Birding Your Way to Biotic Communion

header photo by Kathryn Peiman

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by Ariana Zimney

There is something so precious about Chickadees. Their petite size, scruffy feathers, troublemaker expression, and genuine curiosity is something to love. Such a small character in the biotic landscape, but as Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac essays reveal, where they are small, they make up for it with might and spunk.

Black-capped Chickadees, part of the Paridae family, are nearly weightless at only 0.3 - 0.5 ounces (9 -14 grams), with a wingspan of 6.3 - 8.3 inches (16 – 21 centimeters). Despite these measurements that seem to count them out of the race, they are resilient. How do we know this?  Just look out your window! Odds are high that if you have a feeder, or you go for a walk, Black-capped Chickadees will be all over – they are abundant and always on the go. From creating territory boundaries, claiming dead trees with suspected good grub, or trying to impress a future mate, Chickadees make themselves known with their signature chick-a-dee-dee-dee calls. But how do these little superstars confront the harsh realities that come with being a small bird in the big world?  

Leopold sought out the answer to this question, too. On his Sand County Farm, he and his family netted and banded Chickadees to better understand their population fluctuations. One year, 1937, seven unbanded chickadees were netted, Leopold commenting that they had “no visible evidence of genius.” After tussling with and banding the specimen that would come to be known as 65290, the bird was released to deduct what had exactly happened and inquire about its “new aluminum band anklet.” Leopold surmises the bird must not have learned much at all, as 65290 was caught three more times that same winter.  

The next winter their gang of seven dwindled to three; by the third winter, only two remained, one of which was beloved 65290. Leopold writes, “Signs of genius were still lacking, but of his extraordinary capacity for living, there was now historical proof.” Recording these population trends is key for delegating protections for many species, both healthy and dwindling, but is also a way for us to grow in community with the world around us. Maybe I’d be none the wiser if I didn’t know the Black-capped Chickadee populations in 1938, but thanks to Aldo’s writing I do, and I feel more connected to the landscape I get to steward. Understanding the different populations within the biotic community and keeping track of trends allow us, scientists, conservationists, ecologists, nature lovers, nemophilists (look it up!), and so many others to become more in-tune with the landscape.

And if studying population trends isn’t your thing, even casual observation can provide insight into the inner workings of the land-community. Indeed, much of 65290 and Part I of A Sand County Almanac are based on immersive attention to nature as Leopold wanders the landscape. While reflecting on what he sees, he also questions the why and how of its inner-workings and encourages us to do the same.

As an enthusiastic birder and lover of the avian community, I too have been pondering: where do birds go? The question was especially pressing when winter temperatures plummeted and ferocious winds whipped through. I had kept tabs on many species of songbirds and raptors around the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center during the summer, welcomed thousands of Greater Sandhill Cranes in November, and waved goodbye to flock after flock of birds migrating south for warmer weather. But come winter, I lost track of the year-round Wisconsin avian residents, as well as their habits and whereabouts, and spent more time inside, holing up against the winter in good old hibernation fashion. But I had a longing to find those bird species again. To hear their bright calls over the wind and rattle of bare branches.

To ease the loneliness a bit, I turned to books. Books about how water affects brain chemistry, about finding peace and purpose in the place I’m in, and about chickadees. (I think it goes without saying, but A Sand County Almanac was the book about chickadees.) One of my favorite essays, "65290," brought joy, wonder, and appreciation to the forefront of my mind. It tends to do that well.

Inspired by these readings, I became more intentional with how I spend my time – I started to go birding more. And I was rewarded in many ways. I walked trails slower, taking in the snappy air; I woke early to watch sunrises and listen to Sandhill Cranes flying overhead; I took intentional steps to slow down. I wrote down species I had seen, their abundance, and their energetic wit (who knew White-breasted Nuthatches are so demanding). I walked along familiar trails and held my binoculars as if they were a portal into another world (spoiler, they are!). I saw many species I realized I had missed just because I hadn't been looking for them – they hadn’t left at all; I had just forgotten to pay attention.

When we pay attention to the world around us, not only do we grow our land ethic and connection to the biotic community, but we come back into ourselves, too. We feel more alive. We breathe deeper. We enjoy more fully. At least I have, and I imagine many of you do too. Taking those intentional moments to notice what is happening around you, whether it's 65290’s great-great-great-grandchild chirping and flitting between the pine trees, or your own footprints squishing through the damp soil – it is so important, and so critical to becoming both a steward and caregiver of land. And now that it’s migration season, there’s so much to notice – get outside and meet the birds around you!