1Birds . . . more beautiful than in EuropeIt was a cool, lightly foggy day along the midcoast of Maine, the cries of herring gulls mixing with the throb of lobster boat engines out in Muscongus Bay. A dozen and a half birders were strung out along a beaver pond, spotting scopes perched atop tripods, their binoculars focused on a tangle of blueberry bushes and scraggly, head-high tamaracks that poked up from the boggy mat of sphagnum moss spangled with tiny pink orchids. Bonnie Bochan, an ornithologist who splits her time between Maine and the Ecuadorian rain forest, stared intently at the thicket, from which a thin, slow trill emerged. Thats a swamp sparrow, Bonnie said quietly. It sounds a lot like the pine warblers and juncos weve been hearing, but its trill isnt as musical as the juncos, and its not as fast as the pine warblersyou can almost count each syllable. As though on cue, the sparrow itself hopped into view, tipped back its head and sanga dusky bird with bright rufous wings and a dark brown cap, the feathers of its white throat quivering in song. A little sigh rippled through the group; for most of them, this was a new species, a life bird, and some had come from as far away as California to see it. A few were experienced birders, most of the others complete novices, but all were dressed, as birders are wont to do, with more of an eye toward practicality than fashionnylon pants tucked into socks, wide-brimmed Gortex hats snugged under chins, outsized vests with pockets big enough for field guides, bug repellent, and water bottles. They wore mismatched rain pants and coats of differing vintage and color, but always mutednothing so bright that it would scare the birds. I glanced down at myself: shabby green rain pants, a dark blue raincoat that had seen better days, a scruffy ball cap, and worn boots. Except for the expensive binoculars around my neck, I looked a bit like a hobo. I fit in perfectly. Every summer, I help teach a course in field ornithology on this surpassingly lovely part of the Maine coast, at an Audubon camp on Hog Island, a 330-acre sanctuary near the town of Damariscotta. For more than seventy years, birders have been coming to this spruce-clad island, including some of the greatest names in birding and bird science. When the island was donated to the National Audubon Society in 1936, NAS director John Baker dispatched a young grad student named Olin Sewall Pettingill Jr. to inspect the place, with an eye toward turning it into an educational camp for adults. Pettingillwho later became the director of the famed Cornell Lab of Ornithologygave it an enthusiastic thumbs-up, so Baker turned to the question of staffing. He had just the fellow to teach about birdsa chap named Roger Tory Peterson, who had published a revolutionary field guide two years earlier, and had just been placed in charge of Audubons education program. Petersonin his twenties, single and good-lookingcompeted for birds (and for the at Excerpted from Of a Feather: A Brief History of American Birding by Scott Weidensaul All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
