By Casey Hirsh
Casey Hirsh is a college student and amateur birder from California. As a child, his primary hyperfixation was dinosaurs, so it naturally follows that he would eventually develop a fondness for the only dinosaurs that still roam (and soar above) the Earth today: the avians. He has dreams of traveling the world and filling his life list to the brim, but for now, he is more than content watching the California Quail forage in his backyard.
I began my birding journey at the end of my college freshman year when I downloaded the Merlin Bird ID app on a whim. As I’m sure is the case for many new birders, for those first few months or so, I was entirely reliant on Merlin’s Sound ID for identifying lifers—at times more so out of a lack of confidence than an inability.
For instance, when I spotted a crow-like figure on top of a building making a strange gurgling noise unlike any crow I’d heard before, I was fairly certain that it was in fact not a crow, but one of my most anticipated lifers at the time—the Common Raven. But fairly certain wasn’t good enough for me. I needed absolute assurance.
This was not the first time I saw or heard what I thought was a raven. Living up to their name, they’re pretty common both where I live and where I go to school. However, none of my previous attempts to record them had been clear enough for Merlin to work its magic, so I was stuck with a glaring, raven-sized vacancy in my life list. I couldn’t fail this time. Not again. This time, I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of me (really, the app) making a definitive ID.
There was just one problem: I was in the middle of biking to class when this raven decided to announce its presence. How convenient. I had to make a tough decision. Ignoring the bird and continuing on my way to class was out of the equation—I was far too determined already. So, assessing my situation with the utmost care and foresight, I made the split-second decision to, rather than pull off to the side before firing up the app, reach one hand into my pocket and yank out my phone while simultaneously steering my moving bicycle with my other hand. I unlocked my phone and frantically tapped and dragged my thumb across the screen. By some miracle, I managed to open Merlin and start a recording. I don’t even want to think about what was going through the minds of the surrounding bikers and pedestrians watching me wobble on my bike like I had just taken off the training wheels while reaching my phone up to the sky. In the moment, though, social anxiety took a back seat to my birder’s high.
Unfortunately, I was too late. By the time I hit record, I was already past the building where the raven was perched. The clamor of the heavy bike traffic around me (which I was likely single-handedly backing up) was no help either, and so the raven’s croaks were drowned out, and I was left with yet another inconclusive (by Merlin standards) recording. I walked into class feeling equally defeated and mortified.
Though I was unlucky from a birding standpoint, I recognize in hindsight how lucky I was from a safety and well-being standpoint. My little “birding and biking” incident very easily could’ve spelled disaster for me and/or the bikers around me. In another universe, I am the inspiration for a “DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE”-style traffic sign with the silhouettes of a bicycle and a bird where there would normally be a car and a wine glass, both partially obscured behind an emphatic red circle with a diagonal line down the center. Or, maybe I just end up with a scraped knee or something.
I would like to say that this sobering realization about the dangers of biking under the influence of ornithology has stuck with me and that I have not attempted any such feats ever since, but that’s not the case. The second part is true—I indeed have not done any more birding and biking… but that’s only because I don’t bike to class anymore, I take the bus. And whenever there’s an opportunity to bird while on the bus, you better believe I’m partaking.
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