A few years ago, Alex gave me the Sibley Birder’s Life List & Field Diary. And yes, I realize that sounds like the beginning of a charming birding memoir, preferably one with watercolor illustrations and a lot of meaningful gazing into trees. But hold your binoculars – that is not actually where it began. I’m getting ahead of myself, which is something I do often, usually while pretending I know exactly where I’m going.

The real beginning is that we love nature. Alex has spent his whole career as a naturalist tour guide, and I have embarked on more tours than I can count – some paid, some self-guided, and some that were probably just us wandering around saying, “Ooh, look at that tree,” with the confidence of seasoned outdoorspeople. Birds, naturally, were part of the package. They fly, they sing, they swoop and poop. What’s not to like?

My grandmother could identify every bird in her backyard by sound, which I now recognize as a superpower. As a kid, I did not appreciate this. If it wasn’t a dog, a horse, or something likely to appear in a movie, I was not impressed. But as an adult, my fascination with all things nature has grown and birds have very politely, and sometimes very loudly, flown into the spotlight.

So far, we’ve logged about 150 birds in our ongoing quest. We have pictures of some, fleeting memories of others, and probably at least one questionable identification that we are emotionally attached to and will not be reopening for peer review.

Which brings us back to the book, both the actual field diary and the larger question of whether we had accidentally become the kind of people who own one. Alex and I had agreed not to exchange gifts because we were traveling so much, so naturally he bought me a gift. But it was a good one: the field diary. We decided we would go on a birding journey together, documenting all the birds we see in the wild. Romantic? Absolutely. Nerdy? Also absolutely. Useful when you cannot remember if that bird was in Arizona, Kentucky or Texas? Surprisingly, yes.

The Great Birding Identity Crisis

But are we birders? This is a surprisingly difficult question, mostly because answering “yes” feels like we should immediately own better binoculars, know the Latin name for everything, and have at least one strong opinion about migration patterns that we can bring up unprompted at dinner.

So we did what any reasonable, slightly bird-curious people would do: we interrogated ourselves.

Would we drive out of our way to see a specific bird? No. Definitely not. But would we casually adjust our route if there was a chance of seeing something cool? Of course. That is not driving out of the way. That is strategic wandering, which sounds much more respectable and is exactly how we saw Whooping Cranes in Lamar, Texas.

Are we serious about seeing birds? 100%. But not Big Year serious. We are “pull over safely and grab the camera” serious, not “quit our jobs and chase warblers across state lines while eating trail mix for dinner” serious.

Which leaves us with one final question: after all the field notes, backyard sightings, questionable IDs, and route “adjustments,” are we birders?

I think the answer is yes, but maybe lowercase birders. We are not the kind who can identify a warbler at 200 yards while it is actively hiding behind three leaves and a bad attitude. We are the kind who stop mid-conversation because something just landed on the fence, grab the camera before the bird immediately regrets visiting, and then spend ten minutes debating whether it was “definitely” the thing we hope it was.

I call this “casual birders”. We are curious, enthusiastic, and more than occasionally underprepared birders. We may not have mastered every call, every field mark, or every little brown bird with suspiciously similar cousins, but we are paying attention. And honestly, that feels like a pretty good place to start. Binoculars optional. Wonder required.