"Expert birders learn to look at birds differently—they look longer and more closely than most birders. They form an initial impression, but they then divorce themselves from it to look at it anew, always double-checking. Their mindset changes from being about making the call first, to being about getting it right in the end. Expert birders are often the ones that forgo an emotional response to a rarity in favor of a rational examination of the situation. Instead of saying ‘got it’, and quickly ticking off a rarity on their lists, they identify the bird for themselves, sometimes coming to a different (and often unpopular!) conclusion."
— Brian Sullivan
As I close out another year of nature blogging, I find myself reflecting on how much has changed. 2025 will mark two decades of this journey, and over the years, the blog has grown and evolved along with me. My interests have shifted, friendships have transformed, and even my approach to photography has seen its share of changes. As a birder, I see my journey divided into three distinct eras, each marking a significant transition in the way I approach birding and the kind of birder I've become today:
- Solitary birding at Pheasant Branch (ended around 1998).
- Wisconsin Birding Network (ended with Facebook, 2008).
- Eagle Optics (ended with its closing in 2017).
After an eight-year setback in the budding metropolis of Wausau, I moved back to the Madison area in 1985 but didn't discover Pheasant Branch until 1987. For nearly a decade, I explored the area mostly on my own, until I came across the Wisconsin Birding Network WISBIRDN. Submitting regular reports transformed my experience of spring and fall migrations along the creek corridor. While Pheasant Branch remains a favorite spot for many birders, I can't help but feel it's not what it once was—bird populations have declined, and I think birds there would thrived better if it was left more untamed and feral. Paving the trail came with benefits and detriments.
Without diving too deeply into a critique of modern birding and birders, WISBIRDN had its share of issues—chasing, stringing, arguments, and other behaviors that often brought out the worst in people. In hindsight, I somewhat regret stumbling across WISBIRDN, though it was likely inevitable. Moving to social media only amplified things I dislike about contemporary birding.
My time at Eagle Optics was a birding zenith of sorts. It rendered opportunities to travel to places like South Texas, Southeast Arizona, Florida, and many other states. I had gone to several birding festivals like the Rio Grande, Space Coast, and Midwest Birding Symposium. This era coincided with my digiscoping efforts, avian advocacy group memberships, various social media experiments (this blog, for one), field trips (leading and attending), optics snobbery, accolades, awards, etc. I even got to go birding with David Allen Sibley—what an honor that was!
Not much has changed since 2017. As you know, I've shifted my focus more toward tiger beetles and other insects, though I still enjoy birding—now primarily with a small group of kindred spirits. I haven't quite defined this fourth and current era, but its relaxed pace and comforts feel reminiscent of the first. Blending fieldwork, professional pursuits, and regular reading, this blog's name, Máistir Nádúraí, feels more fitting than ever. In can be translated from Irish to Master of Nature or Master Naturalist.
In a digression, I've long felt that today's Master Naturalist programs are a clever con dressed in the guise of environmental education. With fees that border on the absurd, they promise mastery but deliver little more than a few superficial tidbits on flora and fauna, hardly enough to warrant the title. The program's real genius lies not in imparting profound knowledge, but in leveraging your labor as a volunteer to prop up its underwhelming curriculum. For a price, you get an entry-level understanding of Nature, but no genuine expertise. It's a system that capitalizes on well-meaning individuals, turning them into unpaid drones, all while offering a certification that amounts to little more than a certificate of compliance.
Right? You can freely disagree, if you like.
So, here we are at the close of 2024. For my unofficial record, I didn’t pursue Cow Path or Long-lipped tiger beetles, so once again, my annual total is 14 out of Wisconsin's 16 species. As for birding, I started the year with a 2024 list but let it go at some point. I'd estimate around 220 species, mostly from Dane County, with a solid number from Sauk.
With apologies to Walt Whitman ...
When I heard the learn'd ornithologist,
When the field notes, the data, were lined in neat rows before me,
When I was shown the maps and graphs, to track, count, and analyze them,
When sitting I heard them as they lectured with great enthusiasm in the hall,
How soon, inexplicably, I became weary and restless,
Till rising and stepping out, I wandered off alone,
Into the quiet, shadowed air of the woods, and from time to time,
Heard the birds' calls and songs as day began to fade.
I think most birders evolve—what kind of birder are you?
What kind would you like to be?
On Christmas Day, Sue and I went to our favorite spot along the Wisconsin River. There were several Bald Eagles soaring above with Common Mergansers and Goldeneye on the water. A Belted Kingfisher called out as it jetted along the river and a few Dark-eyed Juncos patrolled the vegetation along the shore. A Sharp-shinned Hawk dashed through as well. My beloved tiger beetles were present, just underground as larvae or overwintering adults. It's interesting for me to visit cherished natural areas throughout the year to see how things phenologically transform.
Nifty ice forming along the shore ...
Heading toward Sauk City ...
There was daylight time remaining, perhaps a few hours, so we decided to hike
Grottos Trail at Devil's Lake State Park. Though late, I thought there would still be a chance to catch a whistle or two of a Townsend's Solitaire.
I kept my ears tuned-in while taking some scenic shots of the East Bluff ...
As the sun's final rays slipped through the branches of the trees, casting long shadows and painting the forest in golden hues, the air was still and serene. Though we had hoped to catch a glimpse of a solitaire, the beauty of the scene made up for the absence. The trees stood like silent sentinels while the fading light illuminated the landscape in a way that felt almost sacred. In that moment, Nature's quiet majesty was enough, and the hunt for the bird seemed trivial.
The lake was almost entirely frozen.
The middle area looks like open water, but it's actually ice ... thin ice! I did not venture too far from the shore to take these photographs. Even if I had broken through, I would have only been up to my ankles in icy water. A few others ventured out quite a bit further than I felt comfortable doing, though.
We returned to Devil's Lake yesterday and spotted two Townsend's Solitaires at Devil's Doorway. On our last visit, I lost a pocket knife and a cherished water bottle near Potholes Trail. I had a pretty good idea of where they were, so we made a direct route to the spot and recovered them. It was much easier this time since nearly all the snow had melted, but going up to the top of the bluff remains a tricky endeavor during winter—dry rocks are slippery, wet rocks are slippery, ice-covered rocks are slippery. Trekking poles and crampons are highly recommended.
All images © 2024 Mike McDowell
