Maybe it was the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic, or maybe it was the inevitable result of reaching a certain age, but in 2021 I took up birding. I didn’t consider myself a birder, though. After all, birders are skinny old men with knobby knees peaking out over tube socks and plaid shirts tucked into cargo shorts with pockets full of books. They wear funny hats that somehow don’t fall off even though they’re perpetually looking up, and–well–you get the point. I definitely was not a birder.

But I sure did enjoy looking for birds. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to get a good look at an Orange-crowned Warbler or a Red-eyed Vireo (those are birds, by the way), but I can tell you it’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. Blindfolded. With your feet. That is to say, it’s really, really hard. Impossible, even. Or at least it seems that way when you’re new.

Somehow I got the idea that a camera would solve that problem. I just so happened to have a 15-year old camera lying around – a Nikon D50 on perma-lend from my brother – with a whopping 6.1 megapixels and a kit lens. (Hint: neither of these is good for photographing birds. Or anything really.)

It did the job, though, and soon I was hooked. Those ridiculously bad photos at least let me get a closer look at the little buggers – I mean birds – and I would spend hours comparing my mediocre shots to photos and drawings in field guides trying to ID them.

Today, I am proud to call myself a birder, but photography has founds its place in my life and in my heart as well.

BTW – the number of tube socks in my drawer remains at zero.