The Big Year: A Tale of Man, Nature, and Fowl Obsession

by Mark Obmascik

  At the start of the year, Levantin had thought he was running against Komito’s 1987 record. Now he was running against the Master himself.

  On his last day at Attu, Komito ventured outside. There were no rarities, but the winds were calm and the sun was shining. Terrible Mountain gleamed. Komito worried that the warm weather would bring fog and cancel the next day’s flight. He had gone five full days on Attu without a single new bird for the year. He was ready to leave.

  On his walk back to base, he looked up to check the wind direction. Something had changed. The wind sock was gone.

  In its place was Mr. Pants.

  When the plane came to end the birding trip of the century, Mr. Pants was left behind, purple and proud, sometimes flapping, sometimes stretching, but usually full of wind.

  TWELVE

  The B.O.D.

  Greg Miller jammed his hand deep down his right pocket, then his left. Nothing. His coat pockets came up empty, too. He rifled his wallet one more time, but the result was the same—humiliation.

  Miller was broke. Even in the dark of a June night in Minnesota, he could feel his birding guide, Dave Benson, eyeing him suspiciously. From 4:30 A.M. to 10:30 P.M. Benson had busted his tail to show Miller an amazing 111 species, one of the greatest birding days of both men’s lives. Miller had gotten so caught up in the thrill of it all—nine new species for his Big Year, nineteen wood-warblers in a day—that he had forgotten about the guide’s bill. Benson charged $15 an hour. Miller had enough cash to cover that, thank goodness, but he had promised to hire on Benson for another full day tomorrow. Miller had to break his promise. He didn’t even have money for a tip. He thought about writing Benson a check that was sure to bounce. No, he thought, that would be mean.

  He tried to look Benson in the eye. He was too embarrassed.

  “I’m really sorry Dave,” Miller said, shuffling his shoes, “but I don’t have the money to pay you for another day out. I feel really bad about it. I know it’s high season for you. I feel terrible about canceling. But Attu left me all tapped out.”

  Benson was mad. Miller was ashamed. But neither man could do anything about it. Benson headed home. Miller headed for—well, he had nothing to head for. He really had told the truth. He was down to his last $50. He had maxed out four credit cards with $10,000 limits, and he wasn’t sure how much wiggle room remained on the fifth. Maybe $550.

  Miller decided to take a chance on a motel. While the front desk clerk processed his MasterCard, Miller tried to look calm, but he was betrayed by sweat beads on his forehead. He fidgeted. Why was it taking so long to clear his credit card? It was 11 P.M.—midnight in the headquarters of his credit card—and Miller was too exhausted to be humiliated again. Were bank card auditors raising holy hell? Or were the rural phone lines just that slow? Finally the motel clerk looked up. The MBNA gods had smiled upon Greg Miller. He pocketed the room key and didn’t look back.

  His stomach rose before the sun. His first instinct was to grab breakfast, but then he remembered: His wallet had only $50. His credit was murky. His flight home wasn’t for another four days.

  How could he do this to himself? Sure, Alaska and Minnesota had been fun, but all that fun had left him flat broke. He was forty and in the prime of his career. He wasn’t supposed to feel like Evel Knievel every time a bill came due. He felt sad. He felt sorry. He felt stupid. Luckily, though, all this self-pity was quickly overcome by a more immediate urge. He felt hungry.

  With no money for a real breakfast, he drove to the closest convenience store. He eyed the doughnuts—too splurgy; the bread—too boring; and the cookies—too sugary; then he finally settled on something that, in his mind, was both tasty and nutritious. He forked over his $5 and plopped himself back in the car. His breakfast of champions: Jif peanut butter and a bag of pretzels. He was surprised at how good it tasted, which was fortunate. Jif and Mr. Salty would be his companions for lunch and dinner, too.

  Now he could concentrate. He had 595 birds for the year, an amazing start by anyone’s standards, and he wasn’t going to let an empty checking account stop him five species short of a major milestone. Maybe he could turn his four days into an opportunity instead of a problem. He really wanted to get five more birds. The question was, where?

  He pulled out his trusty Rand McNally. He already had all the birds worth finding in Minnesota. His May days at High Island had taken care of most Eastern migrants; no need to chase them down now. The West, however, was an entirely different issue. The Rocky Mountains were home to the tough guys of the bird world, the species that lived over a mile high and laughed, or at least cackled, in the face of blizzards. They weren’t fair-weather friends who fled on migration for friendlier climes. They were stickers. They wouldn’t come to Miller. He would have to go to them.

  Miller figured he had two mountain destinations that would meet his four-day out-and-back travel requirements. Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado had lots of mountain birds, plus the continent’s longest, and most spectacular, above-timberline road. Montana had Yellowstone, the same birds, and no highway speed limits.

  For a boy who had grown up in the Amish land of horse-and-buggy, this choice was no contest. The speedometer on his Taurus promised 120 mph. He’d see about that.

  First, however, he had some business in the flatlands.

  The Baird’s sparrow is an unremarkable bird. As tall as a can of Coke but with none of the fizz, it has a pale yellow face with a weak mustache and back streaked in three or four dull shades of brown. It often is confused with the much more common grasshopper sparrow, partly because the two species look a lot alike, but also because they both live secretively in deep, thick grass. The Baird’s is one of those species that impatient birders dismiss as an LBJ—a Little Brown Jobbie too plain and confusing to merit the workup of a full field identification.

  Baird’s sparrow is also in deep trouble. It breeds only in the Northern Great Plains, preferably in native-grass prairies that have been grazed regularly by wandering herds of ungulates. For century after century in this part of the world, that meant buffalo. But now the buffalo were gone, replaced by wheat farmers who plowed the prairie fencerow-to-fencerow, and cattle, which had the appetite of the buffalo but didn’t wander. The Baird’s sparrow didn’t like farm or cow. It was so sensitive to change that only five birds of a hundred ever returned to the same nesting area; the rest died or found another place with just the right grass and weather. Nesters usually ended up somewhere along the hundredth meridian, the climatic dividing line where the humidity of the East gave way to the aridity of the West. The bird’s population, like its home, teetered on the edge. Since 1966, the number of the birds had dropped, on average, 1.6 percent a year. Biologists have considered protecting it as a federal endangered species, but heartland farmers, already reeling from plunging crop prices, have kicked up a political protest. So the Baird’s sparrow continues its long, slow spiral down the drain of man-made extirpation.

  Among birders, the Baird’s separates the men from the boys. It winters in Mexico but migrates well west of the High Island hub. The best way to get the Baird’s is to see it on its nesting turf, which is a long way from the nearest airport. As Miller drove five hundred miles across the headwaters of the Mississippi River, past the Land of 10,000 Lakes, through the green fields of the Dakotas, he realized that the only way to get this bird was to really want it.

  He found two singing on a barbed-wire fence at the top of a hill near Crystal Springs. He watched them, and especially, he listened to them. They sounded like song sparrows without a rasp, a Lauren Bacall who had never taken up cigarettes. The most remarkable thing about Baird’s sparrows was the effort required to see them.

  Still, it was bird No. 596. That was something worth celebrating. He threw Mr. Salty into the backseat and splurged on a drivethrough dinner at McDonald’s. Three hamburgers and a water set him back another $2.07. His credit card made it through another motel.

  The kid behind the counter
at the gas station in Livingston, Montana, was giving Miller the once-over twice. This must be a mistake, Miller told him. Try the MasterCard again. The kid did, but Miller’s plastic had gone spastic. There was no way out. He had to pay cash.

  Now Miller was down to $25, a half jar of Jif, and a quarter bag of Mr. Salty. He was 950 miles from Minneapolis. His Taurus had cracked 100 mph on Interstate 94, but he couldn’t shake a nasty, lasting souvenir from Attu—a hacking cough. His lungs were full of lime Jell-O. His throat and his nose were erupting so often that he feared being mistaken for a two-legged Old Faithful.

  If only he could see the famed geyser.

  He had joined the line of bumper-to-bumper traffic outside Yellowstone’s Gardiner entrance when it struck him: How was he going to get in here? He had never counted on a park admissions fee. Of course, he had never counted on a malfunctioning credit card, either.

  Twenty dollars, the park ranger said.

  Miller’s MasterCard didn’t work again. He asked the ranger to try one more time. Through his rearview mirror, he saw heads poke out of windows in the cars idling behind him. Why the delay? His credit card was rejected again. Somebody in line honked. Miller fished out his wallet and paid cash. He was down to his last $5.

  He pulled into the visitors’ center and called MBNA—luckily, it had an 800 number—to straighten out the mess with his MasterCard.

  Your problem, the MBNA woman told Miller, is that you’re not making any payments. You missed two bills.

  I’m really, really sorry, Miller said, but I’ve been away from home on a five-week vacation—I’ve been in Alaska and Minnesota and North Dakota—and I haven’t been able to pay any bills.

  You’re on vacation in North Dakota?

  Yes, Miller told her. I’m a birdwatcher.

  MBNA silence.

  I promise, I’ll pay the $150 minimum as soon as I get home. Promise.

  Silence again.

  Finally MBNA spoke. Can you make the payment within a week?

  Yes! Miller shouted, in a voice loud enough to set off another round of wet coughs.

  He got his credit card back. His request for a beefed-up credit line, however, was met with more silence.

  He had $400 left on his $10,000 MasterCard, and a big rental car bill was due when he returned to Minneapolis. He could stop and figure out how he was going to pay for all this, or he could go birding. Not much choice there.

  Miller got No. 600, a black rosy-finch, darting from scree to snow on Beartooth Pass. The highway sign said he was 10,947 feet above sea level.

  He felt even higher.

  Miller was so worried about his rental car bill that he drove seven hundred miles the next day, and three hundred miles the morning after that, just to turn in the Taurus a day early. This time, his credit card worked. He made two vows: Never again would he travel under such ridiculous money restrictions. And never again would he eat peanut butter and pretzels for six consecutive meals.

  Those promises would have to be kept later. For now, he was stuck at the Minneapolis airport. His flight left tomorrow. No problem, Miller figured, he just picked up a courtesy phone and asked the Holiday Inn to pick him up in a courtesy van. But the Holiday Inn was full. So were the Best Western, Comfort Inn, and Radisson. He gulped and tried the Hyatt—that had to cost more than $100; how much more could his MasterCard take?—but that was booked solid, too. It was no use. Minneapolis was hosting some kind of health-care convention, and there wasn’t an empty hotel room for fifty miles.

  Miller slumped onto his luggage. He felt like crying.

  Just as he dug back into the remains of his Jif and Mr. Salty, he was approached by a middle-aged man and woman. Call St. Paul, they told Miller. We’ve got to send someone off now, but we’ll check on you later.

  Miller called up and down the other Twin City, but found no room at anyone’s inn. It was 4 P.M. He moved his duffel to the corner of the terminal and prepared to spend the night.

  Then the couple returned.

  This probably sounds a little odd to you, they told Miller, but we’d be happy to put you up tonight.

  What? Miller was too tired for cruel jokes.

  No, really, the man said. Minneapolis is a great city and we’d hate for you to think of it as the place where you couldn’t get a room. Won’t you stay with us tonight?

  Miller snapped himself upright before the strangers had time to reconsider.

  He treated them to dinner at Ruby Tuesday’s—thank you, MasterCard—and slept that night on their living room sofa. The next morning, after buying him breakfast at the International House of Pancakes, they drove him back to the airport.

  The woman’s name was Laurie. The man’s name, Miller never quite got. He was too embarrassed to ask.

  Back at the nuclear power plant, the Jolt Guy had acquired a new nickname. He had become the Bird Guy.

  Miller was the office novelty. There just weren’t many people at Calvert Cliffs who ever took a five-week vacation, much less a five-week vacation to watch birds. He wasn’t exactly hiding his obsession. On the side of his cubicle he put up one large sheet of paper with the number 611, which was his Big Year total by the time he finally returned from Minnesota via Attu.

  A friend and fellow birder, Kyle Rambo, knew just how impressive that number was. But he was shocked when Miller announced he was done for the year. He was broke and buried with work and so run-down he couldn’t shake his nasty cough from Alaska. Miller needed a break.

  Rambo wasn’t buying it.

  Let me get this straight, Rambo said. You’ve got 611 species of birds and it’s only June and you’re not even going to try for 700?

  Miller hacked again.

  Rambo demanded: When are you ever going to get to 611 again? You’re almost at 700 and you’ve got half a year left and you’re going to quit? How can you just quit?

  Miller shrugged. He had no scheduled time off. He didn’t think he could get any more, either.

  “You’ll never know unless you ask,” Rambo told him.

  Rambo had a point there.

  Miller walked into his boss’s office the next day with two papers.

  The first was the sheet with the number 611. The second was longer. It said:

  ALL-TIME HIGHEST COUNT OF BIRDS:

  721 Sandy Komito (1987)

  714 William Rydell (1992)

  712 B. Shiftlett (1993)

  711 Benton Basham (1983)

  699 Jim Vardaman (1979)

  The bird thing, his boss couldn’t understand. The prospect of a record, however, got him interested. To be only 110 short of the North American record, with half the year to go—that was something a boss could understand. He asked Miller to tell him a few birding stories. He liked the ones about Alaska.

  Miller still had 250,000 lines of software code to debug for Y2K. But his boss agreed to judge him on output, not desk time. He could work four ten-hour shifts a week and get some extra time off down the line, as long as he got all his code done.

  Now Miller had the time. He still needed the money.

  He applied for and somehow received another MasterCard, this one with a $6,000 credit limit. How to pay for that—well, that was another problem. He logged eighty-six hours in his first two weeks back at work, which was enough to cover the rent and the minimum monthly payments on his five other credit cards. He was still short on cash. He didn’t want to do it, but he had no other option.

  Miller picked up the phone and called the Bank of Dad.

  He felt squeamish asking his father for money. He was a grown man now, an alleged adult, with a good job and a car and a whole life outside of Holmes County, Ohio. But after his embarrassments with the birding guide in Duluth, the gas station kid in Livingston, and the park ranger at Yellowstone, Miller knew he needed the cash. It was worse groveling to strangers than parents.

  When the phone was finally answered at his parent’s home, Miller remembered one other complication: at the Bank of Dad, the chief loan officer was hi
s mother.

  “Hello, Mom,” Miller started. He told her he had a problem and he needed help.

  Miller’s father picked up the other line. The son started his pitch. He was only halfway through the year but already had 611 birds and had a real shot at the all-time record—if only he had some money.

  “How much?” his mother asked.

  Five thousand dollars.

  “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” his mother asked.

  “It’s absolutely what I want to do. I’m positive. I don’t know when I’ll ever have the opportunity again.”

  “It’s an awful lot of money,” she said.

  Miller could feel his Big Year slipping away. His father interjected, “What’s the money for? Where do you want to go?” As Miller told his father about the trogons in Arizona, the murrelets off California, and that weird hummingbird, a Xantus’s, still dive-bombing feeders in British Columbia, his mother hung up her phone. Bird talk—she didn’t get it.

  When the father came back to the kitchen, the mother was waiting.

  She just didn’t understand this birding competition. Birding was supposed to be for fun, not for winning. It was you against the birds, not you against some stranger from another state. And what was with all these bills? How did birding ever get so expensive? It wasn’t practical. What about Greg’s job? This couldn’t be good for his career. Greg was overspending his boundaries. Was he addicted to credit cards? He had gone way overboard on this one. He had to learn to control himself. He had to be reined in.