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My Life’s Birds: #352

November 18, 2009

February 11, 1995 – Stockton Lake, Mo – Non-birders already look at us far too often out of the side of their eyes.  We’re those crazy people who’ll go on and on about a recent trip to the landfill, those folks with whom it’s impossible to have a conversation outdoors because of our wandering eyes.  Not to mention our completely earnest obsession to see and list Bushtits, Tit-Babblers, and both Wood and Snowcocks.  As a group, we have enough eccentricities to match an entire hot-air balloon fleet of circumnavigating billionaires, this is clear and pretty much accepted among the birding community.  It’s not really something you can appreciate until you’re in it, which makes those odd intersections between birders and “regular people” all the stranger for those who might not be in on the joke.

That’s why I never got “Snipe Hunts”.  By the time the phrase had worked it’s way into regular High School lexicon as a fool’s errand, and one especially used to haze naive underclassmen, I had already seen Wilson’s Snipe, and it wasn’t really that big of a deal either.  I mean, one didn’t have to actively hunt them as much as pull up to a drainage ditch near a mudflat and scan for the big, odd-looking shorebird tucked into the weeds.  My drainage ditch was near Stockton Lake, and there were about a dozen of them.  Piece of cake really.  And to think this was supposed to be a difficult task.  Any birder would know it’s not.

I mean, it’s not like it’s a goose chase or anything.

photo from wikipedia

One Comment


  1. Snipe Hunt in the Bird Blogosphere

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