Alive, and Glad to Be Birding

An American Robin in the Price City Cemetery on 12/29/2024

As I pulled into the Price City Cemetery, I could hear a clamor through my closed car windows. A flock of at least 200 American Robins flew north, but many birds stayed behind. I could tell, because a cacophony of chirrups and whinnies still resonated within the otherwise-peaceful boundaries of the town graveyard. I parked, and got out of my car. I started an eBird checklist, and marked down 500 robins, a guess based on the size of the flock that flew over, added to an estimation of the number of calls I heard all around me. My initial tally was very low.

I wasn’t there to look for American Robins. They are a year-round, common bird that I had already seen in my yard earlier in the morning. I was seeking more unique species that had come down from higher elevations to winter in the valley: Mountain Chickadees, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Townsend’s Solitaires, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Red Crossbills, and Brown Creepers. I wanted to pish the pines, and look for something more exciting than a robin.

Cemeteries are wonderful places to visit in the winter, especially after a big snowstorm like the one we had a few days before my outing. The harsh mountain weather pushes birds down into the valley, and mature pines mimic their habitat higher up. Some of the best birding I’ve done has been among the dead. It’s a hotspot type where I’ve seen many rare birds (ex: Gilded Flicker and White-winged Crossbill). If it’s a winter day, and I don’t know where to go, I’ll often head over to the Price City Cemetery, which is two blocks south of my house. While most people visit to look down at the ground, I’m there to look up into the dense trees.

I began my walk. A jagged layer of re-frozen slush crackled under my feet. I looked down, and stepped around the remnants of the snow storm that hadn’t melted off the road. I wanted to avoid announcing my approach which would scare off birds. I looked towards an ornamental crabapple tree, and saw a large number of American Robins plucking the rotten berries from their stems and swallowing them whole. I then looked towards an apple tree that was still hung with mushy red-skinned fruit that had not fallen or been plucked by hungry fingers last fall, and I saw that this tree was full of robins as well. I picked up movement coming from a tall pine. When I looked through binoculars, I saw that on the tips of the branches were hundreds of American Robins that were eating snow that was caught up in the clusters of needles. In every single tree I looked at, there were a minimum of 20 to 30 robins. There are hundreds of trees in the cemetery.

The robins were also on the ground, probing patches of grass that had been exposed by shafts of winter light, and drinking and bathing in the slushy pools that formed in the potholed pavement. They hardly moved as I approached them, and they seemed almost joyous.

A group of American Robins drinking, bathing, and just hanging out. Photo taken in the Price City Cemetery 12/29/2024

I walked up and down each row of graves. I looked at the headstones and began to count how many people had been around my age when they passed. I wished for a longer life than many of those that were underneath me. I thought of death, which began to lead to an overwhelming dread of the unknown. I knew that if I kept entertaining these thoughts, a panic attack would follow. This is a chain of events that often happens to me, it’s how my anxiety-riddled brain works. I attempted to change the subject, and focused on the sound of robins calling, and singing, which made me yearn for spring. The upcoming migration was a moment in time that I could conceptualize, and get excited for, a time when life flourishes. I was able to redirect my mind, and rid it of intrusive fears. After all, I was there to enjoy myself.

I began to wonder how many robins were in this small area, which spans only two city blocks, and I thought that a true count must be in the thousands. It is not often that I see so many individuals of a single species packed into such a small space. The only other birds there were a lone Townsend’s Solitaire at the tip-top of a pine, 20-25 European Starlings, and a few Cedar Waxwings that were also there to feast on rotten fruit.

I realized that I have never been so thrilled to be in the company of American Robins, and, to anthropomorphize a bit, they seemed just as ecstatic to be out there with me. The desire to search out uncommon birds, and my overpowering anxieties began to melt off as the sun meandered across the southern sky. The incredible number of robins re-opened my mind to the wonder that birds bring to my life, a fascination that I too often set aside in favor of a checklist. I let my binoculars hang unused around my neck as I listened, and knew that every glimpse of movement was a robin. I allowed myself to experience the whole, rather than zooming in on individuals. I was steeped in the sound and activity that was happening all around me.

One day, my birding will come to an end, and I will die too. I’ve never been one who wants to be buried, but maybe a small concrete bench in a cemetery would be nice. Loved ones who wanted to visit me could come and sit for a while, so long as they brought a pair of binoculars. Even after death, I hope to inspire people to notice birds. A cemetery is an accessible, and great place to do so. My dream is that during one of those future visits, someone will be similarly awestruck by huge numbers of American Robins. I want those that that outlive me to be able to experience the same joy that I did that Sunday afternoon. I hope that when I’m gone, birds will still be around in large numbers, and that they continue to bring others a sense of meaning that pushes back against fears of the unknown.