Written on 4/18/2026

Sometimes seeing a bird can be such a serendipitous moment. Yesterday I was reading about Greater White-fronted Geese in the article “Consider the Goose” by fellow Substacker James Freitas. In this piece, he linked to something that I wrote in 2024 after I saw this species once in Salt Lake City, then another time, a few weeks later, in Carbon County. I am always excited to see them. The Carbon County bird was the last I had run into. They are a semi-common winter rarity (trust me, that makes sense) here in Utah, but by mid-April, they are typically on their way north towards their arctic breeding grounds. When considering the goose, I figured it would be 8-10 months before I got the chance to see another, which would mean I would go at least three years in between sightings.

Today I birded Desert Lake and Huntington Reservoir, both in Emery County, about 30 minutes south of me. The species I had in mind this morning was Long-billed Curlew, since I haven’t found them in either Carbon or Emery Counties. Spring migration was in full swing today. There were many shorebirds that had stopped on their way through: American Avocets, Black-necked Stilts, White Faced Ibis, Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs, Long-billed Dowitchers, and Marbled Godwits. Each location had hundreds of Franklin’s Gulls, many of them with blushing light pink breasts. Common Loons were snorkeling around Huntington Reservoir. Snowy Egrets had arrived at both spots, their lacy plumes flowing in the light breeze. No luck on the curlews.

There is a day of birding every spring, where I go out, and see dozens of species that are new for the year, birds that I haven’t seen since at least the previous fall, and they all seemingly materialized overnight. Today was one of those days.

After a great day of spring birding, I came home and walked my younger dog. When we got back, I cooked shrimp and grits for dinner, and flipped on the Braves Vs. Phillies game that I picked up with my rabbit ear antenna. I was scrolling through my email while I ate, and listening to the ballgame in the background. I rarely look at these, but for whatever reason, I opened today’s Utah rare bird alert email. Right at the top of the list, I saw a report of a Greater White-fronted Goose at Huntington Reservoir. A large group of birders from the other side of the Wasatch Mountains came this way on a field trip, and found the goose at 10:00 this morning. At this time of year, there usually aren’t rare geese mixed in with flocks of Canadas, and I remember glancing past them all. I was looking for curlews, and must have overlooked many of the birds that weren’t wading or standing around on long legs. I should always take time with all the birds that are present, rare or common.

I knew I had to make the 30 minute drive back to Huntington Reservoir. A Greater White-fronted Goose would be a year bird, and an Emery County lifer (173). I washed my dinner dishes, put my jeans back on, and reloaded my optics and camera in the car. The video of the night’s Dodger game was blacked out on my MLB app, so this gave me the opportunity to listen on the radio. It was 6:30 PM, and I wanted to get back by dark, so I sped the entire way down.

When I got there, I parked on the eastern shore of the lake. There is no road on the opposite side, so I had to look right into the sun that was low in the western sky. The glare coming off the water was eye piercing. When I looked through my scope, things weren’t much better. I saw the outline of some geese on the far shore, and one of them had orange legs that were glowing an almost neon hue with the sun right behind the bird. I could make out a dark chest and white under tail, and a white ~ along the flanks. Although I couldn’t see the orange bill or the white front, I had enough field marks to know that this was my bird. It was the worst look I have ever had at a Greater White-fronted Goose. I scoped other birds on the lake, and saw some Red-breasted Mergansers that I had also missed earlier. I watched Barn Swallows fly overhead, chattering as they went. When I swung the scope back to the goose, the sun had moved enough that I was able to make out the white front and orange bill. I watched until the whole flock was scared off by some girls that were walking around the reservoir. The geese flew into a farm field behind a stand of tall cottonwoods.

Everything lined up just right today. James got me thinking about this species yesterday, and I clicked into the rare bird email; normally those eBird emails go straight to my trash folder. I wrote about this species right after seeing a couple in 2024, James linked to my article, I read his article, then I went out and saw my first Greater-white Fronted Goose since I wrote that piece. Over my 20 years of birding as an adult, a lot of sightings have come about through sheer coincidence and luck. This was definitely one of those moments. Today also served as a good reminder to take my time, and always look through all the birds present, no matter how common I think they will be. If I would have done that earlier in the afternoon, it would have saved me a trip this evening.

I still hadn’t found one in Utah, though. If I was going to get one in my home state, why not in Carbon County? I tried Scofield Reservoir, and the nearby Fish Creek road where they had been reported in the past, but after numerous attempts, I didn’t find one. I searched great grouse habitat at the end of Consumer’s Road. I looked for over a year, recalling the single bird I had seen in Montana. It felt like my nemesis bird was now just my Utah nemesis.

On December 19th, 2025, I was having trouble coming up with a place to go birding. I had just seen my 202nd species of the year, a Chestnut-sided Warbler, and I thought that would be the last new bird I would get before the calendar rolled over to 2026. I decided to look for something I had already seen, but not for a while. Black-capped Chickadees are one of my favorites. They are widespread throughout Utah, but are curiously scarce in Carbon County. I knew of one spot where I could reliably find them every summer. I had already located a pair in 2025, in a stand of Gambel oak and Aspen on Consumer’s Road, just after the pavement turns to gravel. Since we have had almost no snow this year, I decided to check and see if the chickadees hung around in the winter.

I parked my truck in a pullout just as the blacktop ends. The road hadn’t been plowed beyond, and I didn’t know how deep the snow would get. I wanted to walk a couple miles anyway. The thick forest at the end of the asphalt is in perpetual shadow when the winter sun is low in the sky, so it was cold. A light condensation had frozen on the bare aspen branches, and when a breeze blew and broke the ice, the whole forest tinkled like it was full of millions of miniature bells.

I walked up the hill, and slipped where the snow had been compacted by truck tires. To get more traction, I tried the spots that had been worn down to gravel, or, if that wasn’t possible, on the shoulder of the road. I didn’t think much about footwear when I left the house. I was wearing sneakers, so after a bit of walking through the crunchy snow at the road’s edge, my socks started to get wet. My feet got cold, so I looked ahead and marked a flat spot where I would turn around and head back to the truck.

I reached my turnaround spot, and saw movement coming from the forest floor. I spooked a Ruffed Grouse, and it was walking away slowly. It was headed uphill, and extended its neck longer than I thought possible, perhaps to get a better view of me. It walked away at a steady pace, soon blending into the leaf litter. I had seen my first Utah Ruffed Grouse in Carbon County.

I turned around and walked down the hill, no longer caring if I saw Black-capped Chickadees. In the steep spots, I let myself slide down the ice. I didn’t have to walk in the snow on the way back, since traction wasn’t important as long as I kept my balance. I stepped off the road to take a piss, so I could be shielded in the unlikely event that someone drove by. I heard a clucking noise coming from the forest floor below some Gambel oak. I looked, and there was another Ruffed Grouse. This one was a bit farther from me, and moved quickly away. I was able to take a photo before it got far enough that it blended in, and I lost it. I couldn’t believe that after all the searching I had done over the years, and all the coming up short, I had just seen two Ruffed Grouse in one day.

After relieving myself, I continued my return journey. As I was getting close to my truck, I heard the call of chickadees coming from the side of the road. I pished, and called in three Black-capped, and a single Mountain Chickadee. I watched them for a moment, before they lost interest in the noises I was making, and flitted off. I looked down towards my feet, and close enough that I could have reached out and nudged it with my shoe, was a third Ruffed Grouse. I took a few preliminary photos, but there was a fallen branch right in the way. I softly stepped to my right, so I could get an unobstructed view, and a better picture. The grouse didn’t move, and let me photograph it for a moment. When it decided to leave, it seemed more sick of me than scared of me. It walked off slowly, and I left it alone. I turned and resumed my trip back to the warm truck.

These were the best looks I could have ever hoped for. Grouse aren’t beautifully colored like songbirds; their grays, browns, blacks and whites blend in perfectly with their habitat. What they lack in color, they make up for in geometric beauty. This species is remarkably patterned, and I believe, one of the most visually pleasing birds out there. I was surprised how quickly I lost sight of them when they walked away from me.

These three grouse would be my 203rd Carbon County species, the last of the year where my goal was to see 200. It was hard to top my second to last, the Chestnut-sided Warbler, but this was up there. Even though Ruffed Grouse are common breeders in Utah, I found December 19th to be one of the best days of birding I had in 2025. It was a perfect end.

The biggest hardware store in town is right before the entrance to the highway. I surprised myself when I continued driving, and merged onto the US 6 to head eastward towards one of my favorite birding hotspots, Farnham Road. I could spare an hour or two before my shopping, and still be home in time to take an afternoon nap.

I assumed that when I got to Farnham, I would see the expected December assortment of Mountain Bluebirds, American Robins, Northern Flickers, Dark-eyed Juncos, and White-crowned sparrows. After getting bored by the same five species, I would head back. After all, there was no way that I would see a lifer, much less an eastern warbler species that shouldn’t be anywhere close to Farnham Road on December 11th.

When I got there, I started walking my favorite stand of Russian olive and tamarisk that line the price river. This is what I call “the best 200 yards of birding in Carbon County.” I went slowly, stopping at gaps in the trees where I could see the opposite shore. I pished at random intervals. There wasn’t much out that day, and I felt that I was wasting my time. I texted my partner Alex and said “U know how sometimes u go birding in the winter and don’t see a fucking thing? That is today.”

When I got to the end of the trees I turned around to go back. I heard what I believed was a warbler chip from a five-foot-tall sagebrush. I thought that was odd, unless maybe it was a Yellow-rumped Warbler, which are often here in the winter. Something didn’t sound right, though. My second thought was that White-crowned Sparrows often hung around the base of that bush, and perhaps one was doing a warbler-like alarm call that I didn’t recognize. I pished for a moment, and nothing came into view, so I continued on my way back to the truck.

After I had gone 20 yards or so, I heard a warbler call for a second time. It sounded very different than a Yellow-rumped, a lot more kissy, like it was smacking its lips (I know birds don’t have lips) as it called. I pished again, and something small flew up to the top of a Russian olive. Overall, it looked gray, so my first thought was Yellow-rumped, which is what I had in mind all along. When I looked through my binoculars, though, I saw a rusty side stripe. “That’s a fucking Chestnut-sided Warbler” I gasped. I started taking photos immediately, since this was a bird on the state review list, and proof would be requested to have the record accepted. I continued to pish, and the bird flew to the ground in front of me. I took more pictures until I assumed I had one that was diagnostic. I felt that I should actually look at the bird through binoculars, and enjoy it while it was in front of me. In my 20 years of birding in the west, I had never come across this species, and it would be a great while before I saw one again.

I watched the bird for as long as it would let me, and I took in all the details of a species I had never seen before. It was a medium-sized warbler with a yellow cap, white eye ring, gray face and nape, green back, white chest, yellow wing bars, and, of course, chestnut sides. I watched it through binoculars until it flew away, across the river and into the thick tamarisk on the far shore.

Although this was my second to last new species in 2025, it was a superb near-end to the year. This bird will be the 35th accepted sighting of Chestnut-sided Warbler in Utah, and is the latest date one has ever been recorded. It would be a rarity during migration, but is outlandish in mid-December.

I got all my errands done before heading home for an afternoon nap. Whenever I question whether I should go birding or not, whenever I wonder if I have time to do so, the answer should always be “yes.” Watching birds is one of the most important things I do in life. I made a great decision to value birding over busywork, and was rewarded with a species I had never seen before.

When I saw my 196th Carbon County year bird, a Dusky Grouse just off the road in Price Canyon Recreation Area, I pessimistically thought that it would be the last of 2025. I was a little dejected when I predicted that I wouldn’t get to my goal of seeing 200 in the county. It was late October, and soon every body of water would be frozen over. I had looked at my list, and that 196th bird, was the last probable species I could track down. Even if I got one or two additions, there was no way I was getting four more.

Three weeks after that sighting, I was looking at eBird checklists from within the county. Usually, these reports are slim, as there is one other birder in town. That day, I saw the names of two trusted sources that don’t live here, but they had recently visited Scofield Reservoir, where they found what would be three year birds for me: two Tundra Swan, a single Trumpeter Swan, and a Herring Gull. The weather was starting to turn cold, but not enough that the lake would completely ice over and push the birds somewhere warmer. This would be a search with a high probability of success, since both swan species are all white and are 4-5 feet in length. They would be easy to spot on the medium sized reservoir.

On November 28th, a few days after I saw the report, I drove up to Scofield. The reservoir was starting to freeze along the shoreline, but dabbling ducks were congregating on the open water adjacent to the ice. From the car, I could see the white head stripes and emerald-green cheeks of American Wigeon, and the larger grayish-brown bodies of Gadwall. A snow storm had recently dusted the peaks that surrounded the basin the lake lies within. I was headed to the south end, where I thought swans were most likely, due to the shallow water and dense aquatic vegetation. I didn’t stop for anything along the way.

At the southeast end of the reservoir, there are large dumpsters that serve the tiny community of Scofield. These are contained within a large asphalt pullout, which is a great place to scope for birds. Before I even stopped the car, I could distinctly make out three swans, around 150 yards away. When I got the scope set up, the first bird I pointed it at was a Trumpeter Swan, a rare winter visitor in the state of Utah. I identified one of the Tundra Swans next, for my 198th species of the year. Tundra and Trumpeter Swans are very similar. Trumpeters are slightly larger, and have a more sloped bill that never shows any yellow. Tundra bills often, but not always, show yellow at the base. Trumpeter Swans have forehead feathers that come to a point, where those of Tundra are more rounded. This was the first time I had seen both species next to each other to make these comparisons.

After watching the swans for a few moments, my bare hands began to sting in the cold; holding metal optics in the winter tends to hurt. There were some birds on the other side of the lake that I couldn’t pick up in my scope, so I decided to drive around the south side, through the small community of Scofield, and to the southwest shore, where there at least wouldn’t be coal trucks buzzing by every few minutes.

When I got over there, I realized that there wasn’t much more than a raft of hundreds of coots, and a large brown gull standing atop a muddy jetty. I put my scope on the gull, and it spread its wings to show a light inner-primary panel, which confirmed my suspicions that it was a juvenile Herring Gull, my 199th species of the year.

I knew where my number was, and I knew that there were two recently reported birds still at the lake that could get me to 200. If I could find either the Surf Scoter, or the Hooded Mergansers that had recently been entered into eBird, I would accomplish my 2025 goal. I looked with a renewed intensity, but could not locate either. Most of the land around the reservoir is private property, and there are only a handful of accessible viewing spots. These two birds could be anywhere, and needing to get home, I made the decision to come back the next day.

I made the 45-minute drive again on the 29th. I went straight for the dumpsters where I would set up my scope for a second straight morning. When I arrived, I immediately noticed the absence of the swans. There wasn’t any waterfowl on the south end of the lake. I saw some movement, but it was mechanical. I looked through my scope in that direction, and saw the wings of a decoy incessantly flapping. Next to the decoys, a man was lying in a coffin (a flat blind that allows a hunter to lie on their back in shallow water), fiddling with his shotgun. I swung my scope to the north, and saw that the hunter had pushed the ducks further onto the body of the lake, out of shotgun range. I got back in my car to see if I could find a wide shoulder near the birds where I could get out and scope the conveniently congregated waterfowl.

I found a place barely wide enough and eased off the highway. Coal trucks roared by me, so close that the gusts of wind threatened to blow the hat off my head. I set up the scope as far away from the road as I could get without crossing the fence line that was marked as private. I started scanning the ducks, and saw mostly divers, which was a good sign because it meant that the water in front of me was deeper, perfect for scoters and mergansers. There were hundreds of Lesser Scaup, Redheads, Common Goldeneye, Bufflehead, and one Hooded Merganser. I had seen my 200th bird of the year, but I wanted to finish looking through everything in front of me. I would head home afterwards, so, I figured I might as well. After a short celebration, I continued to scan. I found a huge duck that was floating low on the water. It had a knobby bill, a dark cap, a white circular spot on the back of the head and a more vertical white patch towards the bill. This typically seafaring visitor was my 201st species of the year, a Surf Scoter. I watched the bird for a moment, then looked back at my small passenger car that was barely on the other side of the highway’s white line, and rather than further risk it being demolished by a semi truck, I decided it was time to go home.

In late October, when I saw a Dusky Grouse, I thought for sure that would be one of my last species of the year, and figured there was no way I would reach my goal of 200. I don’t typically add many birds to a year list after fall migration winds down in late September, and I certainly would not have bet on getting four-plus more.

At the beginning of 2025, I plotted out my year. I counted up all the regular species that I would have to try not to see, and got to around 170. When I added some species that I see frequently, but have to look harder for, the tally was at 190. I would need to find all of those, plus at least 10 surprise birds that didn’t make the initial count (Surf Scoter, Trumpeter Swan, and Tundra Swan are in this category). I missed a couple in the frequent-but-not-for-sure category, but made up for those losses with many surprise birds. I have seen 22 county lifers over the last 12 months. I still didn’t think I was getting to 200 until I was actually there.

It is now mid-December, and as I write this recap, I sit at 203 species on the year (more on that later). I started 2025 saying this wasn’t a big year, that I was after 200, which would happen to break my record of 173 along the way. Big year or not, it’s the last number I hope to chase. I would be surprised if this record will ever be broken. I don’t mean to come off as as a braggart, I just didn’t think it could be done by anyone.

I will end this with some photos of some of my favorite species I saw during 2025, as well as a complete list. Some of these are not the best pictures, but they serve as a record of an encounter. All these sightings made me sing songs of joy, joining in a chorus with the birds I love so much.

A complete list of my 2025 Carbon County bird sightings in the order they were recorded in eBird: House Finch, House Sparrow, Northern Flicker, White-winged Dove, Eurasian Collared-Dove, Dark-eyed Junco, American Robin, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Mountain Chickadee, Common Raven, Cedar Waxwing, European Starling, Rock Pigeon, Song Sparrow, White-crowned Sparrow, Mountain Bluebird, Horned Lark, Black-billed Magpie, Northern Harrier, American Kestrel, Golden Eagle, Woodhouse’s Scrub-Jay, Merlin, Townsend’s Solitaire, American Crow, Red-tailed Hawk, California Quail, Cooper’s Hawk, Bald Eagle, Sharp-shinned Hawk, Mallard, Juniper Titmouse, Bewick’s Wren, Northern Pygmy-Owl, American Dipper, Downy Woodpecker, Black Rosy-Finch, Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch, Northern Shrike, Yellow-rumped Warbler, Northern Mockingbird, Western Meadowlark, Pinyon Jay, American Goldfinch, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Ring-necked Pheasant, Loggerhead Shrike, Prairie Falcon, Red-winged Blackbird, Spotted Towhee, Steller’s Jay, Bushtit, Ruddy Duck, Wild Turkey, Peregrine Falcon, American Barn Owl, Common Merganser, Common Goldeneye, Redhead, Great Horned Owl, Gadwall, Green-winged Teal, Canada Goose, Sandhill Crane, American Coot, Ring-necked Duck, Lesser Scaup, American Wigeon, Killdeer, Rock Wren, Vesper Sparrow, Greater Sage-Grouse, Ring-billed Gull, Lincoln’s Sparrow, Turkey Vulture, Long-billed Dowitcher, Belted Kingfisher, Cinnamon Teal, Say’s Phoebe, Bufflehead, Tree Swallow, Great Blue Heron, Pied-billed Grebe, American Avocet, Sage Thrasher, Pine Siskin, Lesser Goldfinch, Barn Swallow, Northern Shoveler, White-faced Ibis, Franklin’s Gull, Vermillion Flycatcher (this bird has returned to the same spot two Aprils in a row), Lesser Yellowlegs, Ferruginous Hawk, Osprey, American White Pelican, California Gull, Wilson’s Snipe, Marbled Godwit, Red-breasted Merganser (species #100), Brewer’s Blackbird, Snowy Egret, Mourning Dove, Yellow-headed Blackbird, Least Sandpiper, Common Loon, Western Grebe, Greater Scaup, Cassin’s Finch, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Green-tailed Towhee, Swainson’s Hawk, Spotted Sandpiper, Red-named Sapsucker, Black-crowned Night Heron, Double-crested Cormorant, Clark’s Grebe, Eared Grebe, Western Sandpiper, Greater Yellowlegs, Wilson’s Phalarope, Blue-winged Teal, Clark’s Nutcracker, Western Kingbird, Northern Rough-winged Swallow, Bank Swallow, Lark Sparrow, Brewer’s Sparrow, Sora, Brown-headed Cowbird, Cliff Swallow, Chipping Sparrow, Bullock’s Oriole, Violet-green Swallow, Wilson’s Warbler, Northern House Wren, Northern Yellow Warbler, Black-chinned Hummingbird, Ash-throated Flycatcher, Great-tailed Grackle, Yellow-breasted Chat, Gray Catbird, Western Flycatcher, Orange-crowned Warbler, Black-throated Gray Warbler, Gray Flycatcher, Black Headed Grosbeak, Plumbeous Vireo, Virginia’s Warbler, MacGillivray’s Warbler, Lazuli Bunting, Blue Grosbeak, Common Yellowthroat, Western Tanager, Western Wood-Pewee, Western Warbling Vireo, Dusky Flycatcher, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Black-throated Sparrow, Willow Flycatcher, Green Heron (first county record), Grace’s Warbler, Red Crossbill, Hermit Thrush, Hairy Woodpecker, Broad-tailed Hummingbird, Common Nighthawk, Fox Sparrow, Purple Martin, Forster’s Tern, Caspian Tern, American Three-toed Woodpecker, White-throated Swift, Sagebrush Sparrow (Species #174, which broke my previous record), Chukar, Black-capped Chickadee, American Goshawk, White-breasted Nuthatch, Rufous Hummingbird, Calliope Hummingbird, Pygmy Nuthatch, Northern Waterthrush, Savannah Sparrow, American Redstart, Nashville Warbler, Clay-colored Sparrow, Cassin’s Vireo, Northern Pintail, White-throated Sparrow, Evening Grosbeak, Brown Creeper, American Pipit, Horned Grebe, Pectoral Sandpiper, Canvasback, Dusky Grouse, American Herring Gull, Tundra Swan, Trumpeter Swan, Hooded Merganser, Surf Scoter, Chestnut-sided Warbler (first county record), Ruffed Grouse.

Photographs capture a bird in a moment. They are motionless and I can zoom in on whatever plumage feature I want to study. Photos are also great when I only see a bird for a moment, and want to look at the picture to help make an identification.

Even a bad photograph is good for me. In mid-September, I saw a vireo hopping among the dense tamarisk branches along the Price River. I thought it was a Cassin’s Vireo, a bird I had been searching for, my first of the year, but I didn’t get really great looks because of the dense vegetation. I took some photographs that I knew wouldn’t turn out well, and the bird disappeared shortly after.

Cassin’s Vireos breed farther north and west, but migrate through Utah in the fall. We have a much more drab version, the Plumbeous Vireo. Both have gray heads and thick white spectacles, but Cassin’s tend to show much more greenish yellow in the wings and the flanks, where Plumbeous is gray overall.

I uploaded the photo and viewed it on my iPad, making sure I hadn’t misidentified another Warbling Vireo. The week before, I had marked down a Cassin’s Vireo, but when I looked at the photo at home, it was a clear misidentification. The latest photo was a Cassin’s, for sure. The green back and yellow flanks ruled out Plumbeous. The spectacles and wing bars set it apart from the Warbling Vireo I had seen along the same stretch of river the previous week. I compared photos that I had taken myself.

Looking at my own photos helps me see detail that I miss in the field. Noticing those details makes them stick out, and files them in my long-term memory. Two years ago, I picked up a cheap Canon Rebel with a 200mm zoom, and it has done wonders for my bird identification. It’s also talked me out of a lot of bad IDs.

Another thing that helps me remember plumage details, or general shape, is to draw. I am a guy that took a single art class in high school, and made a complete fool of myself (there is a hilarious portrait of Jack Nicholson somewhere in my parent’s house). Despite my lack of art skills, getting those details under my fingertips is like I’m drawing them directly onto my brain. Often, when I have a question about a bird, and I want to remember the answer, I’ll sketch it real fast with colored pencils.

Last week, I thought about female Common Yellowthroat, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t remember what color their undertail coverts were. Not wanting to glance, and forget the answer the next time my brain asked this random question, I decided to draw. I pulled up a photograph on google, and quickly jotted down the general shape of these marsh-loving warblers & the basic color patterns of the female. The next time I see one, I’ll take note that the female has yellow undertail coverts, just like my amateur sketch.

There are so many faults to find in all my photographs, and especially in my drawings. It doesn’t bother me much, and I’m not at all embarrassed to share. Trust me, I laugh at some of these, and it’s ok if you do too. I study birds every day, and try to learn something new as often as I can. It is my life’s goal to know birds as well as possible, and if taking shitty photos and drawing comical renditions of birds helps me get there, so be it.

We all go through phases where we are overwhelmingly burned out by the things we love doing the most, right? We suffer through times when what we normally call a passion brings us almost no joy? We sit around, doing little with our days, while these delights call to us, and we feel guilty, but do not heed? I hope that is the case. I tell myself that I am not unique in this, and then I feel a tiny bit better when I cannot possibly lift my binoculars to a bird, or open up my computer to write a single sentence. I have been in such a state for months now. It has been a feeling of burnout that pounced on me towards the end of fall migration in mid-September. When I am mired in such a slump, I tell myself that I just have to go out and go birding, then come home and write about it. If I practice, no matter how little, no matter how poorly, this can sometimes relight the flame.

It has been unseasonably wet and warm in Utah this fall. This afternoon, I was sitting in my backyard while my dog Hayduke played with a sun-bleached rubber ball. He was taking interest in one of his passions that he had been neglecting for quite some time. I was looking quizzically at sunflowers that are about to explode into golden bloom, despite it being late November. I glanced back at Hayduke, and saw that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. I knew that I had to write this afternoon, but I couldn’t think of any encounters or experiences that would make a worthy subject. I whistled, and took the dog inside, then grabbed my camera, and went back out to look for a bird. “Whatever I see first, I will photograph, and write about,” I told myself.

The vacant house next door to me has pile of jumbled branches in the backyard that is typically full of House Sparrows each afternoon.1 They take shelter in the tangle that is left over from a dead aspen tree that was cut down earlier this year. I pished, but no one came up to investigate, they were not there today. I kept pishing, and a White-winged Dove flew up to the rusty crossbar of the chain link fence about 20 yards away. This was much better, as this species means much more to me than the routine House Sparrow. White-winged Doves used to be rare in the state of Utah before expanding their range over the past decade. Last winter, I saw 34 in the same tree in my front yard. A house sparrow can be found on any city sidewalk in the United States (and probably most of the rest of the world too).

I watched the dove preen and took a handful of photographs. It looked beautiful in the slanted fall light as it fluffed out the feathers of its chest. Its amber iris was particularly radiant this afternoon. Now, if I could come back inside and write about it, even if just a few sentences about the process, that could fulfill what I needed to reunite myself with birding and writing, my two greatest joys.

This year, I have spent the majority of my free time watching birds. I won’t lie, outside of migration and the breeding season, it can be rather slow. Every year I go through a burnout phase around this time, so it’s not entirely unexpected. How I come out of that, and re-find beauty and joy, is always important. Today was the first step towards what I hope will be a better winter. Today I watched a White-winged Dove preen atop my neighbor’s chain-link fence.

Written on 11/2/2025

I started looking for Dusky Grouse as soon as the snow receded in the high elevations, when the mountain backroads became passable. We had a dry winter last year, so I was able to begin in early May. I searched for grouse roosting in trees. I tried to spot them on the forest floor. I hoped to see one displaying during the breeding season. My attempts all ended in whiffs. In early October, I began trying a bit harder, knowing that I would have few chances left before winter came again to the Wasatch Range.

On October 26th, I went birding in Price Canyon Recreation Area. That day, I really just wanted to see Mountain Chickadees. I love the fearlessness and spunk they exhibit, and wanted to observe them closely, which would later inform some chickadee writing. If I came across a Dusky Grouse, I would consider it a bonus.

I drove towards the mountains, through the valley that my town of Price, Utah is nestled in. The cottonwoods along the river were a resplendent gold, lit up by the low-lying sun. The temperatures were still in the 60s, and I wore a long-sleeved shirt with no jacket.

When I arrived to the recreation area, I noticed that the fall foliage had already dropped at that elevation. A few browned and curled leaves hung on, waiting for a final gust of wind that would pry them from their branches. Most of the deciduous trees stood bare, resting for a few months, saving their energy for the buds that would burst forth next spring. It was cooler up there in the shade of the stately ponderosa pines. It smelled like mulch, decay on the forest floor which would provide nutrients for new growth the following year.

I parked my car and hiked up to the end of the road. I saw another Brown Creeper, which was the second one I have found this year after not seeing this species during my first three years of living here. Steller’s Jays flew from pine to pine, leading the way with their shaggy black crests, their metallic-azure wings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Other than that, there weren’t very many birds out. I heard a distant Mountain Chickadee, which I tried to pish closer, but it didn’t come in for the detailed observation that I was looking for.

At the campgrounds at the end of the recreation area, I turned around to walk back. The road switchbacks, and I thought I would cut through the forest to save some time. Twenty feet off the asphalt, I saw movement in the leaf litter. A Dusky Grouse scurried away from me, then froze, then continued more slowly. It must have either figured that a slow escape would have been more effective, or that I was not as big of a threat as it initially thought. I took a few photos, but not wanting to miss a good look, I switched from camera to binoculars. I saw the black feathering around its neck, a subtle difference that is diagnostic for a male. He then slipped into a thicket of Gambel oak. The encounter only lasted a moment, but my connection with this grouse felt much larger after nearly 11 months of searching. I backtracked to the road, not wanting to further disturb the bird, and I took the longer, meandering route back to the car.

Dusky Grouse is my 196th of the year in Carbon County, and it was the last remaining regularly-occurring species that I hoped to find. Unless I come across a rarity, this will be where my year list ends—four shy of my goal of 200. This one felt special, though, goal achieved, or not. Last December I sat down with a checklist of Utah birds, and circled everything that I could count on seeing here. After finding a grouse, I knew that I went out and found nearly all of those that I had marked down.

On the morning of Sunday October 5th, my Carbon County year list stood at 189 species. Not a bad number at all, and it broke my previous big year record of 173, but it was still short of the 200 that I was aiming for in 2025. There aren’t enough regularly-occurring species left to get to my goal, but I thought that anything over 190 would be respectable, and something I could be proud of as the calendar turns over to 2026.

That morning, I wanted to go out and get 190, but I also yearned to see some fall leaves. The sunrise-orange-pink of bigtooth maple, the golden yellow of aspens, and the fiery orange of Gambel oak make Utah mountains a rich palette of colors in early October. One montane species that had been evading me all year: Dusky Grouse. Price Canyon Recreation Area would be a perfect spot to look at leaves and birds. The fall colors were much more certain, and I would have a nice hike whether I found the grouse or not.

There is a gravel parking lot that is halfway up the Price Canyon road. I park my car there, and walk the rest of the way. This lot is where the ponderosa pines begin, and where all the good birding starts to happen. The area is infrequently traveled, and the road is too narrow and winding for high speeds, so I always feel safe walking the blacktop.

After parking, I sprayed sunscreen on my face and neck, wanting the protection, but knowing that it would sting later when it ran into my eyes. I hung a water bottle (first) my camera (second) and binoculars (third) around my neck, then clicked the lock button on my key fob until the car honked at me. A light breeze was stirring up the scents of pine, and musty smell of early-decaying leaves that were already littering the forest floor. I started to walk the pavement uphill, planning to circle the two campgrounds at the end of the road, and then come back down to the car. It would be around a four mile walk, and would take roughly two hours, depending on how many birds were out.

While walking, I was scanning the ground and trees, looking for grouse. They are large birds, a little smaller than an average chicken, but they move slowly, and their drab plumage helps them blend in. I have seen less than 10 in my life.

About a quarter mile from my car, I heard a raspy “chick-a-dee-dee,” the call of a Mountain Chickadee. Outside of the breeding season, chickadees travel in mixed-species flocks. I began to pish, which drew multiple birds to the ponderosa in front of me. I wanted to see if there were any Red-breasted, or White-breasted Nuthatch traveling with them. I did a quick scan, and saw six chickadees, but there was nothing else. When I stopped pishing, I looked at the tree to my left. There was a small, football-shaped bird crawling up the trunk. I figured this was one of the nuthatches I was looking for, but when I put my binoculars on it, I saw the cryptic brown and white plumage, spiky tail, and long curved bill of a Brown Creeper. Not only was this species number 190 on the year, it was the first time I had seen one in the county. The bird probed the scaly ponderosa bark for a moment before flying off.

I continued walking towards the campground, focusing on finding a grouse. I had a thought that the last time I saw two year birds in a day was probably in June, so I was trying very hard. It also got me to focus on the changing leaves, which were as pretty as I had hoped for. In addition to the trees, I was reminded of how much I liked seeing the low-lying, holly-like, creeping Oregon grape leaves, which paint the forest floor a vibrant Christmas-red every fall. I glassed at least 10 different bird-shaped ponderosa burls with no luck.

There is a T at the end of the main road. To the right is a group campground area, and to the left is a single-vehicle campground and a picnic area that overlooks the valley below. Right where the road splits, I heard the high-pitched peeping of Pygmy Nuthatch, a species I had only seen once before in the county. In August, I spotted a single bird very close to this location. A flock of seven were flying in front of me. I pished, and two birds stopped to investigate. They quickly left when they noticed the sound was coming from a big and scary human.

I walked both campground loops, and didn’t see anything new, only another Mountain Chickadee. There weren’t that many birds out that Sunday, but I was glad that one of the few was a year bird and a county lifer. The campgrounds are full of Gambel oak, and I was enjoying looking at the different shades of orange on display.

When I returned to the T, where the road leads back down the mountain, I heard a call I didn’t immediately recognize. At first I thought it was Red Crossbills, but quickly talked myself out of a bad ID. I found the birds flying overhead, and without binoculars, I saw that they were much larger than crossbills. It was a call I hadn’t heard in a while, a bird I hadn’t seen in a while. I glassed them, and realized that I was hearing Evening Grosbeak, another county year bird, number 191.

I started the day looking for one specific bird that would get me to 190. Although I didn’t see that particular species, I saw two that I didn’t expect to, and got up to 191. The trip had been a success of a different variety.

When I got back to my car, I felt good about my day, and content with my 2025 county number, even knowing that I probably won’t make my goal. It has been another wonderful year of birds. I have enjoyed all the beautiful things I have seen, both common and rare. Time isn’t up yet, and I could get another nine species, although that is highly unlikely. I’m just glad I tried for 200, and I’m happy that as of October 6th, I had got close enough. If I’m being honest with myself, I started the year thinking I wouldn’t accomplish the goal. I knew that all the fun would come from the attempt.

Note: at the time of publishing, my county year list is at 194.

Written on 8/31/2025

On September 1st, 2014, my friend Jeff Bilsky and I were driving the sometimes-sandy-sometimes-stony road that parallels Comb Ridge in the very southeastern corner of Utah. We pulled over to a stand of young, pole-thin cottonwoods, and got out of the truck with binoculars in hand. I looked for early migrants in the trees on the east side of the road, Jeff covered the west. It didn’t take long for me to see a bird with bright yellow shoulder patches and a yellow tail that it was steadily flashing open, which looked like emergency flashers on its back end. I called out to Jeff, “American Redstart.” This is a species that is moderately rare in the state, but is seen in small numbers each fall (and less-occasionally in spring). It was a stunning bird, which we watched for a moment before continuing on. We had no idea that a few miles down the road, we would find a dog that was dumped out there, left to die.

The dog we found is Everett, my loyal companion for the last 10 years and 364 days. Whenever I think about finding him, I always remember pulling over and seeing the redstart. I often wonder if we hadn’t seen the bird, would we have missed the dog? Would he have crawled the other way, in search of another savior? I believe that every single variable in life affects the future, and that often leads to speculation. My wondering doesn’t matter, though, because tomorrow is Everett and my 11th anniversary together. I can’t help but feel that the American Redstart played a part in our shared history.

For Everett’s 11th “birthday,” I was going to buy him some treats and throw a big party. As he gets older, each September 1st is more of a celebration than the last. This year, he’s going to get spoiled sick.

I planned on doing some birding this morning, and on the way home, I’d stop by the grocery store for some wet food and dog jerky. Fall migration is starting, with birdcast reporting hundreds of thousands of birds passing over the county each night, and lots of those were stopping by to refuel. My favorite migration birding spot is Farnham Road, which follows the Price River for a couple miles. The path I like to walk is clogged with tamarisk and Russian olive. Every season I find a rare bird there, and in the spring and fall, the vegetation is full of warblers.

The birding was great. I saw Orange-crowned, Yellow-rumped, Yellow, Virginia’s, Wilson’s and MacGillivray’s Warblers. As I finished walking the line I normally do, and turned around to follow the same route back to my truck, I saw another Yellow-rumped Warbler in the tamarisk, where I had not seen one before. There was more movement happening in the dense vegetation, so I started to pish. An overall gray bird with yellow sides flew in, and I thought “oh, another Yellow-rumped.” This bird looked brighter on the sides, though. It didn’t have any streaking on the back or chest, and didn’t have any white in the wings, so it was mostly wrong for what I first thought it was. The only similarity was the yellow patches in the shoulder area. It fanned open its tail to reveal bright yellow inner-tail feathers, and I knew that just before Everett and my 11th anniversary, I had found another American Redstart.

Although I’ve seen this species a few times since 2014, and today wasn’t quite our anniversary, this sighting meant a lot to me. I was still planning Everett’s party, and it was close enough to be special. I don’t know how many of these we’ll have left. I stuck around long enough to get a photo of the redstart, then resumed my walk back. I had to get to the grocery store to buy some wet food and dog jerky for tomorrow’s party. I’m glad that another redstart found me, just before another celebration with the best dog I’ve ever known.

In Carbon County, Utah, which contains so little water, I was under the impression that I had found every drop. I search for waterfowl, waders and shorebirds among three locations: Knight Ideal Pond, Gigliotti Pond (named after a prominent Italian stonemason that resided in the county in the early 20th century), and Scofield Reservoir. At these spots, I’ve seen most of the possibilities, but each has its limitations, and I find myself wanting more. I’ve always dreamed that there could be another body of water out there, but after years of searching, I came up with nothing but dusty desert.

These three have got me by, I’m not complaining, it’s just not what I’m used to having spent so much time living in wetter locales. Gigliotti and Knight Ideal are tiny, and cannot host large numbers of migrants. Furthermore, they’re both fishing ponds, so if someone is passing a morning with a pole in their hands, and a bobber on the water’s surface, all the birds have been scared off. Scofield Reservoir can be better, but is an hour’s drive away, and it is a high elevation lake, so it only captures those birds that choose to fly up and over mountains.

I have scoured the map app on my phone, looking for abstract azure blobs, that in the real world, would contain water loving birds. I even found a promising one northeast of town. I searched eBird.com for the location and found reports of Snowy Egrets, Black-necked Stilts, and other species that are hard to find in the county. I drove out on a rough dirt road, and after 30 minutes, I arrived to an empty bowl that was ringed by the skeletons of long-dead tamarisk. The former pond had been gone so long that the soil that was once underwater had been long-smoothed of the geometric designs that are left behind as evaporation takes place.

I stopped looking after a while, finding contentment in the three known locations. I’d seen enough, that perhaps there was no need to find another body of water. I always thought that one closer to home would be nice, but my searches always came up dry.

Last week, Alex and I went to a nearby art festival with her uncle and cousin. After looking through booths and galleries for a few hours, we stepped out of the heat, into a restaurant where we had lunch. As we were waiting for our meal, I picked up a flyer that had a list of local events throughout the summer. One of those was a free fishing day at the fairground pond. I looked again. “Fairground fishing pond?” I asked myself.

A few days later, I had the day off work, and remembered the flyer I saw in the restaurant. I packed my binoculars and camera, and drove over to the fairgrounds, which are two miles from my house. I drove around roads that led to softball and soccer fields, a playground, and a series of horse stalls. There were many directional signs, but I couldn’t find one that pointed to where I wanted to go. Only after I reached the far end of the grounds, past the rodeo arena, did I see a hand-painted sign with a large arrow, and the words “FISHING POND.” The parking lot sat above the water, which I couldn’t see until I got out of my car. I looked down, and saw a large body of water, bigger than Gigliotti and Knight Ideal ponds combined (and then some).

The second thing I noticed about the pond, after the size, was that the south end had a thick lot of mature cottonwoods and Russian olives. This would be a fantastic spot in spring and fall migrations as it would not only draw birds to the water, but the vegetation would pull in songbirds too. Neither of the county’s other ponds have surrounding trees.

The third thing I noticed, after the size and the surrounding vegetation, was that there was a large nesting platform off to the side of the gravel parking lot, about 30 meters away from the pond. It was a flat piece of wood screwed on to a decommissioned telephone pole, the perfect design and location for fish-eating Osprey. When I saw the nest, I heard an Osprey calling, and found it perched in a cottonwood that looked towards the water.

I scanned the pond, and saw that there were no birds on the water, or along the shore. I walked down the hill anyway, since I wanted to look and see if anything was nestled in the cattails. I saw two more Osprey perched lower in the cottonwoods on the north side of the pond.

I didn’t find any ducks or shorebirds, but when I got to the Russian olives on the east end, I heard the chip calls of a warbler. I pished for a moment, and two Yellow Warblers hopped into my view. These were either early(ish) migrants, or they had bred in the area. I continued to walk, and came across a canal that led into the pond. There were two migrant Brewer’s Sparrows in a Russian olive along the bank.

As I was completing the loop, two swallows flew over the water, a Northern Rough-winged, and Tree. A Barn Swallow came from the west, calling, it sounded like a rusty hinge being repeatedly opened and closed. It joined the other two before the group flew off to the north.

While I didn’t see any unexpected birds, I thought that this place had a lot of potential. It’s a big wide open pond in the middle of the desert, at the base of a mountain range. Migrating birds would likely love to stop here on their way north or south, either to get some energy before an uphill climb, or to replenish after one. I knew that I would have to come back to this spot through September and October to see what wonders it truly held. The fairgrounds fishing pond is now part of my migration circuit.

After years of searching, I finally found a new body of water in Carbon County. It’s still the driest place that I’ve ever lived, but now there’s one more place to look for birds that rely on ponds/lakes. It’s amazing that I had not run across this place before, since it is the second largest body of water in the county. Now I just need to see some migrating ducks on its surface, and some warblers in the trees on the east end, and my search will pay off. I am continually surprised by what I continue to find here.

I am participating in the demise of that which I love. According to the Audubon Society, two-thirds of North American birds are threatened by extinction due to global climate change.1 A changing climate, accompanied by widespread habitat loss, will be the major driver of bird extinction within my lifetime. Birding can be a fossil-fuel intensive hobby, and although my footprint is rather minor when compared to a corporation, it is still there. This is a source of remorse for me. In searching for the birds that I love, I am pushing them towards non-existence.

I have traveled thousands of miles by car, plane and boat, in search of birds. I am constantly seeking the next “lifer,” or addition to a year list. Materials that make up my birding gear are extracted from the earth, which destroys bird habitat, then those materials are fashioned into a consumable good at a carbon-belching factory.

The thing is: I’m not bored by my backyard birds. I love the White-winged Doves and Western Kingbirds that spend their time in the same little square of earth that I inhabit. Rufous Hummingbirds are now migrating through; they are feisty, showing brilliant flashes of copper as they chase other species off the feeders in an effort to hoard all the nectar for themselves (there’s an endless supply, I promise). I’ve even had rarities show up here, like an American Redstart, and Tennessee Warbler.

Things get even better when I travel a short distance on foot, or by bike. I can cycle down to the Price River, where I can find riparian species like Mallards, Song Sparrows, and the occasional Common Goldeneye. I can hike up Woodhill Terrace, which starts at the end of my street, and see Bushtits, Ash-throated Flycatcher, Black-throated Sparrow, Black-throated Gray Warbler, Juniper Titmouse, and other Piñon/Juniper specialists.

Even the pickleball courts, which I bike to, have great birds: Brewer’s Blackbirds spend summers in the park, bobbing their heads as they pick through the manicured lawns; Western Tanagers, Western Wood Pewees, Bullock’s Orioles, and a few species of Warbler migrate through; California Quail yell “Chi-CA-GO” from the banks of the canal that runs just south of the courts; and Mountain Chickadees and Red-breasted Nuthatch are year-round users of the mature pines on the north end of the property.

There are so many good birds close by, birds that I don’t have to burn carbon to get to.

Last night, a friend came over and helped me with some landscaping. As we worked, we talked about big years, and life lists, and I mentioned how resource intensive it all is. He told me about a friend of his, who has a US year list within eBird’s top 100. The Top 100 is a ranking system that shows you where your list ranks in a chosen geographic region. When the friend left my house, I found that I was angry, and explored that emotion a bit. As I dug deeper, I found that the anger was rooted in guilt, a guilt that is born by destroying so much in the pursuit of what I love.

For me, birding has always been about more than just chasing after everything and filling in a checklist. It is a way to look more deeply at the world around me, and learning more about the various places that I find myself. I can do all of that on foot, even though that won’t put me anywhere near the top 100 birders in the world (probably not even in the top million). It is time to reevaluate my birding goals, and bring my closely-held values to the hobby that I enjoy.

When my friend left, I still had work to do. I caught bits of a conversation my neighbors behind me were having. A father and his small daughter were out in the yard. The father said “Look! A grasshopper!” and the girl ran over to investigate. They were bent over, carefully observing, and then the father exclaimed “What an adventure!” That’s the kind of energy I want to bring to birding. A no-fossil-fuels-required exploration of the world nearby. The birds, and the bugs, and all the things I love, deserve it. If they allow me to watch, I feel that I must do so in a way that supports them too.

The laces of my decade-old hiking boots creaked as I pulled them tight through the eyelets. After tying both, I stood up and flexed my feet, pushing hard from the toes, and found the soles to be solid after all the years. I knew the leather was supple, since I make sure to condition it every spring. The heat hadn’t overwhelmed the valley yet, and I meant to hike up Woodhill Terrace before working later in the afternoon. A piñon and juniper forest is accessible from my front door.

Woodhill Terrace is a plateau that rises at the end of my street, and stretches about ten miles to the north where it drops off at the town of Kenilworth, Utah. Up on top, it is semi-public state trust lands, that are crisscrossed by mountain bike trails, and dotted by natural gas pumpjacks. The forest seems healthy in places, although improvised ATV routes, illegal dumping, popular teenage party sites, and extractive industry is destroying more and more habitat as time advances.

My hike starts at the end of my neighborhood, where the asphalt abruptly stops, and the desert awaits. The first stretch is five minutes of flat walking through greasewood and rabbitbrush, where Lark Sparrows, Western Kingbirds and Northern Mockingbirds sing. After that, I am faced with the steep southern slope of the terrace, where Rock Wrens and Says Phoebes can be found. Over the final half mile, the trail levels out into a ridge that I call buck’s back, due to the mule deer colored soil that makes up the narrow spine leading to the opening up of the forest. Twenty minutes later, I am on top, and surrounded by dusty-green pines.

Once I got up there, I walked a bike trail that I had never been on, called Wyatt’s Way. Old tin cans, gnawed at by rust (which I was told are archeological relics if they are from the 1950s or before), line the trail. I had the thought that people have been using this terrace for decades, maybe more than a century, before me. The trail looped around trees with trunks broader than my wide shoulders. Lizards skittered over sandstone. A flock of Bushtits tinkled from the trees, and glared at me when I pished them.

I left the trail, in hopes of finding a shed antler. I typically run across 1-2 per summer, but all the other locals look too, so my best chances are in the seldom-trodden sections of forest. I walked slowly, scanning the ground, getting excited when I spotted antler shaped branches. It wasn’t my day to take home a souviner.

I identified some plants to keep that knowledge sharp. I found Palmer’s penstemon about to burst into bloom, the stalks soon to look like a staff of light pink bells. Alder-leaf mountain mahogany was mixed in with the trees. A Mormon tea was ripe with hundreds of tiny yellow cones. A single cliffrose bloomed with ornately feathered tassels that curled out from the flowers. Broom snakeweed made up the lowest layer of vegetation.

Nature writers love to make lists. Perhaps we are archiving what we are afraid of losing.

Just before I met up with an improvised side by side trail, I found a fire ring tucked in the trees. As is customary, I tore it down, stone by stone. I scattered the rocks, and buried the old charcoal. After a few storms, no one will know a fire had ever been lit there. I believe that these are litter, and should not be left behind.

I walked the destructive two-track for a moment, and found a huge pile of torn out cabinets, scrap wood, a threadbare recliner, and broken slabs of concrete. One day, I told myself, I’ll come up here with my truck and haul this to the dump where it belongs.

I wanted to get a good look at Ash-throated Flycatchers. I had only heard them so far this year. One called, too far off to see. As I continued my walk, I heard the burry “chuck” of another nearby. It flew to the top of a snag. I watched for a moment, and a second bird joined. This is a subtly beautiful species, with a light yellow chest, and rust colored wings and tail. They breed on the terrace in small numbers.

Around the time my sunscreen needed to be reapplied, I knew I’d have to get back home to finish up some work. The heat was starting to weigh down on my covered shoulders, and I was running out of water. I walked back on a bike trail called Smojoe’s. I noticed gum wrappers, sports drink bottles, an athletic bra, and other detritus either tossed or lost alongside the the path.

I was glad I didn’t find a shed. I would have been in the mood to just leave it where it was. All of the human impacts on the terrace add up, even small actions like taking something home with me. Compared to some of the ways that others use the area, I could be considered friendly to Woodhill Terrace, but there is always an opportunity to walk softer through the woods. Maybe next time I can bring a cabinet home with me, fashion it into a luxurious bird house, and take it back up there, so it can do some good. A pair of cavity-nesting Ash-throated Flycatchers might like that.

This isn’t an essay but an invitation.

Last year, my dad and I were talking about poetry, a shared passion. He had been writing poems, and told me that he wanted to publish a book. He sent me one that he had written for my birthday, and it is the sweetest gift I have ever received. I thought that I’d love to publish a book of poetry too, as a way to connect with each other through writing.

My dads love for poetry renewed my interest in a form I’ve been writing in, off and on, for 20+ years. I started a Substack, Poetry is for the Birds, long ago, and have never used it.

When my dad was diagnosed with cancer earlier this spring, I began to work with a sense of urgency. If I wait too long, that book won’t happen in his lifetime (or mine).

I’ll start sharing some of my poems via Poetry is for the Birds. Some of it won’t be about birds, but a lot will. If you like poetry and/or birds, I’d love if you joined me there too (link below).

As always, it means the world to me that people read my writing. Some of it I like, some of it I don’t, but it is a way for me to connect with people outside of my small, desert town.

May you all enjoy happiness, and the root of happiness.

-Carl

Poetry Is For the Birds

A Foretelling

We all know what it means (symbolically speaking) to see a raven, but what about when you hear the heavy whoosh of one’s wings, and look up to an empty sky? Thanks for reading Poetry Is For the Birds! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work…

Read more

a year ago · Carl Ingwell

It was the morning of June 4th, and I was gazing across the vast expanse of greasewood desert alongside C Canyon road in Carbon County, Utah. The sun was still a semicircle, halfway below the eastern horizon, and Lark, Brewers and Sagebrush Sparrows were serenading its rising. One of those sparrow species, Sagebrush, was number 174 for 2025. I had just broken my 2023 big year record.

I knew that I would need to first accomplish this feat to reach my 2025 goal of 200 species. I told myself that a good pace would be to get to at least 173 by the end of spring migration. I wondered if I could actually do it.

As the sun continued its daily journey that bisects the summer sky, more birds began to sing. There were sparrows all around me. I walked up and down the shoulder of the road, looking for a Sagebrush. A normally skulky species, they sometimes perch atop desert shrub when they are enthusiastically using song to find a mate, or defend territory.

I heard one belting out a buzzy song behind me. I turned around, and scanned with my binoculars, then saw a bird with a light chest and a dark central spot. Out of the three species singing, Sagebrush shares this field mark with Lark Sparrow, but the bird I was looking at didn’t have the harlequin face pattern of the latter. I walked towards it, taking distant photos after every few steps. I made sure to get a good look through my binoculars, so I wasn’t giving that away for the sake of a photograph. By the time I got close enough to get a half-decent picture, the bird had dove back down to the ground.

I stood there longer than I normally would have. Waiting to see if the bird would resurface, perhaps, but also spending time with the joy that comes with the pursuit of a personal goal. I may not get to 200 this year, but I’ve seen some great birds along the way, and I’ve gained a lot of personal pride in the attempt.

None of this was about breaking a record, though. I keep telling myself I don’t care about that. The goal is 200 species in Carbon County, which would happen to break my old record by 27 species. A few months ago, a birder I know, who lives in northern Utah, unexpectedly stopped by my house. He was looking for some birds that I had reported in my backyard. We chatted a while, and he told me that he was trying to join a very small club of birders that have 100 species (on a life list, not for the year) in all 29 of Utah’s counties. He mentioned to me that he and one of our mutual birding friends had decided that Carbon County is one of the most difficult in Utah to see 100. I’m trying to double that in 365 days.

It was still early, and I could have continued birding, but I promised myself a short pause after I broke the record. I had been going hard for five straight months. Instead, I drove back to town, and picked up a celebratory pint of ice cream, which I would devour while reading a book on the couch. Species number 175 would have to wait a few days. I was taking a moment to relax, and cherish a milestone.

When pishing for warblers, the last thing I would expect to pop up is a Green Heron, but that’s exactly what happened to me during the last good week of spring migration. The bird perched on a bare branch of a Russian olive, and looked around in a surprised manner, like it didn’t know how it got there. I was just as perplexed.

I left the house late that morning, knowing that the warbler activity would decrease as the day warmed. I still hoped to get a few good birds before the afternoon hush. I was planning to walk a stretch of the Price River which I frequent during spring and fall migration, a place that I have titled “the best 200 yards of birding in Carbon County.” When I arrived, I heard the “fitz-bew” calls of Willow Flycatchers, which were a first for the year. I walked north from my car to the spot where I typically begin, and started to pish. A small bird flew into the tree to my left, but when the Green Heron landed in front of me, I lost all interest in the songbird. I identified the heron right away, before I even looked through my binoculars. There is not another bird in the United States that is this large with glossy green feathers.

I have only seen this species a handful of times. I got my lifer at Bosque del Apache in southern New Mexico, and I have run into a few in the southwestern corner of Utah, where this species’ range barely peeks into my home state. I always dreamed of finding one in Carbon County, but a birder’s fantasies often don’t materialize. This time, they did.

The location where I saw this bird was just a few feet from where I found a Sora exactly a month before, another wetland-loving species that came as a surprise. I saw a sparrow-sized bird swimming across the river, smaller than any waterfowl, and when it reached the far shore, I caught the small lemon-yellow bill that helps distinguish this bird from other rail species. Sora are secretive, so it didn’t stick around for long. It picked at a few spots on the muddy bank, and then dove into a stand of phragmites.

These birds both surprised me because there’s not much water in this county, and especially this year, after an unusually dry winter. It’s funny what we call a river in the West. In wetter locales, the Price River would be referred to as a creek. Right now there’s not much more water running through it than the irrigation canal that watered my family’s 10 acre alfalfa field. Most birds have to stop and refuel during migration, though, and a layover there might look appealing before flying up and over the Book Cliffs to the north. It’s all we have.

I stood at the edge of the river, and watched the Green Heron. It stayed frozen in place, allowing me to rejoice in the sighting for a few extra moments. The entire time, it had one eye turned my way. After a few minutes, a Black-billed Magpie came in to investigate, and buzzed the much larger, and (likely) unfamiliar bird. The heron dropped down to river-level, where I couldn’t see it through the thick Russian olive and tamarisk. I walked on, continuing to look for warblers. At the end of my birding day, I went back to the spot, and pished again, but all was still, and I accepted that there would be no encore.

Most of the migrating songbirds had not yet arrived along the banks of the Price River. The sediment-laden waters were slowing after the rush of the earlier snowmelt. I found myself a little bored by the lack of warblers. In the distance, I saw a feather fluttering in the wind, caught up in green shoots of phragmites. From a distance, I believed it to be a turkey feather, as it was patterned with alternating brown and black stripes. Wild Turkey is a common species there. As I approached, I could tell that my initial identification was wrong. It was a wide secondary feather of a soaring bird, and the pattern fit that of a Red-tailed Hawk. I picked it up and carried it with me for a while.

I thought of my friend Dan’s description of this species of bird. Before he took his life, Dan was a talented raptor biologist that worked all over the West. We lived together for a time, when I was the caretaker of a field house that was owned by HawkWatch International (I named this the Hawk House), and he was doing work with the organization that earned him a free place to crash in between stints in the desert. In the spring and summer, he would study breeding Golden Eagles in the northwest portion of the state. He came and went, leaving clean, and returning 7-10 days later, covered in a thin layer of West Desert soil.1 Every fall, he worked at a raptor banding station in the Goshute Mountains. I got the sense that he liked working the migration site the most. I pictured him reveling in the sense of freedom while atop a mountain peak, overlooking vast empty spaces, and handling the birds he loved; hardships can fall away in such a setting. He beamed when he talked about what it was like to trap and band different species. He referred to Red-tailed Hawks as “the one who yields.”

To yield is to give into a force that is greater than yourself. In my work with Red-tailed Hawks, I found this to be accurate. These birds are typically at the top of the desert’s trophic hierarchy, slayers of prairie dogs, cottontails, snakes and ground squirrels, but will give in when handled by a much larger human.2 Dan, the lover of raptors, also yielded. During the time I knew him, he struggled with alcohol, and what I can only speculate was a dark mental illness that often consumed his light. We would go on benders when he was home, and every night, around the time the bars closed, he would tell me that he was “about done” with life. Towards the end of our time living together, he would carry a high-powered hunting rifle around the house, and would often fall asleep while cradling it on the living room couch. I knew that this was more than idle talk that was fueled by an alcohol induced depression. I was so young, very scared, and had no idea how to help him.

I left the Hawk House first, needing a quieter abode while I finished my undergraduate degree. Dan stayed on for a little while longer before losing his position with the organization. When I heard that news, I had a feeling that him losing one of his only joys would have terrible consequences. Dan was not only unemployed, he no longer had housing. He was living out of his Ford F150, and borrowing money from me. He was typically good to pay me back, but I wondered how he was doing so without a job. His text messages to me got much darker, and then he stopped communicating with me.

The last time I saw Dan was at a stoplight in Salt Lake City. I was crossing the street and tried to get his attention, but he was just starting straight ahead, and my wave either didn’t register with him, or he was acting as if he did not see me. It was the middle of the day, and it he looked like he was drunk; his eyes were glassy, and the skin on his face looked puffy and sweaty. I walked on without trying harder to get him to notice me, even though we were near my new home, and I had a couch where he could have slept it off.

The last time I heard from him, was through a Facebook message where he had asked me for help. I had not received a message from him for a while, and I thought he was going to ask to borrow money, which I didn’t have at the time. I delayed my response, and then spaced it, and the next thing I heard about Dan came through a call from his sister. She let me know that Dan had hung himself.

Dan was a great man that struggled more than many of us do. His love of raptors and the desert were things that I needed as I navigated those spaces in my young life, and I looked at him as a mentor. One night, we sat on my front porch, looking at the full moon through my spotting scope, watching the silhouettes of migrating birds pass in front of it. That night, he talked me into going to graduate school at the University of Utah, telling me that the birds needed my voice sticking up for them. We’d often swap bird stories for hours, although he always knew a lot more about raptors than I did.

I carried that feather for a long time after I found it, remembering Dan. I held it between my index finger and thumb as I lifted binoculars to my face, and it tickled my cheek as I watched. I knew that I was only holding it temporarily, and that I’d end up leaving it out there for my friend. On my way back, when I was done birding, I placed it on a rock as a tribute, and added a sprig of broom snakeweed for a bit of color.

When I got back to my truck, just as I was setting my camera and binoculars on the front seat, I saw a bird soaring west of the river. A Red-tailed Hawk circled higher and higher, spiraling farther away, until I could no longer see it. I was parked at the base of a bluff, and decided that I wanted to climb up it, so I could feel closer to all the Red-tailed Hawks in the world, and closer to my friend Dan. There was scorpion weed blooming up there. I sat on a heap of shale and looked into the distance. I bowed to the desert beyond, and offered a blessing to the ones who yield.

Written on April 20, 2025

The passerines are just beginning to migrate, and already this year, I am over halfway to seeing 200 species in Carbon County, Utah. Today, my list stands at 112, which is 34 ahead of my 2023 pace, when I broke the county big year record, ending up with 173. After I came home from birding this afternoon, I counted what is still left, and if I saw only the remaining for-sure-species, I would end the year at 176, breaking my old record. If I can pick up 24 beyond those, I will accomplish my 2025 goal.

I have come across six county lifers this year. In January, Black and Gray-crowned Rosy-Finch fed on a roadside tumbleweed that was poking out of the windswept snow. One full-moon-morning in February, a barn owl gave a distinctive screech from horse corrals near my house, coming back to roost just as the sun was rising and washing out the stars. In late March, Greater Sage-Grouse strutted on a lek, the males puffing out air sacs in their chest, which look like yellow party balloons. As things began to warm up in April, two Marbled Godwit stood atop a lingering shelf of ice on Scofield Reservoir, while a Red-breasted Merganser dove for fish in the water that had opened up on the south end of the lake that is nearest the spring sun. My county life list is now at 205, only slightly larger than my annual goal. To make it, I’ll need to see a few more new birds in Carbon County.

I have also had an easy time finding species that I saw infrequently in years past. I encountered Yellow-headed Blackbirds mixed in with Red-winged on three different occasions. I ran across White-faced Ibis all over the place, despite the fact that they aquaphilic, and it’s been an incredibly dry spring. Franklin’s Gulls aplenty have flown over farm fields, chortling in the air. One afternoon, I counted 27 Common Loons on Scofield Reservoir, their songs haunting the mountain valley. On the same day I saw the all the loons, two Greater Scaup swam and dove with their Lesser relatives. A male Vermillion Flycatcher, a bird that is very rare here, returned to the same spot where I saw it last year. These are all birds that I marked down as “maybe” when I mapped the route to 200, and they have helped me get the to the place where I am today.

In addition to all the great birds, I’ve needed to be outside as much as I have been. I seek places where executive racism, transphobia, deportations, and cuts to social safety nets don’t exist. My dad was diagnosed with cancer, and although it seems treatable, I have asked the desert to hold me in my grief and anxiety. In many ways, this has been a year full of awe and wonder, despite all that is going on. I have explored the county from end to end, enjoying the starkness of the saltbush desert, reveling in the grandness of formations that were sculpted by erosive forces in eons past, and learning from the gritty wildlife that shares this space with me.

The next month and a half will be my biggest push yet. By the end of spring migration, I hope to have seen at least 90% of the species that will be on my year list at the end of 2025. Once everyone has returned, new birds will come infrequently, so now is the time when I must be the most dedicated to my pursuit. It is the best time of year, a time of change, another revolution of the wheel. April and May mark the returns of both our spectacular local breeding birds, and those that only pass through on their way farther north.

Four months in, I can say that it has been worth the effort I have put in—I have had a glorious start to 2025. In a few weeks, the songbirds will return, and the world’s most beautiful music will make everything that much better. I hope to break my old big year record by June 1st, and at that time, I will know for sure whether I can make it to 200. The return of sensational color happens during the second week of May when the warblers arrive, and watching them is always the main event. I have known for a few months that this has been a special year. With only 88 more species to go, I can see the end more clearly. If I can hold this dedication, and my luck keeps up, I’ll damn sure get there.

Written on 3/30/2025

The best birding buddy ever is growing older, and is having a hard time keeping up with the rigors of my pursuits. My dog Everett, now 11 years old, with two surgically repaired CCLs, prefers taking long naps on the couch versus running all around the west, chasing after birds. I want my friend to be where he is happiest, and most comfortable, but have been lamenting the fact that this means losing my outdoor companion.

Up to this point, I have only owned one puppy, and Everett was an angel that rarely chewed or otherwise got into mischief. Other than a somewhat prolonged period of indoor potty accidents, he was very well-behaved. For ten years, I talked myself up, thinking I was good at training, but it just turns out that Everett was the exception to the typical puppy experience. He gave me a very incorrect expectation as to what I would endure later on.

In January, I decided to adopt a new dog so I could have a hiking and birding buddy again. I was scrolling through the Carbon County Animal Shelter website, and saw that they had an Australian Shepherd listed. I’ve always liked high energy breeds that can keep up with me, so I drove down to see if it was still available. The lady at the front desk gave me a quizzical look when I inquired about the posting, and said she didn’t maintain the website, but knew that there was not an Australian Shepherd available.

I had my mind set on adopting someone that day, so I googled “Australian Shepherd puppies near me” and found a miniature version for sale in the town of Huntington, 21 miles south of me. I texted the number, and the person that replied said that they were retiring, and selling the last of the litter for $200 each, in hopes of getting them quickly into good homes. I told them I could be down as soon as they were ready. They texted me the address, in Huntington Canyon, and we made plans to meet later in the afternoon.

After confirming a meeting time, I went to the store, and purchased a crate and a small dog collar. I came back and set everything up, and still had a few hours before I needed to leave. I tried to read, but could not focus, so I ended up pacing around the house and getting things ready for a puppy to move in.

When the time finally came, I drove down, and introduced myself to everyone. There was one pup that came up to me, while the others hid in the corner. This little guy gave me special attention, and I felt that he wanted me to be his lifelong friend. Within the first minute, I had made my decision. I sent the woman a payment on Venmo, she gave him a round of vaccines, and we were on our way. I didn’t have anything to keep him still in the car, so I held him in my lap while we drove home.

On the way back to Price, my new friend started to retch. I was doing 65 miles per hour on the highway between Huntington and Price, and felt that the safest thing to do was pull over. By the time I found a shoulder wide enough, I had at least a cupful of wet, warm vomit on my jeans, running down the side of my leg in between the seat and the door. I set him on the backseat, where I have a waterproof seat cover for Everett, and got a roll of shop towels I keep in the trunk. I came back, cleaned up what I could reach, and resumed the drive home. He started showing signs of vomiting again, so I reached over and ripped off another shop towel, placing it below his mouth. He puked into my towel-lined hand. I wadded it up, and threw it on the floorboard of the passengers seat. By the time we got home, I had four additional towels full of stinky dog puke. I thought that this was something we’d have to work on before his first birding trip.

Before I even picked him up, I had decided to call him Hayduke, after the fictional character George Washington Hayduke, from Ed Abbey’s The Monkey Wrench Gang. A new birding companion needed a name that stood for a fierce protection of Western public lands that we’d spend so much time exploring together. Hayduke was perfect.

The first night Hayduke spent at the house, he slept quietly in a crate. He seemed worn out from the travel, and a bit confused by his new surroundings. The next day, he started biting my hands, my sweatshirts, and anything else that came within range of his short snout. We’ve been working on this ever since, and when he has a toy in his mouth, he tends to not shred me or my clothing as much.

Hayduke is a herding breed, and one of his favorite things to do is jump up and nip at my hands. During the early days, he bit non-stop, and my knuckles and fingers were bloody and sore. He misbehaves even more when I get upset, so I have to reward him for good behavior rather than scold the bad. He is teaching me patience, and I am teaching him that he gets treats and praise when he does things I like. He learned things like “sit,” “stay,” “lay down,” and “shake” within ten minutes, so there have been some easy victories. Our training sessions have now shifted towards working off-leash, and riding in cars without vomiting. It’s been slow going, so I don’t know when he’ll be ready to join me outdoors, but we’re coming along.

Hayduke got neutered a week and a half ago. When he’s healed, on April Fool’s Day, we’ll start going on longer hikes and drives, gradually building him up. There is a fenced dog park a few blocks from the house that we can drive to, and my street ends in public lands where we can hike.

It took a while, to convince myself that I am not replacing anyone, that I’m just letting Everett live the way he wants at this stage of his life. Last year, when I did a big year, and took him with me on the first few outings, he seemed annoyed, and was tiring easily. Now he can stay home and nap, and Hayduke can run wild in the desert. Everett and I still spend a lot of time together. We sit around on the couch, eating treats and watching Dodger games.

As long as a dog is well-trained, they are great birding companions. They have to stay close enough that they don’t flush the birds you’re trying to look at, and they should know that it’s never okay to injure or kill wildlife. Nothing beats dog cuddles when camping, and their company can help with the loneliness that often comes with spending multiple days and nights in locations where you are the only person for miles. Everett has been my outdoor companion for over a decade now, and he’s only semi-retired, since he’ll still come on overnight trips. Hayduke will eventually give him a rest, and join me on the trails, and during day trips. Based off of his endless levels of energy in the backyard, and around the house, he’ll love being my second desert dog.

PS: The challenges of having a new puppy kept me from writing for a while, and I’m just now getting back to my schedule. I’m still here, I’m still trying to make this a semi-regular publication. You will see more updates from me very soon.

The father of modern birding, Roger Tory Peterson, once said, “Birds have wings.” There is a longer quote that finishes off that simple statement, but that is the part that is most resonant with me. To say that birds have wings, although obvious, suggests a possibility every time I step outside. Birds have wings, and even the most outlandish rarity could show up in front of my binoculars.

This fact, which everyone knows, is why one can go outside and see a rare bird. It’s much more likely than seeing a rare mammal, or a rare lizard. Wings cover great distances in small amounts of time, and birds can simply fly over topographical impediments that other species face when moving around. Although powerful, these wings can get blown off course by a strong storm. Despite the wonderful navigational sense that birds have, which we humans don’t fully understand, they can lose their way. Others aren’t even lost but are wandering in an attempt to find food in times of scarcity.

At any given moment, especially during migration, the most mind-bending rare bird likely goes undiscovered within my typical birding radius. There just aren’t enough birders to cover all the open space in the West. The amount of rarities that are found, are likely a tiny percentage of those that cross through a given area. While there are 472 species accepted on the official Utah checklist, the number that have crossed through the state could theoretically double that.

A “first state record” is a bird that has been documented in a state for the first time. In 2010, I was able to see Utah’s first Purple Sandpiper (a few days after it was discovered by another birder), a species that breeds northeast of Canada, and winters along the Atlantic Coast. It’s so rare here, I remember local birders trying to turn it into a Rock Sandpiper, a species that resembles its purple cousins, but winters much closer on the Pacific Coast. It was a Purple Sandpiper, we were all just having a hard time wrapping our heads around the fact that it was at a reservoir in southern Utah, so far away from where it was expected. Since that 2010 sighting, there have been 24 additional first-state records.

As a birder, I sometimes leave the house with the unexpected in mind. “I’m going to look for a White-throated Sparrow today,” I recently told myself, even though the chances of me finding one were rather slim. The odds of locating a rarity that pops into my brain before I’ve had my morning coffee are minuscule. Rare birds do show up, though, but they tend to be as unexpected as a Tennessee Warbler finding its way to my neighbor’s apricot tree, or a Swamp Sparrow at a nearby kids’ fishing pond. Birds have wings, and the possibility of seeing something unexpected is there every time I step outside, even if I’m just going out back to give my rose bushes some water.

It’s not just rare birds that bring wonder and joy to birding. Great possibilities exist with even the most common species. I can guess, with a good degree of accuracy, what I’ll see when I go out looking, and I can search for certain species, but there are often times when an everyday bird takes me by surprise.

Yesterday, I was delighted by the return of an American Goldfinch to my backyard feeder, a species I haven’t seen at home since last summer. The bird was mostly in the duller browns of its non-breeding plumage, but a handful of golden feathers, the color of sunlight, were beginning to show around its head and neck. I watched it duck below the much larger White-winged Doves, sneak a seed, and then fly off to a higher branch to consume it.

In early January, I was caught in the middle of a murmuration of European Starlings, where I could feel the rush of thousands of synchronized wingbeats. The sound of all those birds calling, and flapping, made me wish I was wearing earplugs. In clock time, it only lasted a moment, but I felt as if everything stopped, and I spent an eternity inside of the flock. If I were able to fly, I would have gladly lifted into the sky and joined the aerial dance.

In late 2024, I witnessed thousands of American Robins that had descended on the Price City Cemetery. This was the highest concentration of that species I had ever encountered. On a biting winter day, I was warmed by the glow of their orange breasts, and their joyful chirrups.

Last fall, I ran into an unexpected Dusky Grouse on a stretch of dirt road I had not traveled before. It half-leapt-half-flew from the roadside as I drove past. I put my truck in reverse, found where it had landed, and watched it watch me from a perch on a dead tree that had fallen over. A feathery snow fell as we sat there gazing at each other. The grouse left first, walking up the snag into the boughs of a live conifer, where I could no longer see it.

Whether I see something rare, or something wonderfully common, it is always a joy to watch birds. A lot of the fun comes from the randomness of the pursuit. What I will find on a given day is entirely out of my control. All I can do is open myself up and observe as deeply as I can.

Every morning I sit at my writing desk; I meditate and journal to start the day. If I’m going birding, I will use this time to dream of what I will come across when I leave the house. The minute I open the door, and look out into the world, the possibilities unfold before me. Birds have wings, and I love to get out there and find out what has flown towards me.

Written on February 6, 2025

In a 2022 big year, I broke the previous Carbon County, Utah record by 23 species with a final count of 153. In 2023, I did another one, and beat my own record by an additional 20, reaching 173. I swore off doing any further big years, but right now, I am mightily outpacing myself in both of my prior efforts. This afternoon, my annual total sits at 57 species, a number I did not reach until March 30th, 2023.

I rang in the new year with only one birding goal. I hoped to get a single new species, which would bring my county life list to an even 200. I did so in mid-January, when I saw Black, and Gray-crowned Rosy-finch. Those two brought me up to 201. After reaching that milestone so early, I knew I’d need something else to keep me going hard on my days off. I’m always looking for a little extra motivation to get out and see great birds (as if the birds aren’t enough). Once I started moving farther away from my 2023 pace, I began to idly wonder if I could break 200 in the county during the course of a calendar year. Since I relocated to Price, Utah in May of 2022, I’ve learned so much about nearby breeding habitats, and migration hotspots. I think that this number would be a possibility if I were to map it out.

I’m sticking to my promise, that I’ll never do another big year. I just want to see if 200 is achievable in the county, and that would happen to break my previous record by 27 species. This place was infrequently birded before I arrived. The hundreds of new checklists I’ve entered since, can help fill in a lot of blank spots on eBird maps. Whether I accomplish the goal, or fall short, it will tell a story about what is here, and what is a realistic number of species to expect over the course of a year.

When I first thought about going for 200, I asked what the point is in competing against myself, since there’s no one here to really challenge my record, and I have now surpassed the old high count by a whopping 43 species. Of course there is a satisfaction in knowing that I can do better, and then reaching a new pinnacle, but will I just keep doing big years forever? Beyond feeling good, every time I have gone for a record, I learned so much about birds, and where they are. But could I learn without running myself ragged? I came up with what I thought were two good reasons to go for this number. The first is that I would collect a lot of extra data versus a normal year where I’d only be casually watching. There’s also the hope that someday, someone will try and beat my record. Hopefully it will be a young birder that has the energy to scour the county, and add even more knowledge to community science. A robust dataset can be used by future conservationists to determine a baseline, which can then be used to protect birds, and that is what I hope to contribute to.

On January 28th, my year total sat at 53 species. I thought “there’s nothing really new that I can see before spring migration.” I drove out to Farnham Road, headed for a section of the Price River that I call “the best 200 yards of birding in Carbon County.” I wanted to look for rare Zonotrichia sparrows like Golden-Crowned, Harris’s, and White-throated, mixed in with winter flocks of the closely related, and much more common, White-crowned.

While driving to Farnham, I remembered past winters, where the snow was so deep in January, that I had to dig my truck out after getting stuck. This winter has been warm, and snow-free, which is concerning, because, when I think about it too much, I worry about climate change, and whether this beautiful place will be habitable throughout the remainder of my life. During our time on earth, climate change will ultimately be one of the main drivers of bird extinction (as well as mammals, amphibians, insects, plants, and every other living thing). According to Climate Explorer, Carbon County is predicted to see significant warming over the next 50 years. Our minuscule amount of annual precipitation will stay about the same, but the water that we do get will evaporate more quickly, and the desert will experience further desertification. Birds that are reliant on the conditions that are present here now, will either have to move, or more likely, die out.

With no moisture to hold down the soil, dust billowed behind my truck as I drove the gravel road. A large, dark brown bird with a buffy uppertail band flew right in front of me, and I braked hard, narrowly missing it. It was so big, I thought it was a Golden Eagle, a common species in the area. It stayed low to the ground, however, flying as if unsure of itself. When it landed on the other side of me, about 50 yards out, I looked through binoculars, and realized it was a Wild Turkey, my 54th species of the year. Seeing a new bird, when I thought I wouldn’t, strengthened my resolve to just go for it, to try for 200.

I know that saying “I’m not doing a big year” is playing a game of semantics, but I really never want to participate in competitive birding again. Rather than trying to win a non-existent prize, or looking for esteem that will never come, I want to explore the possibilities nearby. Spending time with birds fosters a deep love, and love is a precursor to fighting to protect them. All the data that birders collect along the way is going point out population declines as the climate changes. That data will arm us with the knowledge of what we need to do to keep bird numbers at least where they are now. This year, I’m looking for 200 species, and I swear that I will never do a county big year again. When I get there, though, I hope that someone will see the number, and think “I want to do a big year,” and then they go out and see 201 and beyond. For me, listing, and entering data into community science sites like eBird.org, is incredibly important. Holding a big year record is not.