Please Don't Stop Birding!

He was the sweet guy from marketing, the one who wore the pink pussy hat every Friday during the #MeToo days, the one his mom had crocheted. Benjamin—he insisted on the whole name, no “Ben” for him—was so earnest, so sincere that everybody kind of adopted him as the conscience of the company. When our CEO offered a “pardon” to anybody who wanted to join the Friday BLM marches that ramped up in the city that summer, Benjamin went. Benjamin’s heart bled for the oppressed, the marginalized. More than the rest of us, he remembered that Ash wanted to go by “them/they,” and he quietly and earnestly corrected those who got it wrong so they wouldn’t have to. He may not have been the guy you’d ask to help you bust up a concrete slab in your back yard, but you could trust him.

Naturally, Benjamin was a birder.

Most mornings he walked out on the raised levees behind our office park, scanning the trees, peering into the wetland, making soft “psh, psh, psh” sounds to coax the birds into coming closer. I’d see him out there all alone, walking slowly and quietly in his safari vest, camera and binoculars hung around his neck, the very epitome of the bird nerd. Soon, he offered an open invitation: join me. People did … and eventually, I did too.

I’ll admit, it was kind of cool, birding. I had walked these trails many times, but I never dreamed they were teeming with birds: juncoes, sparrows, goldfinches, yellowthroats, herons, ducks galore, occasionally a raptor: a bald eagle or red-tailed hawk. All you had to do was slow down and look, and suddenly you were in a whole different world. Before long, a couple of us traded bird sightings over coffee, Benjamin lightly correcting us: “Are you sure it was a Golden Crowned? They’re very unlikely right now, you know.” It was innocent, fun.

It must have been some combination of “Benjamin is such a sweet guy” and people’s legitimate and growing fascination with birds that helped draw a crowd the day that Benjamin offered a “lunch-and-learn” talk on birding. 40 people joined the talk—a great showing in a company of 60. We listened as Benjamin gushed over four common species we could see nearby. He offered, again, to take anybody out on a bird walk.

I walked alone the next day. Up ahead, where the trail entered the shade, I saw Benjamin talking to a guy I didn’t recognize, a big guy, too big really for the safari vest that he wore. The man tomahawked his right hand into his left palm, once, twice. I couldn’t really see his face, he was too far away, but I sensed he was chastising Benjamin, impressing something on him. It was weird.

Later that day Benjamin popped his head into my office. “I saw you out walking today,” he said. “See any new birds?”

“Just the usual,” I said. “There was one tiny bird off in the bushes, but I couldn’t really see him well.”

“You really need some bins,” Benjamin said, and when I looked quizzical, he added “Binoculars. They really take your birding to the next level.”

“Oh, cool,” I said, which may have been my way of saying “whatever.”

But he persisted. “Bins just bring you much closer to the birds, and they’re not that expensive. I’ll send you a link for a pair I like.”

“What, do you get a commission on these?” I joked.

“No, of course not! I just thought I’d make it easier for you,” he responded, slightly stung. That was Benjamin: always helpful, always sensitive. Then he left.

And yeah, I bought some bins, the ones he recommended, and you know, they were fun: you could really see the details on the birds, the small things that let you tell one sparrow or one kinglet from another. Honestly, I liked them.

I had my bins with me a week later when I saw Benjamin off in the distance walking alongside the same big guy. They weren’t on the levee trails, but off on a sidewalk–which was odd for Benjamin. He was a guy who preferred walking on dirt to cement, because dirt was more “natural.” With my bins, I could see that this was no casual conversation: the big guy waved his arms out to the side, stopped and turned to Benjamin. Even from this distance, I could see Benjamin resist, then acquiesce, in the face of the big guy’s vehemence. He nodded his head, slowly. And then he turned, walking back toward the levee as the big guy stomped away.

I crossed paths with Benjamin soon enough, and reversed direction to walk with him. “Looks like you ran into a friend,” I observed.

“What do you mean, a friend?” said Benjamin. He seemed a little cross.

“Just that guy I saw you walking with,” I explained. “You know, I’ve got these powerful bins now, I can see everything.” I smiled, seeking to overcome what felt like defensiveness.

“Oh, that was just some guy, asking if there was a Starbucks nearby.” He paused to look at me, to see if I bought it.

“I see,” I replied, not wanting to push it. Who was I to catch him in a white lie?

“Hey,” said Benjamin, “did you download that app I told you about?”

“Oh jeez, I meant to … but I only seem to remember it when I’m talking to you. What’s the name again?”

“Seriously?” asked Benjamin. I could see he tried to ask it lightly, but he was agitated.

“Yeah! It’s ‘Bird Perv,’ right?” I joked. I was always giving him a hard time about his obsessive interest in birds.

“Merlin! Merlin!,” he insisted, a forced smile masking his frustration. “You’ll really love it–you can identify birds in the field and add to your life list, and there’s a new feature where you can actually have your phone ‘listen’ to a bird’s sounds and it can identify it.”

“Oh, yeah, that does sound cool actually. I read a thing on Wired about how they’re using AI to do that.”

“Let me show you how it works …” And then we were off again, just two co-workers sharing an interest in birds. That was nice, and Merlin pegged the Common Yellowthroat’s song right away.

So I downloaded the app and even started using it a little bit. I shared some of my sightings with Benjamin: he seemed pleased and, honestly, just a little relieved.

And that’s the way it went for a while: I’d try out a new birding thing–recording a checklist on this other app he recommended, eBird, say, or finding a “birding hot spot” on the AllAboutBirds.org website–and I’d share that with Benjamin and sure enough, he’d suggest something else. Had I considered a better camera? A longer lens? How about a tripod or a spotting scope?

In a way, it was kind of nice: he did really seem to have a genuine enthusiasm for this stuff. When he told me about adding a new bird to his life list, I could tell it meant a lot to him. Hell, he got all misty-eyed when we spotted a Yellow Warbler together out behind work.

But there was also this strange edge. When I told him I didn’t like making checklists, that it diminished the simple pleasure of just watching the birds, he said, “Well god, Tom, how do you expect us to be able to track species if people can’t even take the time to report what they see?” So he’d ask me to join him on a walk so we could build checklists together, and he’d play up how great it was.

I tried doing the checklists a couple times on my own, and afterward he’d text me: “Hey, I saw that you posted a checklist. Good job!” And you know, it was kind of fun, to go to the website and see all the birds that were reported and to feel like part of this community that really cared about birds. You see, every checklist fed into this public database, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds. Maybe a little creepy, but hey, that’s the world these days, right?

Then one day there was this exchange of texts:

“Hey, Tom, I saw you reported a Red Throated Loon the other day out at the Slough.”

“Oh yeah, I wasn’t positive about it, but it seemed like the best ID I could make.”

“Well, there’s no point in reporting incorrectly. You know you can correct a false report, right?”

“I don’t think it was a false report, it’s just I’m not 100% sure.”

“What’s the point of reporting if you’re not going to take it seriously?”

“Dude, lighten up! It’s just a freaking bird list.”

“It means a lot Tom.”

I didn’t reply. I got Benjamin being “fastidious” about his bird IDs–he was generally a bit obsessed with being right about things, especially birds–but I wasn’t so into the birding that I liked being harangued about it!

It didn’t end there. The next time I was out at the Slough I fired up my checklist–you pressed a button in the eBird app to start it–and was maybe 15 minutes into my walk when, off in the distance, I saw a car pull up alongside the road that bordered the Slough: Benjamin’s C-Max Hybrid. Nobody got out of the car, so I lifted my bins to take a look. From this distance, I could see two people in the car–one of them was big, filling the front seat. He whacked the dashboard. Then they drove away.

Later, I got a text:

“That was a good checklist you filed today.” I didn’t recognize who it was from.

“Who is this?” I replied.

“My name is Carl, I’m a local birder. You may have seen my name in eBird.” Yeah, I had: this guy was into it. He filed checklists nearly every day, at all different times.

Then another: “I wonder, though, how sure you are about that Virginia Rail you reported. Those are really rare.”

I didn’t reply, but I called Benjamin.

“What the hell man?” I said when he answered. “Did you report me to the birding police?”

“Tom, no, what are you talking about?”

“Some random guy accused me of misidentifying a Virginia Rail, for pity’s sake. I thought maybe you put him up to it.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t say anything. Did the person say who they were?” he asked.

“Carl,” I replied.

“Oh,” Benjamin stammered, “um, Carl, oh yeah, he’s uh, he’s really serious about this stuff. You didn’t argue with him did you?” He sounded worried or–could it be?--scared.

“No, I ignored him!” I said.

“Tom, Virginia Rails are really rare, you know. Maybe he’s just worried you misreported.”

“You know what,” I said, “I just don’t care enough to put up with this crap. I think that’s my last checklist.”

“Tom, please, please, just correct the list.”

“Who said it was wrong? I’m pretty damned sure I saw a Virginia Rail, and I heard it too, it’s pretty distinctive.”

“Tom, just correct it. Carl won’t let this go.”

“I’ll tell you what–I’ll just delete the whole checklist and it will be my last. If I knew there was this kind of surveillance, I never would have started.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“It’s just really important, I mean, it would mean a lot to me if you would keep reporting …” I wish I could have seen his face. I sensed he was tearing up–but I sensed something else too. Fear?

“It kind of makes me want to give up birding,” I sighed.

“Oh please,” he pleaded, “please don’t give up birding.”

“I think I’ll just take a break,” I said. And I did.

I stopped making checklists and mostly stopped taking my bins on my walks down to the Slough and to the other birding areas. I didn’t stop looking for birds: after all, they were pretty and interesting and it was fun to watch their behavior change with the seasons. But I just kind of relaxed and enjoyed them.

I wondered if I ever ran into Carl out at the Slough. After all, I’d see the same people over and over: there was Tony, who I knew; the slight, bearded guy who often walked with his kids and his dad–they all looked alike; the short, white-haired lady who looked up from her phone and offered a big smile. And then there was the guy we called Abe Lincoln, who walked tall and straight and slow and who had the best behaved dog. Abe Lincoln rarely smiled, but we always said hello. None of them seemed like Carl.

I kind of lost touch with Benjamin for a while. We didn’t work together anymore. Our company was sold: he stayed, I didn’t. I wasn’t angry with him: we’d had a good relationship for a long time, it just kind of got weird there around the birding, and Carl.

But just the other day, I started playing this new game, Wordle, and I thought he’d like it, so I sent it to him. He liked it too, and soon enough we were sharing scores, engaging in the light, pleasant banter we used to enjoy together. It felt good.

Until one day he wrote: “You know, you should try playing BRDL …”