Somebody famous said, “I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.” Who said it? We’ll get to that in a minute.

But the guy’s right. The whole “early bird” thing is a piece of popular wisdom that needs questioning. They always tell you to get going early. The nature experts, the birding advisors, the birds themselves.

They want you to drag your lazy butt out at dawn. Or sooner. Wait too long and you lose. This might be true if you’re a bird. But, as the famous guy suggested, what if you’re a worm?

I’ve done it both ways—early and not. One spring migration I scored thirty-some early sightings in the cold forests north of Chicago. Then came home at noon and found two male Scarlet Tanagers outside my bedroom window.

They were in my neighbor’s tree, along with Blackburnian, Wilson’s and Black-and-White Warblers. I didn’t need binoculars. There was the call of a Northern Oriole, too. And I also heard what was probably a Rose-breasted Grosbeak.

Okay, these are not exotic birds that would ruffle the life lists of two-fisted birdwatchers who hike the Andes and Amazon. But they make a point. Birds are where you find them. And when.

They’re in our forests at dawn, and they’re in our neighbor’s trees at noon. If you’re lucky. Which brings us back to the worm.

A worm that gets busy at dawn might be eaten by a bird using the same early-to-rise ethic. It works for the bird. Doesn’t for the worm. All a matter of perspective. Makes you question the folk wisdom about rising early. Always a good idea to question folk wisdom, and everything else.

The author of the early worm quotation was our only four-term president. A guy who had a world-wide depression to deal with and also a life-and-death challenge called World War Two. Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

He knew about luck, good and bad. I guess he figured that it’s not always something you influence with an alarm clock. Sleep late; the birds will be out there. And so will the worms that didn’t get eaten.

There’s a lot of snow cover today. I’m walking on a ski trail, my breath visible in the cold. And I’m thinking about white camouflage. Snow Buntings use it. So do Norwegian ski commandos.

I didn’t see Snow Buntings. But looking for them reminded me of another white bird that I did see, although not here. It was far from here. There was no snow. But there were Norwegians.

We were in the hills above Oslo, at a museum that had a Viking ship. I told my wife and friends to go in without me. I was museumed-out, and wanted to sit in a nearby park.

I just wanted to take it easy, but I couldn’t help noticing birds. They might’ve been common to Scandinavians but they were a novelty to me. Crows with gray necks. And black robins. These robins are Blackbirds of course, the lawn bird of Europe. But they’re cousins of American Robins; they’re shaped like them, walk like them and pull worms like them.

I saw a Magpie. In the bushes there were House Sparrows, like ours, and maybe some tits that I wasn’t bothering to check out for a change. I wasn’t birding, just taking a break from tourism.

Then a wagging tail caught my eye. The bird that it belonged to was mostly white, but it was no Snow Bunting. It had gray on the back, and some black on its head and neck. It was long and skinny, like a Catbird. I hadn’t seen one like this before. The storehouse of bird arcana in my head popped out a name: “White Wagtail.”

I checked a field guide later. Yeah, a White Wagtail. Something new for me. This is a bird of Europe and Asia. There are rare White Wagtails in the USA, but their range is limited or accidental.

It was nice seeing a white bird without freezing. I liked that park in Oslo. I liked not being in a museum. I took some criticism for missing the cultural experience, but I get that a lot. I would have felt worse missing the wagtail.

Red-tailed Hawks must like roadsides. On the interstate through Wisconsin there’s one of these big birds on just about every mile marker. Predators need space. Maybe this one-mile stretch is what they worked out.

Even on Chicago expressways, Red-tails sit on light poles watching traffic move under them. Ask most drivers if they saw a hawk on their ride and they’ll say, huh?

But Red-tailed Hawks are common. Not just common; they’re everywhere. This added a bit of irony to a birding experience we had in Arizona…

We were riding off the map to look for birds we don’t normally see. The brochure advertised “Horseback Birding Tours.” Our guide was a nice guy and knew the trail, but didn’t really care about birds. So much for truth in advertising. In any case, birding usually involves the luck of the draw.

We did okay. I noticed Gambel’s Quail, Gila Woodpeckers, Rufous, Black-Chinned and Anna’s Hummingbirds, Steller’s Jays and Cactus Wrens (big for wrens). My wife saw a Roadrunner but I missed it. The Gila Woodpecker, an obvious relative of our Red-bellied, was new to me.

We rode through a shallow, fast-moving river and lowered the reins so our horses could see the slick stones on the river bed. The horses knew what they were doing, and stepped carefully.

After the crossing, we saw a large buteo fly heavily out of a tree. Our guide spoke: “Hawk,” he said with the proud smile of a guy who kept a promise.

It was a Red-tailed Hawk, like the ones in Wisconsin, Chicago and everywhere. We all liked seeing it. I’d have preferred one of the west’s Ferruginous Hawks. Still, the ride was good. I won’t forget the river crossing and the intelligence of horses.

But it made me wonder: Is a Red-Tailed Hawk that lives in wilderness any better off than those we see near cars? Do half-eaten burgers tossed on road-shoulders kick butt when compared to skinny jackrabbits? Does being near traffic make a hawk’s day less boring than it would be in quiet wilderness?

We don’t know, and the hawks aren’t telling. Like so many things, it probably just comes down to where you’re born. The luck of the draw.

This month, again, our two-fisted “Hidden Bird Contest” has sparked interest from people who like to hunt. Not with guns, or cameras even, but with clicks.

Somewhere on this website, there’s a hidden American Kestrel, and if you haven’t already heard about it, you can read the details on our Hidden Bird Contest page.

We’re mentioning it here and now because around the end of the month—in a few days—we’ll collect all the names of people who found the Kestrel, put them in a hat and pick one. That person will get a Two-Fisted Birdwatcher hooded sweatshirt. These shirts are becoming status symbols among the cool people. Or so we hear.

But, it’s not about winning a prize. It’s about the fun of searching. It’s sort of like going into the woods or fields with sharp eyes. And you can do it right from your keyboard.

Okay. Just wanted to give you a heads-up about the timing for this month’s contest. Good luck.

A friend sent us an article from the blog “Boing Boing” about a chimp raised like a kid in a human family. Life was good for a while, but when the chimp grew up he was shot. Bummer.

Then somebody said, “Ah, he was just a dumb animal.” That phrase “dumb animal” pisses me off. It pisses off my dog, too. The whole idea of animal intelligence brought back an experience I’d had on Nantucket…

I was taking a break from a boondoggle business conference. Guys in ties huddled at the hotel while I sat alone on a sea wall, away from business bull. Suddenly I heard sharp reports hitting the rocks. Crack. Crack! Was my boss throwing stones at me?

No, it was Herring Gulls. They were picking shellfish from the surf, then flying straight up and dropping them on the rocks where I sat, and also on a nearby parking lot. Then the birds would swoop down and pry open shells cracked by the fall. This is tool-making, I thought. Gravity can be a tool.

(I learned that the noise from this regular activity was so annoying that residents tried putting fake gulls on the pavement so real ones would avoid bombing the spot, not wanting their meal stolen. This stopped working because the gulls caught on.)

We’ve all heard that crows have been known to get water out of a shallow bowl by putting pebbles in until the level rises. I’ve seen a Black-billed Magpie beg for food in Colorado by using eerily human-sounding language. Yeah, language. For more about the surprising smartness of Corvids, see “Bird Brains: The Intelligence of Crows, Ravens, Magpies and Jays” by Candace Savage. Or read the “The Mind of the Raven,” by Bernd Heinrich.

We don’t know how animals think. Or if they’re smart or dumb. Like people, they’re probably a little of both. All we can do is infer. My dog’s looking at me now, and is either thinking “He’s hit the keyboard exactly 2,150 times and is due to stop,” or maybe, “Treat, treat, duh, treat, pant, pant.”

Don’t know. But the Herring Gulls who dropped clams to crack them open didn’t seem dumb. And the chimp who got too big to handle around the house didn’t deserve to get shot. Anyone who uses the term “dumb animal” is talking about himself.

These sightings are usually about birds we’ve seen. But sometimes a sighting can be about a comment we get. And comments have been on the increase. Here’s one example:

(From a guy who read our Two-Fisted Library page….)

“Thanks. I’m always glad for suggestions on bird-related reading. Although you have not listed it, David Quammen’s Song of the Dodo is an amazing read. You are right to warn readers about the recent film version of King Solomon’s Mines, but the 1950 version with Deborah Kerr and Stewart Granger is as two-fisted as they come…”

This visitor knows movies. And Quammen’s Dodo book is definitely worth checking out. My wife, reading this over my shoulder adds, “Don’t forget the Quammen book about Darwin, too.” (She means “The Reluctant Mr. Darwin,” which had been discussed in her book club).

When two-fisted bird watchers aren’t tramping around the wilds, they like books and films. And they have pretty good opinions. Being observant about nature goes along with being observant, period.

We appreciated hearing from the guy whose email is excerpted above. The web works best when it’s a conversation between all of us. So think of Two-Fisted Birdwatcher as a two-way street. Your comments are welcome. Whatever you’re thinking, it might make a “daily sighting.” Send it in. Not just for us, but for everyone.

A buddy and I were hiking deep in the North Woods near the Porcupine Mountains. These mountains are well named. A ranger at the trailhead warned us that porcupines could get under our truck’s hood and eat the engine hoses.

I had a camera for birds. My friend was just interested in hiking. I saw Pileateds (common there) and a Ruffed Grouse that walked fast, thumping his wings.

I saw a Northern Shrike and wanted to follow it. We were a few miles into the woods when a guy came from behind a tree with a slingshot. The kind that wraps the forearm. He had it cocked with a metal ball ready. He asked us what we were doing.

I told him we were looking for birds and bears and anything else we could photograph. He said, “Why would you do that?” with a toothless grin. He said hunters like us had shot his dog. He said we came from Detroit and might shoot people’s dogs.

We weren’t from Detroit. We weren’t hunters. We had no guns. We liked dogs. But the conversation was over. Then my pal said something about how cool the slingshot was. He’d seen that kind and knew the model. He asked smart questions about it and talked fast. They bonded.

Another dude, someone we hadn’t seen before, came out from behind a tree carrying a rifle and stood with the slingshot guy. My friend who had no interest in birds had the gift of gab. He talked some stuff to these guys, and they laughed together while I watched.

When they left my friend whispered: “Go.” And we walked out. Later he said we’d been in the cross hairs for a while, but he worked things out. Birds seemed less important then. But later I saw Bald Eagles on a nest and three kinds of herons, Black-Crowned Night, Little Blue and Great Blue as well as Mergansers and bear sign. I forgot the two guys. For a while.

I’m grateful to my friend. He’s gone now, having died in a car accident not long after that. He wasn’t a bird watcher, but he could talk some two-fisted talk. It was good to have him there, that day in the North Woods.

It’s deep winter, and nighttime birding is good. Leafless trees reveal owls against the sky. Snow cover lights up the woods, especially when there’s a moon.

While walking with my dog and looking in the treeline for owls I thought of a warm night last summer when I tried something completely different.

I rowed to the center of a small lake, dropped anchor, lay back on a canvas pack, and looked up. I was hoping to see owls fly over. Meanwhile, stars made a great show. There were coyote yips in the woods. It felt good to float.

I didn’t hear bird sounds, of course, and wondered why we don’t have Nightingales here. In Europe and Asia these birds are said to sing at night. Starlings were brought to America in the 1890s by some guy who wanted us to have all the birds mentioned in Shakespeare. Wonder why he didn’t bring Nightingales. Maybe Shakespeare never wrote about them, but that seems unlikely.

While thinking about this, something passed over me, very low, blocking starlight. An owl? Then another. And another. The feel of a swarm. Not owls. Too big to be insects. Flapping black wings, utterly silent. Zip. Over my face, and gone. Bats.

I figured it was time to leave. I rowed, thinking: I’m not afraid, but let’s move it. Bats can carry rabies. I rowed well. That was my one time out on the lake at night, lying flat in a boat. It had been nice while it lasted, owl-watching until bats came.

I thought of that as I walked in the freezing January night, looking for owls against the sky. I have nothing against bats. But I liked that they were hibernating somewhere, and that there were no bugs either, and that I could see my breath in the cold, and my dog’s breath.

If there were owls in the trees we’d probably spot them, I figured. And we did. We saw three. Two were Great Horned with ear-like tufts and hawk-shaped bodies. And there was a pale one that flew off with wide flat wings and no noise. A Barn Owl, probably. It’s deep winter and nighttime birding is good.

I’m freezing my butt off. The forest is attracting more skiers than birders. But I’m looking. I’m drawn deeper into the snowy woods by a bird call.

I’m not good on bird sounds. This is a whirring. I figure a chickadee or nuthatch. I see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, although I’m not sure he made the sound. But I’m satisfied. Compared to the White-breasted this bird’s less usual.

And I see too many American Robins for this time of year. I think of them as Snow Robins and figure they don’t migrate because winters aren’t so bad any more. They’re no longer the first sign of spring.

My theory is probably bunk. This was pointed out by a birder who said these Robins came from the north to winter here, while ours went south. We’re probably both right and wrong.

As I was walking through the snow, freezing, I thought: how come we never see frozen birds? Seems like a bird would just drop from the cold, old age, anything, and we’d see it on the snow.

I recalled that the only frozen bird I ever saw was a Scarlet Tanager in June. I used to know an artist who painted good pictures of birds. He was excited to find a dead tanager in the woods. It was deep red and black. The artist wanted it as a subject so he kept it in his freezer. It would keep forever. A stiff tanager in a baggie.

I thought of this as I hiked, stiff with cold myself. I wondered what happens to birds when they die. Even in summer we rarely see their bodies. Whatever happens, I’m against keeping them in freezers, even if a good artist immortalizes them. I just don’t like the idea of a tanager staring out from behind the ice cream.

It’s a tough lesson to learn that there’s always somebody better at something than you are.

In college, you’re the best wrestler in your weight class and then a guy who’s built like pit bull throws you down so hard your kneecap breaks. The guy was a clear warning against smugness in any field.

I figure I know a little about birds. I always had a good memory for their names, locales and habits. The other day when a friend told me that he and his wife were heading from Chicago to Florida for a beach vacation, I suggested he amuse himself there by birdwatching, an activity he’s not particularly interested in.

With sincere if dimwitted excitement I told him he’d see Willets, Sanderlings and maybe my favorite Ruddy Turnstones on the beach, and Brown Pelicans over the sea as well as Frigate Birds or Man O’Wars, and he looked askance.

I realized I was speaking what is essentially a foreign language although I hadn’t meant to be a wiseass. I apologize to my friend, here and now. Although he does the same kind of thing by speaking Spanish to strangers in restaurants because he’s fluent in it, having spent some good years in El Paso.

All that aside, as much of a bird guru as I might seem to my bilingual pal, I’m a lightweight compared to the birders I’ve discovered on websites like IBET and Illinois Birders’ Forum. They’re better than I am. They know more, go more places, see more and report meaningful stuff. They’re the pit bull wrestler who made mincemeat out of me. It’s humbling.

But it doesn’t change anything. I learned long ago that whatever you do, somebody does it better. I don’t mind. I check these websites and enjoy vicarious kicks when I read about the Purple Sandpipers, European Goldfinches and Whooping Cranes (with photos to prove it) that they pull out of a deep hat. Meanwhile, I do the best birding in my weight class. And I write about it.

An old high school friend saw this website and contacted me, saying, “I didn’t know you were a twitcher.” I didn’t either. I’d heard the word “twitcher” and figured it was some vaguely insulting reference to birding, but wasn’t sure and meant to Google it.

Then I saw this word on the cool English birding site “Fatbird,” and just recently again in one of Jim Harrison’s new novellas. Twitcher is apparently a term of increasing popularity. The British coined it to describe a birder who travels far to see rare species that others have reported. But it’s spread to America, and its definition is loosening up.

That’s too bad. Twitcher sounds like one of those odd bird names that occasionally cause a two-fisted bird watcher to feel a little dweeby when discussing them. Like dowitcher. Or peewee. Or kittiwake. “Hey, those twitchers just saw some dowitchers.”

Come on, just because you have an interest in the outdoors and know the names of birds, why do you have to be saddled with so many funny sounding words? I found myself getting excited about an Ani (smooth billed) in the Bahamas but my friends didn’t care. “Annie who,” they said. The Bridled Titmouse I saw in Arizona didn’t impress the girl on the next horse. I could tell by the odd look she gave me. I keep these sightings to myself now.

Maybe the problem is that I don’t hang around with people in the bird clubs. I’m a solitary birder, generally. I guess that’s why I’ve always liked the Solitary Sandpiper. That plain bird jumps off the page of my field guide because of its great name. I’ve never seen one, but maybe some day I will, if I keep looking. But when I’m looking, please don’t call it twitching.

We were told to expect an end-of-the-world blizzard. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe not. Sometimes the expected doesn’t turn out like you expect. And you ought to expect that.

Birds like to spit in the eye of the expected.

A few winters ago I went to the north woods and didn’t see much up there in the way of interesting birds, although I’d expected that I would. But it was a shutout.

When I got home I had to drive deep into Chicago. On the streets of an overpopulated neighborhood I scored what was, for me, the birding equivalent of a touchdown.

I saw a flock of birds on a dead lawn, the only grass in a landscape of cement. They had to be sparrows, I thought, but they were too big. Whoa. Pittsburgh Steelers colors.

Brown, yellow and black. Big heads, big beaks. I got it suddenly: Evening Grosbeaks. Twenty, maybe fifty. What the hell were they doing there? Who knows? Birds go where they want.

This unexpected sighting came back to me during today’s beautiful blizzard. The morning news guys warned us that schools were closing and roads were impassable. Stay in, stay home. It’s a snow day. The expectation was that it would get worse.

I’d planned to drive to work, then do a little birding. That plan seemed shot. Any birds in the area would be just like us: buried under snow. Then cabin fever hit and I risked the roads. I figured I’d try a half-day of work but forego the birding.

As I turned onto the two-lane, I saw a Sparrow Hawk on a road sign. Orange and gray-blue. Unexpected colors against white. This bird is officially called The American Kestrel, but ever since I learned about it when I was a kid, I’ve called it by its more common name.

Later on, a Blue Jay flew over the road. Far away, but another bit of unexpected color. These jays used to be common around here until West Nile fever. It was good to see one looking healthy.

I did some business stuff and headed home early. We’d been told to avoid traffic, black ice and wind chill. Driving up my street I saw Cardinals in a low tree. Two pairs. The snow didn’t matter; they found berries. More unexpected color.

A jay, Cardinals and a deadly little Sparrow Hawk. Not a list that would impress the two-fisted birdwatchers I admire and whose exploits I follow on more serious websites than this one.

But still, I’d expected no birds, and saw a few. As I drove along I found myself keeping an eye out for Evening Grosbeaks. And I realized that I always do that.

If you want to see Bald Eagles, you gotta think like Bald Eagles. And they’re usually thinking of one simple 4-letter word. What is it? We’ll get to that in a second.

First, speaking of 4-letter words, here’s one that does not make sense when it comes to eagles: “bald.” The Bald Eagle’s head is covered with feathers.

Maybe Ben Franklin didn’t like the idea of this bird being America’s symbol because he didn’t like the word “bald.” He was pretty bald himself; maybe it bugged him.

Franklin suggested the Wild Turkey as our national bird. He was on the wrong side of an issue for once. Especially if he didn’t like the word “bald,” because the Wild Turkey has a bald head! It should be called the Bald Turkey. And the Bald Eagle should be called the Wild Eagle. Can this be switched? Is it too late?

Anyway. Back to the simple 4-letter word that eagles are thinking of: It’s “fish.” If you want to spot a Bald Eagle, try looking near water.

The first time I saw one, I was in Northern Michigan in the woods around Lake Gogebic. The eagle flew to a tall tree where its mate waited on a nest of sticks. I drove up a logging road to get a better look, then stood on the roof of my car amid black flies and took pictures while the eagles ignored me.

After your first sighting, you understand that it’s not impossible to spot Bald Eagles, so they become easier to find. Driving past mud flats near the Everglades I saw two sitting with crows and gulls. In Yellowstone I saw a Bald Eagle swoop over the lake like it was posing for a travel poster.

And while rafting on the shallow Chilkat River in Alaska I saw so many that the sightings got cheap. I was in danger of Bald Eagle boredom. Our raft kept getting grounded and night was falling. We didn’t see brown bears but knew they were there. I was way more interested in getting back before dark than I was in eagles. Every tree had them. Young ones with mottled brown coloration. Adults with bright heads. After a while, who cares?

In all cases, the eagles I’ve seen were near that 4-letter word: fish. This might be helpful to remember. I’m thinking of heading down to the Illinois River at Starved Rock State Park this winter to look at Bald Eagles over the open water near dams. They’ll be there; fish are there.

When I think about making this drive I remember Chilkat’s eagles and wonder if I really want to look for something I once saw in excess. The answer is a simple 4-letter word: yeah.

Our sighting of the day is our own Anhinga. The one that’s been hiding on this website. It’s become surprisingly popular.

As you might know, we have a “hidden bird contest” every month or so. And we get emails from people who find the hidden bird, whether it’s a Painted Bunting, Red-eyed Vireo, Black Skimmer, or—this month—an Anhinga. Someone’s name is picked and that person is sent a hooded sweatshirt with our logo on it. Winning is a possibility; the odds are pretty good. But searching for the bird is fun. Like going birding without leaving your keyboard.

Of all the contests we’ve had, the one with the hidden Anhinga is really striking a chord. We’ve been hearing from more people than ever, all telling us where they found it. This bird has fans.

One guy emailed from Alaska telling us where on our site it was hiding, and also telling us that he’d never seen one and plans to get down here for that purpose. But he had seen Darters in Asia, and they’re similar.

This reminded us of the old Chinese custom of sending long-necked birds into the water to scoop up fish. The fishermen tie a ring around the base of the bird’s neck. Then reel them in and turn them upside down. Fish drop into the boat. The bird is given one as a reward and sent back for more.

One guy wrote to tell us he’d found the hidden Anhinga on our site while he was sitting in his tropical home looking out the window at real Anhingas. We heard from Anhinga finders from just about every part of the country.

We’ll have our drawing this week. After that, the Anhinga will be retired. Somebody will win a sweatshirt. And we’ll launch a new hidden bird contest, which will be explained on the “Hidden Bird Contest” page.

Meanwhile, we’re going to log onto Two-Fisted Birdwatcher ourselves to take one more look at the surprisingly popular Anhinga. We enjoy the sight. And we know where it’s hiding.

I shake snow off my coat and get in an elevator. I’m in a city building. Couldn’t be avoided. No woodland walks today, no bird sightings likely. Or so I thought.

Before the doors close a young woman hops in. She’s smiling and says “happy new year.” We don’t know each other, but the season’s got her in a good mood.

She’s wearing a jacket with drawings of Disney characters all over it. It’s cheerful. Like she is. But this doesn’t change things. We’re indoors, and the elevator grinds along.

I notice her jacket has a Disney bluebird on the shoulder. This makes me smile in spite of myself. I remember the old song, “There’s a bluebird on my shoulder” from a long-ago cartoon. That’s a mood improver.

Yeah, but the bird guy in me wonders: what kind of bluebird? There’s no species with that single name. This is of no real importance. It’s just a song from a cartoon. Still, it was something to think about while standing in a slow-moving elevator.

I figure it’s gotta be a Mountain Bluebird. The colors are right. But it could be an Eastern Bluebird. Maybe a Western Bluebird. Then, out of the blue comes the slight possibility that it’s an Indigo Bunting. Can’t rule out a Lazuli Bunting.

Or a Blue Grosbeak, Blue Jay, Scrub Jay. What about a Steller’s Jay? How about those blue tanagers from South America. There are blue birds in the tropics, Europe, Africa, everywhere. In Eurasia, even the kingfishers are blue.

So when the cheerful old song goes, “…there’s a bluebird on my shoulder,” it might be okay musically but it’s vague ornithologically. And who cares! The bluebird can be anything or nothing; it’s just a cartoon.

But thinking about it made the elevator ride a little easier to take. I get out at my stop and say happy new year to the woman in the Disney jacket. Zip-a-dee doo-dah.

It was a winter much like this one.

I’m in a snow-covered meadow at the edge of the woods. The snow’s up to my knees. Slogging in was slow work, but fun. My stamina was good. And I was safely within sight of a distant farm. No problem. Or so I thought.

In low bushes there were Pine Siskins, streaky brown with spots of yellow. I’d seen Blue Jays, a tree full of Cedar Waxwings. Dark-eyed Juncos with white tail feathers flashing. These birds were not rare, but it was good to count them and count on them.

I saw a Red-bellied Woodpecker up ahead but didn’t want to walk further. This woodpecker is just as likely outside my kitchen window, and I was getting tired.

Then I saw a hefty purple bird. Could it be a Crossbill? A White-Winged Crossbill? That’s something I’ve never seen, with its screwy beak. I headed after it. The sun was going down, but I could still see the farm across the snowy meadow. So why not?.

I was getting out of breath as I pushed through the snow, but had to check out the Crossbill. The nearer I got, the further it flew. I never got close enough to nail the sighting. Then I got really tired. I’m outta here, I figured. I began to cut across the field toward the farm. Shortest distance between two points, right?

My boots are packed with snow. My legs burn. My lungs hurt. I start to think that I might not make it. Don’t panic. Breathe. Take one step at a time. The snow’s thigh-high but I’m moving. Suddenly it gets easier because the ground is firmer. No more grassy stubble under the snow. A smooth floor. Cool.

Then I feel it sag slightly. I think…wasn’t there a pond here? I remember a pond last summer. I’m on ice. And it’s cracking. I freeze. Then slowly backtrack, until I feel grass under my feet again.

Made it. But did I? I’m still in deep, no cell phone, no people. It’s getting dark and I’m totally out of gas. I sit. My butt’s in the snow. I lie back, sucking air that’s heavy with cold. Moisture on my eyes feels crisp, turning icy as I blink.

So how does this end? The only way: I force myself to move. I inch along the treeline where there’s no ice, avoiding the straight-line-to-the-farm idea. Step by step, I get out. Once the clutch of unease passed, it wasn’t impossible.

I even went back the next day looking for the Crossbill but didn’t see it. Six months later I saw a Yellow-billed Cuckoo there, a bird that has become rare in our area. I thought: last winter there was a cuckoo on the same spot.

Even when you’re out of town, out of the woods and out of the ordinary, the sharpened senses of a two-fisted bird watcher aren’t entirely out of business.

For example, in the concrete and brick wilderness of New York City, in the narrow streets of the neighborhood they call Greenwich Village—which is no village of course—even there, you can see a bird or two. And the two birds are these: House Sparrow and Rock Dove, more commonly known as pigeon or rat-with-wings. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t interesting sightings.

A city guy is walking his dog on a treeless, grassless Greenwich Village street. This is the dog’s idea of being out in nature. But who are we to say he doesn’t like it. The man, with leash in one hand and baggie in the other, is strolling along when his dog stops short to look at a sparrow that’s picking at crumbs near a garbage can. One female House Sparrow. The dog’s fascinated. He strains at the leash and wants to scope out the bird, sniff the bird, eat the bird. The guy with the baggie waits.

The bird doesn’t like the dog’s attention and hops to the other side of the garbage can. The dog noses over to that side, so the sparrow hops to the opposite side. They continue this little dance. The sparrow doesn’t fly off; maybe it’s tired, maybe it wants to stay where the crumbs are. The dog can’t get close because the bird keeps the can between them.

Hey, we’ve got a sighting. Not the House Sparrow so much. It’s the dog. He’s more interesting than this common bird. He’s got his ears up, on full alert. He’s a muscular pooch, white with brown spots, a short coat, high forehead and long snout, an intelligent face. No pedigreed breed, just a mutt, but clever, and engaged by the strange sight of a bird on concrete. He’s got to see what it is.

This dog’s a four-fisted birdwatcher, with his rounded, bunched up big paws. He’s straining at the leash. The bird’s giving him nothing. But he keeps trying, out there on the street in a world of pavement and garbage cans. He’s all eyes and ears and into bird watching, taking whatever he can get.

The Christmas Bird Count is in full swing, and we’re doing more than counting birds. We’re counting birders. People like you, who have found your way to the Two-Fisted Birdwatcher.

We understand that if you’re looking for deep ornithology, photo galleries or research, there are better websites out there than this one. Ours is just a site that offers a few words from the point of view of a guy who appreciates birding and who also appreciates people like you.

Putting a site on the web is like putting seeds and suet around back of the house. You check to see if it’s been noticed. When you get some visitors out there, you feel good about it. That’s why we feel good about you. You’re our “sighting of the day.”

But before we go further with that thought, we have to tell you that we did see a few interesting things in the woods earlier. Like heron tracks in the snow. No heron, but the big guy must’ve been there, down by the river. His prints we’re unmistakable. And we saw—unexpectedly—a Turkey Vulture. Late December’s a cold time of year for this bird, but he was wheeling above the woods on big, black and gray wings, looking down. Maybe looking for a frozen heron to eat.

Anyway, as we said, our sighting of the day is you. During the Christmas season birders are into counting. The population of some birds might be wavering downward—at least that’s been our disappointed observation—but the population of birders seems stronger than ever.

So here’s a two-fisted thumbs up to you!  Thanks for counting birds out there in the cold this Christmas. And thanks for coming around to read our words. Hope you have happy holidays and a happy new year.

Sighting of the day. The birds of Avatar. If you don’t know what Avatar is, you’ve got to get out more.

And you’ve got to see this movie. It’s made for you, you two-fisted bird watcher, you. Because it’s filled with wild creatures who fly. Are they birds? Good question. My answer: yeah! I think of them as birds.

And they’re worth sighting. Worth adding to your life list. Some people might think of them as sci-fi dragons. I guess they’re called Banshees in the film, if you want to get technical about it. Doesn’t matter. They’re birds.

Birds descended from dinosaurs on our planet, and on the planet in Avatar the flying creatures look like birds that descended from dinosaurs. Alien dinosaurs maybe, but with all the right equipment. Beaks and wings and talons, and they can fly like hell. That’s really what it’s all about.

Bird watchers, two-fisted bird watchers, gotta admit that they wouldn’t care much about birds if birds didn’t fly. Flying is the best thing an animal can do.

We want to fly; always have. Fly on big wings like those of an eagle or heron. Fly in soaring circles like vultures. Fly in acrobatic loops like swallows or gulls. Or fly silently like a stealth predator—in other words, an owl. But the main thing is—fly.

Bird watchers like to watch flying. And wish we could do it. Well, in Avatar you get to see a lot of bird-like flying, soaring, zooming, and you get to ride along on the backs of the birds as they do it. Definitely, the sighting of the day. And the bird watcher’s movie of the year. Maybe the bird watcher’s movie of a lifetime.

What I mean by “bird dropping” is the ornithological version of name dropping. You hear it when you run into committed birders. It’s not their fault. If a guy sees a Hudsonian Godwit, what’s he supposed to say? But still, there’s that smack of bird dropping. It’s unavoidable.

Well, I’ve got a bird to drop. But I’ve been keeping it in reserve for some day when I feel the need to drop it. Ah, skip that. I’m not into bird dropping; I’ll mention it in a moment.

But before I do, another example comes to mind: Last May I was in the woods looking up at a Scarlet Tanager. Not an uncommon bird, but its two-tone coloration interests me. A bird guru with a long lens came hiking into my space, and asked me what I was looking at. He shrugged off the sighting, saying that a Summer Tanager would have been more worth spotting. One had been rumored to be around, and that’s what he assumed I was looking for. The Scarlet Tanager was beneath his interest.

Summer Tanager. A good name to bird-drop. But not as good as the one I’ve been saving. Here goes: Phainopepla. That’s right, Phainopepla. Ever see one? Ever hear of one? I saw this fairly uncommon black-crested flycatcher in Arizona. They’re from a Central American group of birds, but some are found in a wedge of territory near the Sonoran Desert.

At first I thought it was a Steller’s Jay. Those western Jays can be dark. Then I realized, wait, it’s all black, no blue. And the crest is wispy. Also, the bird was skinnier than a Jay. When it flew, I thought I saw white patches on its wings, like the wings of a Mockingbird. This was a pretty rare bird.

I needed a field guide to be sure, and there it was. Phainopepla. What a great, unusual name. Most people I know have never seen a Phainopepla. Most people can’t even pronounce it. I’m not sure I’m pronouncing it right. People hear “Phainopepla” and they don’t know you’re talking about a bird. It sounds like a stomach disorder.

If you want to be a bird dropper, you come back from a walk somewhere in Arizona and say, yeah, I saw some Abert’s Towhees today (not “towhees,” but “Abert’s Towhees”) and, oh yeah, a Phainopepla.

If you get a blank stare, that makes the bird dropping all the better. If you’re talking to a knowledgeable birder you might get a jealous stare. Phainopeplas, like Hudsonian Godwits aren’t everyday occurances. And speaking of towhees, what about the Inyo California Towhee? Ever see one of those? Okay, no more bird dropping for today. It can get messy.