It's All for the Birds!

Taking the annual feathery count from Nome to South America

The sun had just risen over the northeastern tip of Long Island, and an icy wind was blowing in from Gardiners Bay. Except for screeching herring gulls and other hungry birds, the only sign of life on this blustery (20DEG F.) winter morning was a small column of people bundled against the cold and quietly stalking across a frozen marsh. "Hey, there's a blackback!" exclaimed their leader. "And look over there, some goldeneyes." Fighting through thick reeds and tall grass, the bird watchers soon spotted other feathered friends: half a dozen stout-bodied, short-necked diving ducks called white-winged scoters, another type of waterfowl known as an old-squaw, several large, double-crested cormorants, and finally an American kestrel. Exulted the leader: "You really get psyched by this."

So do thousands of other Americans.

The frostbitten early-morning exercise on Long Island was only a small part of an annual ritual that is, literally, for the birds. Every holiday season for the past 78 years, bird lovers have flocked to woods and parkland, marshes and meadow to participate in the National Audubon Society's Christmas Bird Count. The object: to identify and tally as many varieties and numbers of birds as possible on a given day. This year's count involved some 33,000 people, from Nome, Alaska, to as far south as Panama and Venezuela. When all their figures are added up, more than 1,300 species of birds will have been counted.

"It's as big an example of dedicated teamwork as you'll find," says National

Audubon Society President Elvis J. Stahr. With the figures the volunteers provide, ornithologists are able not only to check the health and vigor of different avian species but also to detect changes in their habitats, set up wildlife sanctuaries and even help airlines reroute their planes to avoid dangerous collisions with migrating birds. The bird count also acts as an environmental early-warning system. Recalling the canaries that miners took with them into coal mines to detect noxious fumes, Stahr explains that birds are usually quicker than man to react to changes about them. One example: the decline of many species--peregrine falcons, ospreys, brown pelicans--because of widespread use of insecticides.

For the moment, at least, such weighty things were not on the minds of the Long Island bird watchers. By mid-morning the group had spotted 36 different species, slightly shy of the figure at that hour during the previous year's count. "Not really too good," shrugged Leader Paul Stoutenburgh, 50, a tall, lean, high school teacher and part-time naturalist. "Perhaps we're just not as sharp-eyed as we should be today."

To the casual hiker or jogger, a deserted beach or marsh on a winter day can seem as desolate and lifeless as the Antarctic. Not to the experienced bird watcher, whose eyes catch the slightest flicker of activity. "Hey, there's a hawk, hovering over that tree!" shouted Stoutenburgh. "Must be a rough-legged," said another birder. "Wow, he's big." Passing some bushes, Stoutenburgh sighted a mockingbird. "Look, he's all fluffed out like a down jacket to keep warm." he explained. "He's new to this area, moved up from the South because he's finding berries he likes." "Hey, gang, we're missing a red-breasted merganser. They should be around here. Anyone seen one?" No one had, but the disappointment was soon relieved by the sighting of a relatively rare Cooper's hawk, sitting proudly atop a telephone pole.

Now the birders were quickly adding one species after another: white-throated sparrows, pheasants, gadwalls and, finally, mergansers. There was also a downy woodpecker, merrily hammering away at a tree in search of insects. Spotting several small birds on a pine, a watcher exclaimed: "Look at those house finches!" He was instantly corrected: "House finches don't eat pine cones." In fact, they were pine siskins, a Northern bird that the delighted Stoutenburgh had not seen on Long Island for years.

By now it was 3:45 p.m., and the sinking sun was making identification increasingly difficult. Most of the bird watchers were chilled and tired, eager to head for the hot cider and chowder awaiting them at Stoutenburgh's house. But the leader persisted. "Still haven't spotted a snipe," he said. "Couldn't possibly return home without one." So off he went, scampering across several more marshes, looking everywhere, including culverts, for water that had not yet frozen. "Snipes like flowing water," he explained. "It lets them pick up an insect or two or a grub." Finally, after a numbing hour, he found his quarry--a common snipe fluttering off into the sunset. Said the elated Stoutenburgh: "I knew that there had to be one around here. O.K., now we can go home."

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