Showing Up in the Rain
The day began the way many meaningful winter field days do—early, cold, and damp before the sun had fully decided to rise. By first light, the Port Orchard Christmas Bird Count team gathered with thermoses, notebooks, and layers pulled tight. Ken led the effort, joined by Laura, Hanna, Wes, Cat, Catherine, and me. The forecast matched what our boots already knew: steady rain, low temperatures, and a long stretch of hours outdoors. Comfort was never part of the plan. We were there because we had committed to be.
Christmas Bird Count days ask for something simple but not easy: presence from sun-up to sun-down. Once the day began moving, there was no real option but to move with it.
As the hours passed, the weather did what winter weather tends to do—it tested patience. Wet gloves stayed wet. Fingers stiffened around binoculars. Short breaks in the rain felt almost generous. And yet, those shared conditions did something important. Everyone was equally cold, equally soaked, equally focused. Discomfort became a kind of common ground.
The birds arrived in moments rather than in comfort. A Townsend’s Warbler lingered long enough to reward the effort. Black Turnstones held the shoreline. Fox Sparrows appeared in the same place they had the year before. A surprise Spotted Sandpiper broke expectations. Near the end of the day, a final stop delivered a Harlequin Duck, perfectly timed, as if acknowledging the long hours that led us there.
One of the most memorable stretches came when a local resident welcomed us into his backyard. An exceptional feeder setup offered shelter and a pause from the weather, replacing cold fingers with focused attention. Townsend’s Warbler, Scrub Jays, and Anna’s Hummingbirds moved through the space with ease, reminding us how generosity—of land, of access, of trust—quietly sustains work like this.
Throughout the day, Ken’s decades of experience anchored the group. His knowledge extended beyond identification, weaving in local history and context that deepened our understanding of the place itself. The count was never just about tallying species. It was about learning together, paying attention, and contributing to something larger than any single day.
By the time the light faded, we were tired in the way that only sustained effort produces—wet, cold, and satisfied. The final count mattered, but not as much as what it represented. We had shown up for the full arc of the day and stayed with it, even when conditions made it easier not to.
The Christmas Bird Count is often described as a tradition. It feels more accurate to think of it as a responsibility, carried quietly year after year by people willing to trade comfort for contribution. Walking back to the car at dusk, I was reminded that stewardship doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it looks like wet boots, stiff fingers, and a group of people who stay anyway.
