The Reluctant Birder

For a long time, I was reluctant to call myself a birder.

There were reasons for that. At least, I had reasons.

The first, if I'm being completely honest, was the slightly nerdy reputation that came with the word. Birder. It conjured up images of people with binoculars around their necks, field guides tucked under their arms, excitedly discussing plumage variations and migration patterns.

In retrospect, this is pretty ridiculous.

I am a nerd. On many, many levels.

So that probably wasn't really the issue.

The second reason was a little more legitimate.

I was afraid of not knowing enough.

There are a LOT of birds out there. A lot. And once you start looking into them, you quickly discover that there is an enormous amount to learn. Species, subspecies, plumage, calls, migration, behaviour, habitat, seasonal changes. Then there are sparrows. And warblers.

So. Many. Warblers.

The whole thing felt a little daunting.

I didn't want to be the guy confidently identifying a bird as something it clearly wasn't. I didn't want to make stupid mistakes. And honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to dive that deeply into something that seemed to have such a steep learning curve.

When I bought my Sigma 150-600, birds weren't even really part of the plan.

I bought that lens with icebergs in mind.

Birds? Not really a consideration.

Then I photographed my first eagle.

This is my first eagle in flight photo taken way back in 2020 with a Canon Rebel T3 and a 200 zoom

And somewhere in that moment, a little hook went in.

I started visiting the puffin colony, and those ridiculous little clowns pulled the hook a little deeper.

My first puffin photo ever taken with the same Canon Rebel T3

I started photographing more birds. Then Newfoundland Photo Tours happened, and suddenly I was immersed in a culture I had only barely understood before.

One of the things I love about photography is that feeling of discovery. You go somewhere, you see something you've never seen before, and suddenly you are completely invested in it.

For me, when it came to birds, that was easy.

They were ALL new.

Every bird was an opportunity to learn something.

But the biggest turning point came with Stella.

My first Steller's Sea Eagle photo taken with a Canon 80D and a Sigma 150-600

Stella was the Steller's Sea Eagle who somehow found herself in Newfoundland, thousands of kilometres from where she was supposed to be.

I remember seeing the excitement surrounding her. People were travelling enormous distances just for the chance to see this displaced raptor.

And I understood it.

I wanted to be part of it.

That was when I started allowing myself to admit that maybe I actually liked birds.

But I had rules.

I liked birds of prey.

I liked rare birds.

I could probably stretch that to seabirds. Gannets. Murres. Puffins, obviously.

But small birds?

Absolutely not.

There were thousands of them. Sparrows, warblers, finches and all sorts of tiny things flitting around in bushes.

Nope.

That was where I drew the line.

I wasn't going that far down the rabbit hole.

Except...

Well.

Over the past couple of years, something has happened.

I have found myself walking around with Merlin open on my phone, trying to figure out what bird is singing somewhere nearby.

I've stopped on trails and stared into the trees because I saw movement.

I've stood completely still, trying to lock onto a tiny eye through a wall of leaves and branches.

I've gotten ridiculously excited when I photograph a bird doing something I've never seen before.

I've celebrated discovering a new species.

I've had animated conversations with other people about a friggin' warbler.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something.

Yeah.

I'm a birder.

There. I said it.

And you know what?

It's actually pretty great.

Birding gets you outside. It makes you pay attention. It teaches you to notice things that you might otherwise walk right past.

It gives you a reason to stop and listen.

It gives you challenges that can be as simple as figuring out what that little brown bird in the bush actually is, or as exciting as finding a species you've never seen before.

And perhaps one of the best things about it is the community.

There is this passionate global community of people who can stand together, point at a distant speck in the sky and immediately understand why everybody is excited.

You don't have to speak the same language.

You don't even have to know very much.

You just have to care about birds.

It's a universal language.

And honestly, I think birding is a little bit like Pokémon for people who don't want to collect cards.

You get outside, you hunt for new species, you keep track of what you've seen, and you get ridiculously excited when you find something new.

Only instead of sitting on the couch playing a game, you're standing in the middle of a trail getting eaten by mosquitoes while whispering, "Where did it go? Where did it go? I KNOW IT'S IN THERE."

And somehow, that's fun.

More than fun, actually.

It's educational. It's challenging. It's rewarding. It's social.

And somewhere along the way, it became part of how I experience Newfoundland.

I still have a lot to learn.

I still get identifications wrong.

There are still an absurd number of little brown birds that can leave me scratching my head.

But I'm no longer afraid of that.

Because I finally understand that being a birder isn't about knowing everything.

It's about being curious enough to keep looking.

So yeah.

Proudly, reluctantly, and perhaps a little surprisingly...

I'm a birder.