About The Author

There's a delightful web site devoted to podcasts about birds and birding.  Originating out of Georgia, Steve Moore's BIRDWATCH RADIO covers birding news and events from around the country.  Steve was nice enough to contact me regarding an interview, and the results can be found here:

An interview with Yours Truly

How I Got Into This Mess In The First Place

Several years ago, I directed a documentary, “A Thief Among the Angels: Barry Moser and The Making of The Pennyroyal Caxton Bible.” Didn’t do too badly; won some awards on the festival circuit, played on PBS, got picked up by a distributor. Due to my industry connections, I was able to get the equipment and editing for free. But equipment and editing, while being the bulk of a film’s cost, don’t represent ALL of a film’s cost, not by a long shot, and I wound up in debt.

It took a couple of years to get back in the black and, when I did, I celebrated Birder-Style: rent a car, throw 3 t-shirts, 30 cigars, and 60 CD’s in the trunk, and hit the open road. Bird my way south, hugging the coast, visit with family in North Carolina, bird my way home.

Ahhhhhhhhhh…

When you’re a filmmaker today, you spend much of your life in a darkened room in front of a bank of computer screens that resembles nothing so much as a tanning salon. And when you live in Manhattan, as I do, the claustrophobic feelings are compounded. The open road, after-breakfast cigars, Hank Williams and Grieg, birdwatching all day, hilarious local TV news in rural Motel 6’s at night…if you know of a better way to decompress, bottle it quick and call me.

And so I hit the road. All the while, I was giving myself a good talking-to: this “filmmaking thing," while mad fun, just wasn’t working. Too much effort, too much cost, too little reward. I "wasn’t a kid anymore." I needed to find "a new way to exercise my creativity," and to "get my messages across," that wouldn’t leave me "broke as an undergrad."

That’s when I saw it.

I was at Jake’s Landing, trolling for Black Rails at dusk (you know the spot: the second of the hidden eddies that ambles off towards the sunset as you break free of the trees). I’d just watched an Osprey land on its nesting platform after the final lap of the day when I saw, in the deepening indigo, a piece of paper stapled to a fence post.

It read, “18th Annual World Series of Birding.”

And I remember my exact thought at that exact moment: “Oh, crap.”

They say you can’t pick your relatives. You know what? You can’t pick your moments of inspiration either. “The World Series of Birding.” Being something of a solitary birder, I’d actually never heard of it. But it stomped into my life with my name writ large all over it’s beaming face.

I continued my way south; I suspected I was sunk.

In one of the deleted scenes from “Opposable Chums,” which can be found with the DVD extras, Pete Dunne, the founder of The World Series of Birding, describes calling Roger Tory Peterson when the idea of a competitive birdwatching event occurred to him. “You couldn’t possibly have a competitive birdwatching event without consulting…God, which is essentially what Roger Tory Peterson was in the birding world at the time.”

It was the same with me. I couldn’t possibly make a film about The World Series of Birding without consulting…God, which is essentially what Pete Dunne is in the birding world today. Besides, Pete founded The World Series of Birding

Down in North Carolina, my family disported themselves seaside and carefree. I made some notes and a phone call. I called Pete Dunne, best-selling author, birder extraordinaire, hero to many besides me. Yup: I just cold-called him.

To my amazement, God answered the phone. “Sure. Come on up. How’s Wednesday at 3?”

Ai yi yi…what had I done? I was supposed to NOT be making any more films.

Wednesday at 3 didn’t find me any less nervous. The pristine Witmer Stone “Bird Studies at Old Cape May” volumes on Pete’s shelf didn’t help much either (rare book collecting can be as debilitating an infection as birding and Lyme disease; if you’ve suffered from all three, as I have, sitting before a first edition Witmer Stone is like stumbling upon Stonehenge when you were just out for a quick, al fresco whizz).

We chatted. He was a bit wary. I was a tad terrified. But, in the end, he cheerfully gave me what I’ve come to call my “Papal dispensation.”

There was just one problem.

The 18th Annual World Series of Birding was only two weeks away, not nearly enough time to organize such a complex and far-reaching shoot. Not enough time, either, to convince several professional Manhattan camerapeople that riding around in a cramped van shooting for 24 hours straight "will be fun." Not really even enough time to contact competitive birding teams and convince them to cart along on their Most Important Day Of The Year some dead weight who’d do them no good.

But to wait an additional year would have spoiled whatever gossamer momentum I'd just mustered, and would’ve risked someone else swooping in to grab what I thought was The Most Perfect Film Idea In The History Of Mankind. MY idea.

What happened next was so arduous and intense that an insane 24-hour birding event came to feel like a vacation. Tune in next time, for, “Repeatedly Smacking Yourself In The Head With a Ball-Peen Hammer.”

The Siren's Song

Her name was Karen Beezer and, in the rarefied milieu of Kratzer Elementary School, circa 1965, she was a catch. More boisterous a brawler than the bulk of the boys, and louder than any two, she inspired a romantic longing amongst her playmates that literally defined the word “passion” in the Kindergarten wing that year.

But she was mine.

And so I was unprepared, one damp spring day, to learn that the girl I thought I knew so well had an unseen side (had we not swapped fistfuls of Halloween loot, a rite almost nuptial, not so very long ago?). It happened like this:

The topic under discussion that gray morning, moderated by a matron with the beneficent smile of a painted saint, was the impending spring. She had gestured out the window at some birds on the lawn, pronouncing them the indisputable vanguard of the coming thaw (or perhaps she used slightly different terminology addressing an audience still stumbling sibilantly over their own names). She then identified the birds, using the name they popularly went by in our Leave-It-To-Beaver neck of the woods, as “Robin Redbreast”. At the mention of the word “breast”, Karen Beezer, seated directly behind me, began giggling wickedly, trying to suppress what threatened to become an insane cackle.

Her best efforts came to naught.

She was some time in being quieted, and it began to dawn on me that maybe girls knew some things that boys didn’t, and that maybe there was more to this “love” thing than letting each other win the vigorous battle of Tag which was enacted daily during something dreadfully misnamed “recess”.

Certainly, this was the first bird species I was ever conscious of. Loyal blog readers (both of you) will thus be relieved to know that I’ll not be regressing into in utero musings for further avian jabber.

Certainly, too, most of us have come to realize that the Robin is pretty undeserving of its popular reputation as the harbinger of spring (different geographic locations will have different benchmarks; where I’m from, those cacophonous flocks of male Red-winged Blackbirds, to be followed two weeks later by their mail-order brides, are tough to argue with). Many parts of the north can witness Robins all winter long, wilding for berries

Somehow, though, and despite all evidence, I sometimes catch myself viewing a late-winter Robin as a self-possessed emissary of a Springtime just beyond the horizon, a token of a time when all is young again.

The Kids Are Alright

Y‘know: sometimes, humbling is good thing. Maybe ALL the time, humbling is a good thing.

Now. I’m a gifted amateur, at BEST, when it comes to birding. Not an expert by any means. But, sometimes, the non-birders in our lives confer upon us the mantle of Bird Expert. You know what I mean: “Hey, how could you tell that that was a FEMALE cardinal?” And they conclude that we’re just being modest when we say, “No, but you don’t understand. It’s just a plumage thing. It has nothing to do with some sort of Superman-like microscopic genital observation.” But we abide, longing to show them what a real bird expert can do.

Case in point: there I was making a documentary about something called The World Series of Birding. On this particular day, I was following one of the kid’s teams (back then there was only 2; now there’s over twenty).

I was shooting them on a scouting mission a week prior to the World Series. We were out on the beach portion of The Meadows run (if you’re an East Coast birder and you don’t know what The Meadows is, shame on you. Email me; I’ll give you the 411). The team and I all looked up at once, towards a raptor coming in off the sea.

Now. I live in Manhattan. I’m a pretty good birder but some things a fellow just doesn’t get to see very often. So my internal monologue was going like this: “Now, is that a Peregrine or a Merlin? Is it just a size thing, or do those outrageously pointy wings answer the question? Perry/Merlin? Perry/Merlin?”

Meanwhile, the “kid’s” team has concluded that:

1. It’s a Peregrine.
2. It’s eating another bird.
3. The other bird is a warbler.
4. The Peregrine has devoured the warbler’s head, but-
5. The warbler is/was a Yellow-rumped.

Boom. Two. And off down the beach they moved.

Now, I was SUPPOSED to be running ahead to catch footage of them coming towards the camera, but I was rooted to the spot with admiration. These “kids” had a level of scientific acumen that might confer upon them honorary doctorate degrees in some other discipline. And I wanted all of my New York City pals there so I could say, “You SEE? THIS is ornithological expertise!”

And these are school kids…

To all of us birders, these kids thrill. Us older folk, we came to the pursuit via contorted paths of derision and dismissal, which we happily ignored. The New Generation advances confidently into the light, 10x bins at the ready, expertise up the wazoo.

If you’re a naturalist, it’s nigh on impossible to find things to feel positive about these days. But this new generation?

They are our future, and they are, trust me, EXCELLENT!

In The Biginning, There Was "Write"

And so I was told to write a “blog.” I wasn’t convinced that anyone would be interested in my swashbuckling tales of birding-as-bloodsport, but “they” said that “blogs” were “a good thing.” So thus did I march off to the office this fine morning to record some of my thoughts about the making of my most recent film.


But something happened along the way.


As I approached my office, a nondescript hulk on an unremarkable block in midtown Manhattan, I heard a yapping that most of us birders would recognize instantly, but that would be off the radar of non-birders. I looked around and, yup, there it was.


I’d never seen a bird so young that wasn’t still nest-bound. Some of its feathers were still follicular, and it seemed that about 25% of the bird’s bulk was its marsupial-like feet. Most striking, though, was the yellow-rimmed beak that forms a can’t-miss target when a bleary-eyed parent arrives at the nest with food. I’d never seen one still so vivid outside of a nest.


This House sparrow was days out of the nest, if not hours. It’s parents were hovering but unconcerned, and its sibling was hopping around inside of a doorway making the same loud demands.


Knowing that animals that age often haven’t yet learned fear, I sat down, gently pet its head, and soon picked the chick up. There we sat, eye-to-eye, faces inches apart. It peeped once in a while, I peeped back. Mom and Dad betrayed little concern. Cocky, over-confident New York City parents.


Eventually, I placed Junior in the same doorway as its nest-mate, and both went about the business of demanding food at the top of their tiny lungs.


One of those one-on-one moments with nature that we sometimes seek, rarely get, and cherish when we do...


Perhaps it was due to the exhaustion engendered by spending seven years on a film but, busy as I am in launching “my baby” out into the world, it seemed a portentous occurrence. Birth. New life. Springtime. Regurgitated worms. It’s all good.


So there: I blogged. And now that my “chick” is out fending for itself, I promise to start writing about some of the amazing adventures that making this film took me on.


Uh, MOSTLY that’s what I’ll write about...