Raising Young Birders

How To (and Not To) Spark the Next Generation

For Christmas of 2020, I bought our sons William and Santiago, then aged nine and six, each a pair of compact binoculars and a Peterson Field Guide to Birds. The goal was simple—brainwash them with bird wonderment and cement a fourth generation of family birders.

Lovely and beautiful and fascinating as birds are, I wasn’t sure I could count on them alone to spark a passion in our boys. Nor could I expect legacy birding to be of much interest to a pair of elementary schoolers. I remembered being their age, and I well knew the formidable competition I was up against. My free-time priority as a kid was Saturday morning cartoons, not Saturday morning birding. The only birds on my mind were the digital ones I was blowing away in Duck Hunt with my Nintendo Zapper.

This was going to take some finesse, and I developed an approach—two-pronged and, I assumed, foolproof. Naturally, the first step was, yes, exposing them to birdlife. If my fears proved true and the charisma of birds wasn’t enough to hook them, the satisfaction of making checklists, ticking birds off one by one, and growing life lists of their own surely would be. They seemed pleased, if not exactly ecstatic, with their new birding paraphernalia, and we spent some time during winter vacation setting up their eBird accounts. When the time came, they’d be primed and ready to go.

All of the trappings around the hobby were appealing enough, but what about actually getting out there? After all, it’s about the birds. In early January, after the holiday dust had settled, I took them out for their first birdwalk

The outing was… not a success. The location was my patch in East Lansing, Michigan—Towar Woods Preserve, usually teeming with birds on any given day of the year, but pretty dead on this day. Making matters worse, the compact binoculars were proving not kid friendly. The boys struggled to get anything in the lenses, let alone little flitting birds, and the bulky winter gloves didn’t help. Nor did the freezing weather. In all, we spent 30 minutes birding in the cold. After recording a meager eight species, few of which they actually saw, my shivering sons were ready to call it a day, and maybe a career, the hell with birds, checklists, legacies… all of it.

I asked them this week how much they remember of that walk. Not one thing. That’s probably good for my long-term hopes, but at the time they found the experience very off-putting. Invitations to future walks received a curt No thanks. When they started answering with I don’t really like birding, I died a little inside, but ultimately backed off.

I would never force my hobbies on the boys. Not just because I don’t want to put a permanent bad taste in their mouths, but also because I delight in seeing them walk their own paths. William has taken a shine to writing and content creation. He has such a clever way with words and humor that I love watching evolve, and he even had a short piece published recently. Santiago has found great joy (and success!) in Odyssey of the Mind, the worldwide competition that teaches children problem-solving and teamwork. Out of nowhere, he decided he wanted to learn the trumpet and join the school band. All good stuff, and I’m proud of them.

But that doesn’t mean I’m done giving them gentle nudges toward the birds, and I’ve adopted a new strategy I hope will pay off in the long run. Instead of taking them on walks, I introduce them to birds I think have a chance of captivating them enough to awaken a broader interest. First I tried the Snowy Owl that showed up near our Michigan home in 2022, but a stationary white mass didn’t do the trick. Not only were the boys bored, so was my wife Alex. Whatever birding flame might have been flickering dimly inside her was snuffed that day by a motionless owl.

That attempt was a flop. I still liked the strategy, but better execution would be key to its success. Next was the pair of Peregrine Falcons who liked to hang around a Lansing power plant. I hyped them on the way—the reigning Fastest Bird on Earth! Capable of reaching speeds exceeding 200 MPH! Able to snatch pigeons in mid-air! This piqued some interest, especially from Santiago.

Still, there was a chance I was dragging them across town for nothing. Would the birds show?

They would.

William’s expression of amazement is hammy, but the fun we had was real. This was a success. The birds put on a nice aerial display, looping around the power plant while nervous pigeons wondered who was next on the menu. Four years later, William does remember this outing. I know they’re fast, he tells me. When I ask if he enjoyed seeing them, he shrugs a Yes that comes off as the most teenagery Meh you could imagine. I’ll take it. Santiago remembers them more fondly—That was one of the cooler ones. He still talks about Peregrines, and whenever he voluntarily brings them up, I knead my hands and cackle with the joy of a villain who feels his master plan coming to fruition.

Fast forward to the present. New home, new city, new schools, new friends, new interests. That’s been a lot to process. I haven’t pressed them on the birds, but I also haven’t given up. Last spring migration, at dusk, as I stood observing a certain early spring arrival launch into its unique courtship display, it occurred to me I had found our next bird.

I am of course referring to everyone’s favorite woodland sandpiper, the American Woodcock.

I didn’t take the boys to see Woodcocks last year, but I also didn’t forget their potential as a spark bird. When I started seeing eBird reports of their arrival a few weeks ago, I made my intentions known. There were no cartwheels, but they also didn’t kick up a fuss. Progress. On the day of our adventure, while serving dinner, I announced we would be setting off later that evening. They acquiesced without protest, but that didn’t mean I had an easy road ahead. Once the dishes were done and the sun was low in the sky, it was time to gather the lads. I found William in the backyard in his swinging chair, face buried in his phone.

Papa: Let’s go.

William: Go where?

Papa: To see the bird.

William: What bird again?

Papa: The American Woodcocks. Like I told you.

William: Oh. Do I have to go?

I gently ordered him to get his ass in the car and went off in search of his brother. Surely I could count on Santiago, always more fascinated by nature, to show some cursory interest. I found him in his room, in bed, in pajamas, face buried in his laptop.

Papa: Let’s go.

Santiago: Go where?

Papa: To. See. The. Bird.

Santiago: Oh yeahhh. Do I have to go?

Papa: 🤬

I get it. It was the weekend. Time to decompress and use the screen time they’d earned during the week by doing homework and chores, and being good, responsible, self-motivated lads in general. I had dragged them out of a state of supreme comfort, so once in the car, I silenced their disgruntlement with a promise of ice cream.

I again used the car ride to hype the birds. I explained that Woodcocks start to call when the sun is setting. A distinctive Peent! sound will roughly give away their location. Then, out of the brush, a corpulent bird with a long bill will fly up and begin circling around in a frenetic display of courtship, wingbeats creating a repetitive twittering sound.

We arrived at North Park’s Upper Fields to the sounds of Fox Sparrows, Red-winged Blackbirds, and Northern Cardinals, still sing-songy as the light began to wane. Several more families appeared with kids in tow. Were they employing the same strategy I was? Were their kids game, or had they too been dragged against their will?

There was still sufficient light for a picture, in the off chance the Woodcocks appeared early, perhaps even wandered onto the trail. No such luck. Time was wearing on with no trace of them. Along with the daylight, I sensed patience was failing. They’ll show, I reassured the boys. They better show, I thought, knowing my silent threat idle. Woodcocks would have the last word. Birds always do.

Finally a brief, sharp Peent! eased my worries. Another followed soon after. There it is! I whisper-yelled to the boys, who had drifted down the trail. We regrouped and quietly approached the source of the calls. Enough light was splayed across the field that a photo was still in the cards. After a few minutes of hearing that comedic call, I spotted a brown blob through a little window in the grass. A single eye peered out. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the bird in my viewfinder, not before a rotund shape burst out of the cover and began its twilight dance in the sky.

The boys followed its flight path around and around until it landed on the other side of the path. Peent! Peent! it called before taking off again. The Woodcock took two more turns, always settling back down in the same general area. The next time, I had my phone ready.

I halfway expected the boys to turn to me then and demand their ice cream, but no! They were sorta into it, as this video shows (better than it does the bird).

The whispers are difficult to hear, but here’s a rough transcript—

American Woodcock: Peent!

Papa: (Unintelligible muttering).

AW: Peent!

Santiago: Fly up.

AW: Peent!

Santiago: C’mon, bird, you gotta fly up!

AW: Peent! Peent! Peent!

Santiago: Stop, it’s flying, it’s flying!

William: Oh I see it, I see it, I see it, I see it, I see it!

I’m taking this mild yet real exuberance as a huge W in my quest to raise the next generation of Bowler family birders. In all, we spent well over an hour seeking and watching and hearing two American Woodcocks. Once the birds showed, there were no complaints. We’ve come a long way from that miserable failure of a first birdwalk, as far as I’m concerned. I never did get the photos I coveted, but here’s a still that gives a general idea of what a goofball this bird is.

Finally, night swallowed the day’s last traces. The ice cream was well earned and duly awarded. They both chose Häagen-Dazs, Caramel Cone for William, Cherry Vanilla for Santiago. We spent the ride back not rhapsodizing about Woodcocks, but debating the proper pronunciation of the word caramel.

Once home, I sat down to bask in the aftermath of the Woodcocks and what I saw as a minor breakthrough. The slight tingle I felt on my skin, however, was not exhilaration—it was a deer tick crawling down my wrist. First of the season.

I had one last order for the boys—strip down, search, and shower. The last thing I needed was to have our good time end in disease.

Featured Photo—American Kestrel

Speaking of falcons, we get three different kinds here in Pittsburgh—the aforementioned Peregrine Falcon, Merlin, and American Kestrel. Of the three, the American Kestrel is the one I’ve had the hardest time tracking down since we moved to Allegheny County. Perhaps that’s not surprising, given downtrending Kestrel populations, although I suspect the shortage of open fields around the county is a contributing factor. So when a Kestrel appeared this week at the site where our Barnacle Goose took up residence, I had to go looking. After a half hour, I spotted a robin-sized bird atop an electric pole.

Kestrels are the smallest falcon in North America. That automatically makes them adorable. For my money they’re also the most beautiful, colorful in ways raptors rarely are. This male, stunning in rufous and blue, I’m sure did not appear stunning, beautiful, or adorable to the small rodent it killed and carried to the top of this electric pole.

10/10 Recommends

Checking for ticks

Seriously. If you spend time in nature, check for ticks. You don’t want to mess around with Lyme disease, which William contracted in the spring of 2022 after a picnic in the woods. We missed the tick, but we caught the disease quickly enough that a round of antibiotics knocked it right out. But it’s a nasty illness that worsens the longer it goes untreated. Please, do me a personal favor and check for ticks!

That’s all for this week. Do you come from a birding family? Are you trying to get your children interested in the hobby? Do you have grown children who became (or did not become) birders? If you have any tips for getting kids hooked, please share them in the comments!

Until next time, gather up your family and bird your ass off!

nwb

Enjoy this post? Birding with BillBow’s weekly content will always be free, but you can help support my writerly dreams in the form of a paid subscription (save $10/year by choosing the yearly plan vs monthly). Either way, I’m so glad you’re here!

Or buy me a beer. I much prefer beer to ice cream.

This post was human-generated. All photos by Nathaniel Bowler. Otherwise they’d be better.