Fun

Is Birding Enjoyable? – by Sarah Kelsey

- by fooshya

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A hooded oriole perched on a slender branch that arcs from the center to the top left of the frame, forming a V with branch standing straight from the center bottom to top of the frame. Other twiggy branches crisscross over the leafy background. The hooded oriole is a bright yellow bird, a saturated yellow with a hint of orange, and a black patch running from the base of his curved, sharp bill down his throat. His gray wings, barred with white, are folded over his back. His body is facing the camera, not quite directly but not quite in three quarter profile, and his head is turned towards the right of the frame but tilted slightly to one side as though pondering something. His black eye is bright and lively.

Hoodini the Hooded Oriole (Icterus cucullatus), a really uncommon customer to Georgia who spent many days frequenting an Athens, GA backyard in 2025

“I FINALLY GOT YOU. YOU ARE VANQUISHED.”

Thus started the rare bird report of the primary Black-billed Cuckoo reported in Paulding County. It was the following half that startled me.

“I FINALLY GOT YOU. YOU ARE VANQUISHED. BLACK-BILLED C🤬NT—”

Oh my! After the em sprint, the all caps ended and the report listed the conventional figuring out traits one ought to put in a uncommon hen report. “Slim cuckoo with red eyering, smallish black bill, and lacking the rufous flight feathers of YBCU.” [That’s “yellow-billed cuckoo” for those unfamiliar with four-letter bird codes. Four letter words other than c🤬nt.]

The report closes with, “Paulding Forest is the #1 migration hotspot in the Piedmont I’ll die on this hill — Paulding County first and my GA bird #319.”

I embrace your complete report as a result of 1) clearly I want to return to Paulding Forest!, and a pair of) this report captures a lot of the birding expertise. The frustration. The itemizing — not simply life record, however state itemizing and county itemizing. And after all, a correct textual content description for a uncommon hen report. (I personally am responsible of writing lazy uncommon hen studies like, “Continuing,” or “Crappy photo later!”)

A blurry mourning warbler shown in profile on brown leaf litter, in the midground of a photo with a stick and slender privet saplings in sharp focus in the foreground. The mourning warbler is a small songbird with yellowish-olive-brown belly, brownish crown, taupe face, dark eye ringed with white or pale tan, and olive-greenish back, and folded light brown wings. The colors may be due to the poor quality and lighting of the photo, not the colors of all mourning warblers. The privet in the foreground appears as very skinny twigs with paired leaves, ovate, bright dark green, with wavy edges.

An instance of one in every of my crappy uncommon hen images. Mourning warbler (Geothlypis philadelphia), a uncommon customer to Georgia at Cochran Shoals in October 2024

“What did that cuckoo ever do to you?” I commented as I shared the hilarious hen report with some associates.

The report jogged my memory of one of my favorite iNaturalist posts , depicting what I assume was the observer’s lifer Florida scrub-jay. I base this on the commentary be aware that reads, “Fucken FINALLY!!!!”

A brilliant sky-blue and white bird, with a pointy, dark gray bill and dark eyes, perched on a spiky vine, head turned to the left, staring pensively into the distance. There are a few small, ovate leaves on the vine. The background is soft focus bright green and golden yellow-green, with a hint of gray sky in the top left corner. A few silvery raindrops bead the vine. There is a red band around the bird's right leg.

Florida scrub-jay (Aphelocoma coerulescens) in Brevard County, Florida. Beautiful, uncommon, charismatic — really a lifer value chasing, definitely worth the fuss and worthy of the strongest of language, as within the above-quoted iNaturalist put up. December 2021

I shared that iNaturalist put up, too, with my associates. It prompted one buddy to ask:

“Is birding actually fun?”

I paused.

“Sounds stressful,” my friend added.

I paused again. I wanted to respond, “Of course it’s fun!” but I could not deny that at times, it is stressful. What came to mind was a story.

One September Sunday, I drove over an hour to Georgia Highlands College where a tropical kingbird had been reported. I didn’t realize this wouldn’t be my typical search for a rare bird; this was a stakeout. I arrived to find a group of birders, some in lawn chairs. I realized with some dismay we would not be exploring the trails to search for the kingbird; we would be sitting and waiting. This was not my kind of birding. I wished I’d brought my knitting.

Before I became a birder, I would not have understood why anyone would drive a long distance to sit, waiting, for a single bird, instead of exploring the surroundings. Perhaps stakeouts reminded me of the stereotypes that initially repelled me not from birds, but from the hobby — a competitive endeavor focused on species as numbers, points on a scorecard.

One of the birders approached and introduced herself and the rest of the group, who readily welcomed me to the stakeout. For more than an hour, I chatted with them and sat, taking in the blue sky, warm sun, and peaceful greenery of the nearby forest.

Finally, a small silver-gray bird emerged from the forest canopy, landing on a curved, slender branch at the edge of the clearing. For several minutes he perched on the branch, posture regal, with a belly the bright yellow of lemonade, of sunshine, of joy — for joy was what he brought. I could feel not just my own but the spirits of everyone in the group rising up from the ground, towards the sky, to that high, curved branch above.

Against a blue sky, perched on a slender, gray branch that curves across the bottom third of the frame, a kingbird faces the camera, head turned to the right. The kingbird is slightly soft, not out of focus, but not in sharp focus either. The kingbird has a pale yet saturated, bright yellow belly and breast, folded gray wings, a white face with a smudge of gray under the eye, a dark gray eyestripe, and short yet pointy graphite-gray bill.

?Tropical? kingbird (Tyrannus ?melancholius?), Rome, GA, September 2022. At the time, someone reportedly had audio confirming this was a tropical kingbird and not the visually identical Couch’s kingbird. I’ve recently learned that some disagree.

It was collective joy — a shared moment with strangers, knowing that we were all feeling the same joy and that we had something in common even if we had never spoken to each other before and never saw each other again. That afternoon, I understood that this was fun, not just chasing rare birds, but waiting for hours for something that may or may not show up.

A scene of a garbage-strewn, muddy shore of a brown lake. Left of the center at the edge of the shore is a white wagtail, a small bird with a gray body, black-capped white head, and very large, bib-shaped black marking on his front. He is turned towards the right of the frame as though captured in the middle of racing across the shore. Directly behind him is an empty Sprite bottle leaning on its side, in perfect focus.

White wagtail (Motacilla alba), typically a resident of Eurasia, North Africa, and Western Alaska, who spent months in Tallahassee, Florida between Thanksgiving 2022 and early February 2023. This was the first “mega” I chased, after nearly a month housebound with COVID. Bad picture, great memory! Even in the distant photos where the autofocus favored Sprite bottle over bird, I think his personality comes through!

An ancient murrelet floating in dark blue water, calm but with a few gentle waves that bend the water and create pretty dark shadowy shapes. The murrelet is shown in profile, facing the left of the frame. It is a medium-sized bird, but small for a seabird, with a plump body, its form sort of blocky. This is emphasized by the way the bird's neck is tucked in, so that the head, tilted to look slightly skyward, seems to be attached directly to the squat back at a 45 degree (or so) angle. The bird has a black head, bright black eye, short, stout, pointed bill, white throat, and dark gray body, wings folded and pointing back and slightly upwards. The bird is called an "ancient" murrelet because the folded gray wings and gray back supposedly look like a shawl that an old person would wear.

Ancient Murrelet (Synthliboramphus antiquus), Chattanooga, Tennessee, November 2023. Chasing this mega got me outdoors during a spell of depression!

Back to the present day, to my conversation with my friend who so astutely pointed out that birding — especially looking for a specific bird — sounds stressful. After telling the story of the kingbird stakeout, I shared the theory I’ve been developing for awhile, and now I will share it with you — my theory of Four Stages of Being a Birder.

This theory is a work in progress. I think it applies, in some form, to most nature hobbies that involve keeping track of a life list and searching for new additions. I base this theory on my own experience and what I’ve observed in other naturalists, though I acknowledge it is not universal. For example, I started birding at thirty-five; the progression of my mindset probably differs from those who started birding as children.

The Four Stages are not linear. They do not represent a one-way progression; one might shift back and forth between Stages Two and Three. Even after reaching Stage Four, some days one might temporarily be back in Stage Three.

Everything is new. Everything is exciting. You are constantly learning and adding to your life list. Everything is fun!

A fledgling Northern mockingbird perched on the edge of a gray bird bath against a background of bright green, soft leaves. The mockingbird's body is turned towards the left of the frame, but his or her head is turned to almost directly face the camera, though only one side of the bird's face is visible. The bird has a gray body, head, and face, with a white belly, breast, and throat speckled with brownish-gray. A black stripe runs from base of bill through the large, bright black eye. The bird has black wings barred with white and a long tail. From this angle, the white underside of the tail is visible.

Remember the fledgling mockingbird from a couple of weeks ago? Here is that same bird, a little closer to grown up! Northern Mockingbird (Mimus polyglottus), my East Point backyard, May 2026. He/she is so cute I can’t stand it.

You’ve learned a lot. You’ve built up skill. You are finding new things and still adding to that life list. You definitely like birding; now you’re sure, you are committed to the hobby. Maybe you have started investing more in the hobby, in gear, travel, or simply time. At some point, however, you find yourself in Stage Three.

A female pileated woodpecker, shown in profile, in the midst of pecking at a tree that is covered in curly gray Spanish moss. More Spanish moss hangs like a curtain over nearly all of the photo; the bird is viewed through a gap in the Spanish moss that partially obscures her body. Most of her bright red, pointed crest and black-and-white-striped face are visible. Her eye is brown with a large black, round pupil, and her long, pointed bill is gray. Her body is coal black. Her head is slightly tilted back as though her focused eye is turned not just to the tree, but upwards.

Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) pausing to gaze at the tree in which she is boring a hole. Circle B Bar Reserve, Polk County, Florida, January 2026

You’ve learned a lot, you’ve built up skill, but you’re hitting a wall. Now there’s not much new to add to your life list, at least not without traveling far. Anything local you could still chase is more difficult to find; you haven’t built up enough skill for that yet. Failing is frustrating; you think, if you had just done something a bit differently, left earlier, learned more, had more time and tried more often, perhaps it would have turned out differently.

Also, you may be embarrassed at feeling so frustrated in the first place. After all, you weren’t supposed to be fixated on lists, species counts, treating wildlife as points on a scorecard. You may encounter what I think of as the “smug” or “judgey” variant of Stage 4, a Zen birder who not only has surpassed the desire for lifers but also criticizes those who have not yet reached that state. (I think of a conversation I had with someone who criticized those of us who chase rare birds as not paying enough attention to everyday birds, as though one cannot do both.)

Embarrassment at feeling frustrated leads to more frustration; the feelings feed off of one another in an irritating cycle.

Facing the camera, a blue-gray gnatcatcher on a fat branch. The gnatcatcher is a small blue-gray bird, though in this photo, the bird's white underside is on display and only the blue-gray of crown and face are visible. The bird's eyes are ringed with white and stare at the camera; the bird's head is tilted to the left. The head tilt plus fixed gaze resemble a cross, judgmental stare. Curly gray Spanish moss hangs from part of the branch and forms the entire background, a soft focus gray with bits of sparkly sunlight peeping through.

Blue-gray gnatcatcher (Polioptila caerulea) at Circle B Bar Reserve, looking judgey and maybe a little frustrated.

At some point, the frustration fades. You no longer feel the rush to find everything right now. Whatever season has just ended will come again next year. You can just relax and enjoy whatever birds are in front of you. You have reached Stage Four.

Everything is fun again. You have built enough skill that the familiar is new; you notice new details and behavior. The pressure of the list has subsided. You can appreciate Carolina wrens and chipping sparrows. You might still chase a rarity, you might still have a nemesis bird (mine is fox sparrow), you might slip back into frustration from time to time, but for the most part, you can just chill.

Northern yellow warbler (Setophaga aestiva) in the wafer ash (Ptelea trifoliata) in my back garden, May 2026.

In 2023, I visited Wheeler National Wildlife Refuge in Decatur, Alabama, and, from eBird, discovered that an Atlanta friend was there at the same time! When we later met for dinner, I asked, “What lifers have you seen this weekend?”

He responded, “Oh, I don’t really see lifers anymore. I’ve already seen them.”

I was floored. Was it disappointing to have nothing to search for? NO. This was something to strive for, to have real life experience, to have observed in the field just about everything one would expect to find in my region, to no longer feel the pressure of a chase or the pressure of the season slipping away — fall migration, winter duck and sparrow season, spring migration, and summertime…well, I don’t know what to call summer birding season. (According to an email sent to the Georgia Birders Online (GABO) listserv four years ago, for us, summer is the season “to endure.” I often think of the email’s dramatic yet appropriate closing line — “The time to endure is upon us.”)

Here is why I judge the judgey Zen birder; I think we have to go through the preceding three phases in some form to reach that Zen, even that unpleasant Frustration Phase. The point of looking for lifers is not merely to check things off a list; it’s that observation in the wild teaches lessons that books, recordings, photos, and videos do not. While it may seem or at times even feel like adding points to a scorecard, the true point of the search is experiential learning. I’ve noticed that most “lifers,” whether they are birds, bugs, or something else, become less scarce shortly after I’ve first seen or heard them. For example, yellow warblers eluded me for a couple of years. Now I not only recognize them — by sight and sound — but this spring, I observed them in my own backyard!

An American redstart in a treebranch, facing to the right of the frame, against a soft focus background of bright green foliage. The warbler is a small, round songbird with a black head, back, and wings and white belly. The wings have a patch of white and fiery orange, and the bird's throat is also marked with patches of fiery orange and black.

American redstart (Setophaga ruticilla), Murphey Candler Park, May 2026

At some point in 2025, I found myself in Stage Four. At Kennesaw Mountain during spring migration, I realized I was paying just as much attention to year-round residents like brown-headed nuthatches as I did to migrants like rose-breasted grosbeaks.

I have an outline of my whole journey through the four stages and my birding origin story, as well as thoughts on chasing lifers and going through these four stages with non-bird wildlife. But having passed the 2,000 word mark with this post, I’ll save those stories for another week. I will stick with the question posed earlier: Is birding fun?

The author, a dark-haired white woman in her late thirties with a wide, square face, with a Florida scrub-jay perched on her pale gray, wide-brimmed hat. The photo is at a tilted angle because it is a selfie; part of the author's extended arm is visible towards the bottom of the frame. She is wearing a blue shirt and a blue rain jacket. Part of a black camera strap is visible over her shoulder, it reads "Canon" in white letters. Her expression is goofy, staring at the camera with a slight closed-mouth smile. The scrub-jay is a beautiful bird, large for a songbird, with bright, saturated sky blue and white plumage and a pointy dark gray bill. The bird's head and throat are that beautiful blue as is part of the bird's back. The bird is in three-quarter profile, somewhat facing the camera and somewhat facing the right of the frame, with head turned downwards as though looking down at the woman/hat.

Photographic evidence that birding is fun. Florida scrub-jay, Brevard County, December 2021, using my head as a perch. My closest encounter with a life bird.

Of course it is! Yes, it can be stressful, like any hobby, anything where we challenge ourselves and stretch our minds, acquiring both knowledge and skill. More than six years after I committed to learning my local birds, I can say with certainty that birding is absolutely fun.

An anhinga perched on a rock (or big piece of wood) in the midst of a calm lake reflecting mossy-green foliage and a bit of blue sky. The anhinga is a very large brown bird with a dagger-like bill, very long slender-neck, long tail, and large wings that are open, stretched wide. The anhinga's back is to the camera, with neck and head bent down over the back, curved so that the bird's head and long bill point to the right of the frame.

Anhinga (Anhinga anhinga), Circle B Bar Reserve, January 2026

I’d like to learn others’ perspectives. Has anyone tried birding and concluded that it is not fun? Are the “four stages” relatable? What’s your nemesis bird? What’s your spark bird? Do you chase rarities? What’s the last rarity you chased and what’s your latest life bird?

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Standing on a concrete ledge next to a lake, an anhinga shown in profile, facing the left of the frame, in the midst of swallowing a medium-sized fish. The anhinga's plumage is beaded with water. The bird's long neck and head are brown, and the rest of the bird's body and wings are a dark brown that appears black (probably from being wet). The bird's long, sharp, orange bill is open, stretched and pink at the base to fit around the silvery-greenish fish, whose head is obscured by the bird's mouth. The lake is soft focus green (from lily pads) and blue (reflecting the sky), with a soft focus American coot floating in the background, shown in profile and facing the right of the frame. The coot is dark gray with a black head and neck and short, stubby pale, nearly white bill.

I really like photographing anhingas. This anhinga, in the process of swallowing a fish, was photographed at Lake Mirror in Lakeland, Florida, on a shockingly cold February day. (An American coot floats on the lake in the background.)

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Georgia Botanical Society has a number of free field trips arising this summer season!

Dragonfly Week runs from July 4th through 12th. The British Dragonfly Society has recognized this week for years, and I think we should celebrate here in the U.S., too!

World Snake Day is July 16th. (I cannot find an official webpage for it.)

National Moth Week is July 18th-26th!

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This web page was created programmatically, to learn the article in its authentic location you’ll be able to go to the hyperlink bellow:
https://sarahekelsey.substack.com/p/is-birding-fun
and if you wish to take away this text from our web site please contact us

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