Where Familiarity Comes From

I spent the second half of this year’s Christmas Bird Count in the field with Ken and Ed—two birders whose experience shows itself less in checklists and more in familiarity. With Ken especially, the day unfolded through places he knows well: edges, hedgerows, flooded fields, and quiet corners that have proven reliable over years of attention. We weren’t wandering so much as returning—moving through a landscape shaped by memory, repetition, and patience.

That kind of knowing revealed itself again and again. A local resident’s feeder and small pond produced a White-throated Sparrow and, briefly, a Merlin hovering overhead. Later, a farm with flooded fields yielded more than twenty Wilson’s Snipe, along with a steady presence of raptors—American Kestrels, a Northern Harrier, a Red-tailed Hawk, an eagle, and a second Merlin cutting low across the fields. None of it felt accidental. These were places revisited because they’ve mattered before.

What stays with me most from days like this isn’t the species list, but the way knowledge accumulates. Sometimes it’s knowing which field floods at the right time. Sometimes it’s knowing the exact bush worth checking, even when nothing seems likely. The conversations along the way—about birds, land use, and how the county has changed—quietly stitched together a deeper understanding of the place I call home.

Walking alongside people who have paid attention for decades makes the long view tangible. It’s hard not to imagine that, twenty years from now, I might carry that same kind of familiarity—knowing the routes, the seasons, the small dependable places, and perhaps even how to find the one White-throated Sparrow when it shows up again. That, to me, feels like the Path: learning a place slowly enough that it begins to recognize you back.

Ken trekking into flooded fields

White-throated Sparrow