I am an avid birdwatcher. I particularly love bluebirds, orioles, waxwings, and goldfinches, but for as long as I can remember, there have been two birds that I have longed to see more than any others: the Steller's sea eagle and the snowy owl. The former is a giant of a bird with a wingspan of up to 8 feet, found on the Kamchatka Peninsula and in northern Japan. The latter breeds in the Arctic circle and might wander as far south as Michigan or Minnesota in the winter. Both birds are majestic, spectacular, and beautiful. Considering how far I'd have to go to see them, I haven't spent much time seriously considering pursuing either species.
My first forays into birdwatching, or birding, came as a 12 year-old, and since then I have kept pretty meticulous records and lists of my sightings. As a teenager, I often spent weekends being driven with my best friend, Max, to look for rare and unusual birds, or rarities. We spent school holidays together, for the specific purpose of birdwatching. On one occasion, we walked over 20 miles through the Cornish countryside for an approximately 30-second view of a yellow-browed warbler.
As an adult, other than being able to drive myself wherever I wanted, two things turbo-charged my birding life. One was a move to San Diego County, where over 500 species of birds have been recorded, and the other was the internet. Where previously birders had relied on hotlines and word of mouth, now email alerts, GPS, and Google Maps made chasing rarities almost childishly easy. Standing on the shoulders of giants, I quickly totted up a deceptively impressive list of birds, very few of which I found by myself.
For the past 6 years, however, birding opportunities have been virtually non-existent. Maturing as a parent and a husband has made me realize that I have obligations at home that now supersede (and maybe should always have superseded) my need to add another species to my various lists. Getting an early start (on the road before dawn) is a must for birding; nowadays, if I am to get up at 5 a.m. on a weekend, it will be to go for a long run or to grade essays.
So when news stories started emerging in December 2022 of a snowy owl being spotted in Cypress, a mere 75 miles away, my long dormant birding adrenaline started coursing through my veins once more. This was a mega-rarity. A once in a lifetime sighting in southern California, a good 2,000 miles away from its normal habitat. And one of my bucket list birds.
Now you have to understand that my birding instincts had been dulled considerably by 6 years of inaction. Previously, I would have jumped in the car at the first available opportunity. You only have to read books like Kingbird Highway or watch movies like Big Year to realise that many bird watchers are so obsessive that they will travel hundreds of miles at the drop of a hat (and several hundred dollars, most likely) for the chance to see a rarity. There are no guarantees in birding.
My desire was a little more slow-burning.
But by the time the bird had stayed in the same neighbourhood for over two weeks, I broached the idea of heading up the I-5, and my wife, to her eternal credit, suggested I should do it. She even offered to go with me. When I realized that, in taking my parents to Los Angeles International Airport, I would be passing within 5 miles of the bird, I decided to go for it. A couple of hours on ebird gave me all the information I needed to be able to scour the neighbourhood for this bird that, by this time, was making national news.
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| Ebird maps showing all the sightings of the snowy owl. |
By the time I had left LAX, battled traffic on southbound I-405, and made it to Cypress, it was well after 4 pm. Daylight was fading, and I realised that I didn't have much of a strategy for looking for the owl. Thanks to ebird (see the pictures above), I had a pretty good idea of where to look, but I didn't know how long I should drive around for and when to park and search the neighbourhood on foot.
However, I needn't have worried. After less than five minutes of cruising the streets of Cypress, I turned onto Jaluit Street and saw, almost immediately, about 30 people with spotting scopes and cameras, lined up on the pavement, clearly staking out a house on the other side of the street. I swung round the corner, parked terribly, grabbed my binoculars, and, heart racing, practically ran back to the crowd of birders. They all seemed to be waiting patiently, but my attention was grabbed by a man standing in a driveway across the street. He had his phone up, taking a picture of something. He saw me and beckoned me over.
"It's over there, on the roof. Look between the houses."
He was standing much closer to the house than the crowd of birders, who seemed to have decided that staying a respectable distance back was appropriate. They were probably right: there is a slightly odd dynamic about birdwatching in a residential neighbourhood. Let's face it, some dude walking around in front of your house with a pair of binoculars looks downright creepy, and I've personally never felt comfortable doing that. But this guy, who had neither binoculars nor telescope nor fancy camera, clearly wasn't a birder, so he didn't care about etiquette.
Hands shaking, I raised my binoculars, and almost immediately saw, perched on a chimney, a large white bird with heavy black barring on its wings and breast. Most birds, especially rare ones, require some careful observation to confirm identification. This was one of those few that didn't. It was obviously, almost ridiculously obviously, a snowy owl. A juvenile, most likely a female. It was incredibly surreal, seeing it framed by palm trees in the fading southern California sunshine.
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| Tick! (I use the English method of writing dates: day-month-year) |
I pulled out my phone and fumbled off a text to my wife just as the garage door opened and the homeowner in whose driveway we were standing emerged. He asked us if we'd seen the owl. I said I had and commented on how strange it must be to have so many random people roaming his neighbourhood looking for a bird. He admitted that he found it odd but also somewhat endearing. When I told him I'd driven up from San Diego County, he was astounded.
"Wanna get a closer look? You can see it even better from my backyard." He looked slyly beyond me to the crowd of birders and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Just you two, though."
We didn't need a second invitation. And, just like that, this kind, slightly dishevelled fifty-something, guided two complete strangers through his home and into his backyard where we got the most magnificent views of this wonderful bird. I was hoping to see it fly--no luck there--but I did get a glimpse of its gorgeous amber eyes, glinting as it faced the setting sun in the west. I stayed, looking at the owl, still not quite believing what I was seeing, as long as I thought I could reasonably stay without being rude.
On the drive home, my heart that wonderful mixture of being both full and light, I reflected on what I loved about birdwatching. The glimpsing of a beautiful bird and the rush it gives me. The knowledge that I can add another bird to my world, US, and California lists. I have seen a lot of articles recently extolling the mental health benefits of birdwatching and I think they're onto something. But more than that, I realised that I when I birdwatch, I often have unexpected and unique encounters with people I don't know whose kindness enables me to get what I want.
That day in Cypress, in a neighbourhood I had never visited and one which I am unlikely to visit again, my life had been enriched by a total stranger into whose orbit I had been briefly flung by a shared love for and an excitement in seeing a feathery, winged, and most likely completely oblivious creature.
Just the other day, I saw a report that a Steller's sea eagle had, incredibly, been seen in Bangor, Maine. Only a $600 round trip...
