When I read the preface to The Big Year, I paused for a moment—like me, the author was introduced to this field through interviews with fellow birders. The difference is that he had the scope of an entire book and the support of a publishing system, allowing him to immerse himself in it for a whole year. I can only envy him, but beyond that envy lies a strange sense of familiarity: the sheer madness people in the book display for birdwatching is no different from every “birding buddy” I’ve ever known.
In 1998, the strongest El Niño in a century swept vast numbers of vagrant birds into North America, sparking a rare boom in the birding community. With a journalist’s keen insight, Obmascik delves into the lives of three seasoned birders from vastly different backgrounds: Komito’s competitive spirit stems from a determination born of humble origins; Levantin’s perfectionism is wrapped in a reverence for the natural order; and Miller’s “madness” is an escape from and a reconstruction of a mechanical existence. In that “clumsy” era without smartphones, digital maps, or AI image recognition, the three men used the most primitive methods—driving, boating, and hiking—sleeping on the mattresses of the worst motels, and chronicled their devotion to their passion through a 275,000-mile journey.
People and birds meet by chance, and birds are seen because of people. But in this book, the birds fly ahead while the men chase after them—seemingly unable to escape, all for the sake of that “new addition.” Because of the desire to win, the pure joy of birdwatching has turned into a competition for honor. Though this too is a form of purity, can one truly experience the joy of that initial moment of falling in love?
Obmascik didn’t give me the answer. Or perhaps he never intended to.
Paradoxically, while I question how competition erodes joy, I found deep resonance within the book. Seeing them drive a thousand miles overnight for a single bird species, I smiled knowingly—the “birding buddies” I know are exactly like that. Watching them toss and turn in their hotel beds, calculating tomorrow’s route, I no longer felt alone. This book made me realize: madness isn’t a sickness; it’s a choice. A choice to pour everything into something, even if outsiders find it incomprehensible. As for whether that joy still exists? My answer is: it’s changed, but it hasn’t vanished. It has transformed from the initial flutter of excitement at first sight into a look back after a long journey—different, yet just as real.
Having said that, do you think A Big Year is just a story about birds? Not at all. In this story, birds are merely an excuse, a motivation. What these three men are truly chasing is the missing piece of the puzzle in their own lives.
We may not bird-watch, but we might be obsessed with marathons, stamp collecting, fishing, or a particular video game. To outsiders, these pursuits might seem crazy, wasteful, or irrational. Why spend tens of thousands on a set of fishing gear? Why take a month off work to cycle the Sichuan-Tibet Highway?
The answer is simple: because that one thing finally brings some excitement to an otherwise mundane life.
If you feel your life is dull and uninteresting, why not try looking up at the sky? It doesn’t have to be birdwatching, but you definitely need that kind of all-consuming passion for something.
Let yourself go for a while—it might just be the most exciting year of your life, your very own “birding bonanza.”
After reading this, you can do one small thing: the next time you pass by a park, don’t rush to pull out your phone; look up for thirty seconds first. And if by chance you encounter your very first “damn pigeon,” don’t be discouraged—every birder starts with pigeons.
