knowledge that came his way. The guy’s credentials were such that his postulation about swallows hibernating in winter (they don’t, though it’s a charming concept) was still showing up in scientific writings in the 19th century. Was Ari, back in 350 BC, the first ornithologist?
What we do know is that a steady stream of writings about birds and their behavior has flowed for centuries from all parts of the world. The game changer was Francis Willughby’s Ornithologiae libri tres in 1676, which classified birds based on function and morphology rather than form or behavior. For that it is considered by many to be the first work, in the modern sense, of scientific ornithology. One might assume ornithologists are the most passionate bird fanciers of all, but this is a tricky assumption. The scientific mind is foremost passionate about knowledge and understanding, the more accurate the better, with truth the ultimate standard. Ornithology is above all an academic endeavor, with Veritas the motto of more than a few centers of learning.
In the world of Veritas, passion – especially the kind rooted in aesthetic and poetical and romantic notions – may not always best serve the interests of science, which is not to say an ornithologist’s love for birds won’t have that in the mix. When somebody claims that beauty is truth, truth beauty, you know they’re a poet, in that case John Keats. It’s a great and stirring and thought provoking concept, but a scientist pursuing veritas might have a bone to pick with Mr. Keats, which isn’t to say he wouldn’t like the guy’s poems, which have stood the test of time.
One is reminded of a conversation we had once with an especially excellent guide on one of our birding trips. He was gifted with fantastic eyesight and hearing and a memory for visual field marks and birdsong and bird behavior, as well as the ability to “read” a landscape and surmise what species might turn up there. All birders develop these abilities to some level or another, but spend enough time with enough people following this pursuit and you eventually recognize some have more talent than others, as it is with all human endeavors. He was also very young and had already learned and practiced his craft in many parts of the world. He told us he’d always loved watching and hearing and learning the behaviors of birds, and had begun an academic program in ornithology at one point,because it made sense, didn’t it?
That had lasted about a year. He’d found the rigors of scientific study and the nature of current research had put very narrow limits on his interests, which he realized did not reflect the true nature of his passion. In the end he pivoted and got a degree in International Development, specializing in assisting developing countries in improving their economies through ecotourism, which helped further his career working as a birding guide. Pretty clever, no? He seemed to be one happy camper, for good reason. He was living his joy, with the bonus of using his talents to enhance the experience of those who joined him, in wild and not-so-wild places all over this world. We found him especially impressive leading us through the many pocket parks spread around the city of Savannah, GA, discovering rich and abundant bird life where you’d least expect it. In his chosen profession he wasn’t getting rich by crass economic measures, but passion cares little about money (please don’t be a wiseacre and claim that there is such a thing as a passion for making money, when that pursuit falls clearly into the realm of compulsion or obsession or some might claim cultural hangup; to argue this would get tedious, quickly).
It is also a fact that ornithology, more than any other science, has benefited greatly from the contributions of passionate amateurs for centuries, an army of eyes and ears spending inordinate amounts of time out in the world, or as they say in the field, and reporting on all the avian goings on. For those with the passion, observing and noting is a daily personal activity, but as with any army of passionate recruits, more formal group operations have long been carried out all over the world, as well, to the best places at the best times, to yield the most varied and interesting results. These can be as simple as a walk with a local bird club in a nearby park or wetland on a fine spring morning, or as elaborate as a many-day guided tour to distant mountains and forests and jungles, for those with the time and money. In either case, the passion is the same. Or is it?
Perhaps it’s an odd question, but it came to mind recently after spending four very long days traveling with MA Audubon to New York’s Adirondack Park, with a crack birding team of passionate locals. We’ve done a number of Audubon trips over the years, and have noticed how they tend to have an almost intimate vibe; at least a few of the participants seem to already know one another from previous day trips or a workshop of some kind, which Audubon offers throughout the year at different sanctuaries throughout the state. Our passion was such that some years back we attended both sparrow and shorebird workshops, in an effort to improve our skills at proper identification, which tells you something. The fact that we still struggle distinguishing similar species in the field should tell you even more.
With some exceptions, Audubon excursions are mostly local affairs, with the focus on our birds, the ones everybody knows in one way or another. These can range from the common to the uncommon to the rarity. We’re talking the species to be found in any garden variety field guide to North American birds, the first reference book everybody (at least on this continent) obtains if their interest grows acute enough, a copy of which can be found in many households throughout the land, even in some where birds are a non-topic. Chances are good you own a copy, though you can’t quite recall where it is in your house, or the last time you gave it a look. This does not mean you don’t love the birds, but merely indicates your passions run in a different direction. Hey! It’s okay! And maybe, just maybe, you’ll notice a funny looking cardinal in your backyard, and you’ll look it up to discover it’s the first phainopepla ever seen in New England!
Because you never know.
The passion of Audubon-types usually dictates that they own not one but several different offerings of North American field guide; our household contains at least a half a dozen, all of them well-fingered over many years. Heading four hours away to the Adirondacks, we were exploring the farthest outer reaches of the local birding neighborhood. This meant we’d encounter a lot of the familiar – the crows and robins and cardinals and such – but this was June and the major focus of this trip was to sample the breeding grounds of the many migrants who’d been moving up from the south throughout the spring. The Adirondacks was the nesting destination for a goodly number, with its vast dense boreal forests and higher elevations. The key point here is that this trip was a celebration of the avian life cycle as much as anything else. Most of the players in the script were birds that folks already knew; the fascination involved being a witness to the seasonal ritual and where it took place.
There was a short list of “target” birds, a feature of every birding trip. These are the ones rarely or ever seen back home, or which some participants may have yet to see in this lifetime, for whom an encounter would be a big deal. A common passion among birders is to add to one’s “life list”, which at some point requires wandering farther and father afield to have first time encounters; for all its avian richness, North America has a relative paucity of species compared to tropical places spread along the equator. Any first time visit to points south can build a life list in a hurry. After that it’s only a matter of money and time (and having good local guides) to pick up a decent portion of the planet’s approximately 11000 species. You’ll also need to invest in a lot of field guides.
But this trip ventured to a place only four hours away by car, and the target list was short, the potential for “life” birds with this passionate and experienced group quite small. Targets included the Canada jay, mourning warbler, Bicknell’s thrush, boreal chickadee, black-backed woodpecker, Henslow’s sparrow, and spruce grouse – birds of the northern boreal forests. We’d personally seen most of these previously on various northern journeys (our encounter with the jays saw them seeking handouts from skiers on the wintry slopes of Mt Washington on a fine 10º day in January) though the Bicknell’s would be a “life” bird for us. There was also a chance for black and Caspian terns, which breed on the shores of Lake Ontario. A majority of the more usual suspects would be a variety of nesting wood warblers and vireos, most of which can be found in MA during migration and some throughout the summer.
In case you don’t know, chasing down wood warblers is often as not thrilling, exhilarating, frustrating and disappointing by turns. The greatest rewards go to those with the best eyes and quickest reflexes, along with a trained ear and good memory for their many subtle variations in birdsong and distinctive color patterns. Warblers are smallish migrants that come in a spectacular visual potpourri of bright tropical colors and patterns (with a few drab exceptions), but what they all share is a predilection for constant movement, flitting behind the curtains of leaves that allow the observer only the shortest of glimpses. In rare moments one will pop out on a bare branch, triggering enthusiastic oohs and aahs, then the show’s quickly over, and did you get a good look? Awww, too bad. In contrast, vireos are talented and distinctive singers who almost never move from their chosen perch, but they also prefer the treetops, so good luck getting any look at all.
Over four days we drove a lot and walked a lot, stood around in the rain at times and endured some very buggy moments, in places with colorful names like Massawepie Mire, Chaumont Barrens, and Bloomingdale Bog. The Adirondacks are a settled and touristy family vacation destination if one sticks to the major roads, but our trip leader knew all the remote locations where nesting birds were likely to be present. Unlike spring, when the migrating birds tend to be noisy and active, nesting areas are eerily quiet. We’d walk along in the silence until the point where things “looked right,” the leader would then play his trusty recording of scolding chickadees, and often as not after a few minutes all manner of nearby nesters would show up out of curiosity. Magical, in its way.
If you’re keeping score, in the end things were, so to speak, off target. The jays showed up in the bog, friendly and co-operative like all things Canada, but entering spruce grouse habitat (actually posted on the trees!) yielded nada. Same with the woodpecker. And alas, among the many chattery black-capped chickadees, nary a boreal. We drove through steady rain up the side of 4500’ Mt Whiteface in pursuit of the Bicknell’s, but in the end few among us heard or saw it, which isn’t to say it didn’t get counted. Likewise, standing in the rain hoping for a mourning warbler or two resulted in nothing but everybody getting wet. Still, stellar appearances by the usual suspects resulted in a total count for the trip of 128 species, testimony to the collective abilities of a talented and dedicated (might one also say passionate?) group. In contrast, your sensory-deprived reporter can tell you his personal count was probably half that (he did not keep careful track). Still, as an experienced bird-tripper and mature adult with realistic expectations, he had a delightful time.
How do you spell delight? Standing at a viewing site above a marsh at sunset, surrounded by grasslands where red-winged blackbirds and bobolinks atop slender stalks swayed in the wind. Caspian and black terns, fresh water species, sweeping back and forth across the waters down below, putting on quite a show. The Caspian is the biggest of all terns, the size of a herring gull, and this one displayed the classic tern behavior of hovering and then slamming into the water, a bird its size producing a mighty splash, much more spectacular than what you get with the smaller saltwater terns back in Massachusetts. Black terns are spectacular just for being unmistakable.
Then there was the farmer’s field outside of Watertown NY. We’ve had a long and pleasurable relationship with agrarian NY roadsides over the years (see Musings from an upstate of mind under General Thoughts elsewhere on this website) but this was the first time we’d joined a group of serious birders exercising their passion in what otherwise was a nondescript portion of the local landscape, in all its peaceful and lovely splendor. Armed with impressive sensory abilities and the best optics on the market, everybody just sort of looked around and listened for what turned up. This time more bobolinks, plus a few savanna sparrows and a meadowlark, a pair of kestrels cruising slowly in the distance above the grass, who’d hover occasionally, watching for movement below. One would drop out of sight at times, then ascend to start the process all over again, in the way they do. This display is always magnificent to observe, something once common that is becoming a rare occurrence as grasslands (and kestrels) steadily disappear from the northeast.
And finally in the end the Henslow’s! Right there in front of us, mixed in with the savannas and vespers, but no way was this crew going to get confused about the differences, and they didn’t need no stinkin’ field guide to get it right, either. As it turned out, this was the main reason we stopped here in the first place. Of course not everybody got a good look, some got no look at all, but the excitement was infectious. As a group we shared the passion, and that was enough.
On the long drive back, down New York’s Northway and on to the Massachusetts Turnpike, thoughts came to mind of another trip a few years back, also in June, which also had lots of nesters. Only those feathered participants, dutifully playing their roles in the mid-year act of nature’s grand annual drama, were having at it 8000 miles from here and way the heck north, where daylight was long and trees were scarce, and the landscapes were often dramatic. Touring Arctic regions of Finland and Norway was like something out of National Geographic; it was easy to get great landscape images and up-close pictures of birds, who often moved slowly or not at all, with no obscuring foliage. We saw a lot of life birds on that trip, as you might expect, and a lot of them we might never see again.
That trip had basic elements in common with this trip, yet the final experience was in many ways dramatically different. Yes, it was far away from home, but also faraway in a qualitative sense, so different from what was familiar, the faraway found in so many travel brochures, the stuff that keeps the airlines and hotels thriving. Take a few long distance ecotourism trips and one soon realizes that there is a class of world traveler in constant motion to all parts of the globe, following their passion for nature. Some have been once or multiple times to Brazil and Peru, Australia and Japan and India, maybe done a half dozen African safaris. As birds go, their life lists are impressively long, though many don’t keep track. Many will tell you they don’t spend much time at their “permanent residence,” though by some measure they still call it “home.” Their passions for travel and the natural world perfectly complement one another, and what could be better? Are they not the luckiest nature lovers of all?
If anything, this Adirondack trip was about “home” in the truest sense of the word. These were essentially home birds in our home landscape. Some aspects of the experience may have been uncommon or unusual, but in no way was any of it exotic. The birds we encountered were birds we knew in one way or another, had known them all our lives, or at least since we’d acquired a passion for the natural world and started paying closer attention. They were, after all, the ones to be found in the North American field guide, our guide, to put it simply. We have bird guides to other parts of the world on the shelf at home, but none show the wear of much use, which may or may not change depending on future unpredictable life plans (we did recently renew our passports).
A special feature of this trip, and one which added to its appeal for us, was that one of the leaders was a Mass Audubon notable, not an ornithologist but someone who’d had been mentored by talented birders in his childhood, who’d spent a lifetime “in the field” as a very passionate amateur, while also running the family woolen business. We’d done some previous trips with him, where his energy and enthusiasm and abundance of knowledge and birding skills kept everybody going for hours on end. It was nice to see he’s still going strong at 81, still driven by his passion.
I can recall being surprised some years ago, when somebody asked him if he loved going to the tropics, to take in all the exotic beauty of that world, especially the birds, so many of them much more colorful than ours. He answered that he had little interest in that world or those birds, that for him the birds that mattered were those of North America, how it was more than enough to get to know them and what their lives were all about, year in and year out. He made some comment about not wanting to stretch himself too thin, or something to that effect. This was not the passion of the world-traveling ecotourist with the impressive life list; it was a passion for home, and the desire to understand that deeply, and how that was more than enough, at least for him.
“There’s no place like home.” This was true long before Dorothy reminded us in that movie. Oz had been a marvelous place to visit, but after giving it some thought she didn’t want to live there. When Judy Garland invokes the timeless phrase she is drawing upon nostalgia and a longing for the familiar and maybe some new insights about what matters in life, at least for her. She misses Aunty Em and Uncle Henry, but does she also long for the prairie, for the bluestem grasses and the meadowlarks and the glorious skies and a landscape that looks like it goes on forever? Hollywood doesn’t tell us.
One never knows when an experience will unexpectedly throw new light on a subject as vital as this one, but after four days in upstate New York the distinction between nearby and faraway had become something different than it had been before. Add to that a whole new sense of home. One can travel the world and come away with less.