I do not regret to inform you, that I did not accomplish my goal.

Written on July 28, 2024

The year started with the following dream: to see 300 species of birds in 2024. Early on, I wouldn’t have known if this goal would be realized, but I began by giving it all I had. Now I can say with certainty that my largest ever North American year total will not be something that I will be celebrating when the pots and pans are clanging, and the fireworks are cracking during the early morning hours of January 1st, 2025.

The Western Kingbirds recently left my yard after another successful breeding season. Their raucous calls sound like an old cassette tape being violently chewed up by a fast forward button gone haywire. I can tell they’re gone, because this screeching no longer penetrates my bedroom walls at 4 AM. In a little over a month, the neotropic migrants will be headed south. I have seen 244 species of birds in the first seven months of 2024, already good for my 3rd best year since I began keeping track in 2006. Even if I add a few extra species during fall migration, I won’t make it anywhere near 300, but 250 might be doable.

Like any good goal, I came up with a secondary justification after the fact. I didn’t just want to reach a number, I wanted to learn more about birds than I ever had. I needed to prove to myself that I could be more than just a good birder, that I could become a great one. That’s the part that I think I have accomplished, so I am telling myself that I didn’t fail at all.

I’ve seen two lifers (a birding term for a species one has never seen before) in 2024. On a dreary, soggy day in early January I followed a Gilded Flicker as it flew around the Salt Lake City cemetery. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t much more exciting than our ubiquitous Northern Flickers. The second came in late May, during a visit with Alex in western Montana. We had a singing Clay-colored Sparrow at the National Bison Range. This one made me so happy I cried. I have been looking for these drab, but beautifully patterned sparrows for years.

Clay Colored Sparrow, National Bison Range, May 31, 2024

I’ve also seen many species that I haven’t put binoculars on for over a decade: Eurasian Wigeon in Provo, Utah; Greater White-fronted Goose in Salt Lake and Wellington, Utah; Blue Jay in Whitefish, Montana; Marbled Godwits all over the place; Summer Tanager in St. George, Utah; Black-tailed Gnatcatcher on the Beaver Dam Slope in southwest Utah, where the Mojave Desert sneaks into the state; American Golden Plover along the Antelope Island Causeway; Calliope Hummingbird at Alex’s house in Paradise, Montana; and Bobolink at Lee Metcalf National Wildlife Refuge in Stevensville, Montana. I took some time with all of these birds, not knowing when I’d get the chance to see them again.

And now I’m exhausted. Over the past two months, I have felt very worn down, and there have been few times in my life where I have enjoyed birding less. It’s time to give up, and try to rekindle a passion for birds.

The heavy-handed desert heat and the fact that the birds are less vocal are giving me a wonderful excuse to slow down. I’m enjoying the daily hummingbird feeding frenzy in my backyard, playing more pickleball during the cool morning hours, and doing light local birding instead of driving all over the west to look for single species. I’m resting up, and taking a mental break, waiting for fall migration which will start in a little over a month, when perhaps I’ll make it to that nice and round 250.

A few months ago, I was camping with a friend who teaches biology at the local university extension, and our conversation came around to birding. On a drizzly morning in the Wasatch Mountains, we talked about a mutual acquaintance that has a bloated life list, and my friend told me some of the unethical ways that this person’s number was achieved. I thought about the millions of big year lists that are far greater than mine. I told my friend that a big number doesn’t equal a good birder. The reverse is true too: sometimes the best birders are those that deeply know the hundred or so species that are common in their immediate surroundings.

A few days after making the decision to ditch my dream, I hiked up Woodhill Terrace behind my house. A family of Rock Wrens followed each other around the sandstone slope of a canyon that angled down from the trail I was hiking on. One flew up to a long-dead juniper and posed for a picture, but I missed the focus on the bird. I watched the group for ten minutes. They were all bobbing up and down on rocks, looking like they were having a midday dance party, in place of probing for insects. Birds have fun too, and I joined them in their merriment, flexing at the knees, and bouncing up and down to the same tempo.

This would have been such a neat photo had I got the focus on the bird. Rock Wren, Woodhill Terrace, July 30, 2024.

On the hike back to my car, I watched House Finches pick at the ground of the dwarf forest. I’m not used to seeing this species so far from human habitation. The backyard finches are very reliant on the cup of sunflower seeds I put out every morning, so I have a hard time remembering that they’re wild birds too.

These are both species that I’ve already seen hundreds of times this year. I knew my hike wouldn’t bring me anything new, and that was the point. I was out there to reconnect with the birds that I share a home with.

I’m ending my biggest year early, and I’ll never do another. This one was both a success, and a failure. I learned so much, and I am getting back to the idea that if I want to be the best birder I can be, I don’t have to waste a bunch of gas and money in the process. I’m calling it five months early: I did not make 300 in 2024. I might get to 250, but I’d much rather slow down, learn as much as I can, and enjoy birding versus worrying about a number.