In other words, the appeal of birding for the average man might have less to do with pursuing a creature through foliage than with the fact that when one finally gets the creature in one's sights, it can, with satisfying certainty, be crossed off, or added to, a list. This is why men go birding for birds and not dogs—because birds don't interbreed. A Chihuahua may on occasion choose to mate with a Great Dane, given the necessary physical and psychological lubricants, but a hummingbird will never breed with a golden eagle. In fact, a golden eagle won't even breed with a bald eagle. Golden eagles, like most birds, will breed only with their own species, the result being a third, smaller golden eagle that can be diagnosed as such from a distance by checking off a short, satisfying list of physical identifiers. The warm tingle that subsequently sweeps through the birder's body has no relation to the bloodthirsty thrill of hunting; it's more like the comfort and satisfaction of filing.
Which men crave, I submit, far more that we like to admit. For all our well-documented sloppiness in the areas of personal hygiene and proper toilet-seat positioning, for all our vaunted bravery, we have a need to believe that the chaos of reality is undergirded by fixed and definite and intelligible systems of ordered knowledge, a need that borders on the pathetic and the creepy.
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About 200 species of birds can be found |
Perhaps that's why it's such a glorious feeling to be out spotting birds on the eve of the anniversary of the most chaotic, messed-up, and unfathomable morning in the history of this most excellent city. In two blissful hours of hushing and peering and pointing, and of Paul undoing his backpack to consult his Sibley Guide, then putting it back and redoing all the straps, we have carefully and irrevocably identified about nine times more species of birds than I frankly knew existed. Blue jays and mourning doves, cardinals and catbirds. Canada geese—as opposed to geese from Canada—the noble black-and-white warbler, the elusive scarlet tanager. . . .
One of our final sightings, as we amble toward Central Park West, is of a white windowless, unmarked plane, arcing downtown against the gilded blue sky. The pulse rate quickens ever so slightly from the plodding Zen-master groove it had achieved.
"Hmm," says Chris, working the focus knob on his binoculars. I say "hmm" as well and work the knob on mine.
And it is well that at this precise moment Paul Sweet, who has peripheral vision to rival that of a set of conjoined triplets, catches a glimpse of what he's fairly sure is a grackle, which enables Chris and me to retrain our equipment away from the world of the scary unknown and back on the world of the bird, where every last twitching, chirping individual is, unequivocally, what it appears to be: the comfortable inhabitant of an immutable category and, to men driven by an ancient desire to silence their anxiety and Stop Wondering, a source of bottomless strength and comfort, truly the wings above our wind.
Previous Blinded by Science columns:
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Troubled in Twin Town Who's Freaky Now? |
The Last Days of Gossip |
