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Illustration by Nijah Smith
For as long as I can remember, my dad has been a birder. Binoculars are a regular fixture around his neck, and it is not uncommon for him to stop talking mid-sentence because he has heard a bird calling nearby and wants to go investigate. As a teenager, I used to roll my eyes every time he would steer the truck off the road, hop out and gaze up at a bird soaring overhead. I didn’t see the appeal. That is, until the COVID-19 pandemic hit and I decided to take a break from my downtown Toronto apartment and spend a few months at my parents’ house in rural Eastern Ontario.
Their sheltered backyard was my favourite place to be during those months. With my DSLR camera in hand, I began photographing the birds that came to the feeders. They were stunning and I found myself watching them for hours at a time, mesmerized by how present they were to the world around them. The only problem was, I didn’t know what most of them were. So each day when my dad came home from work, I showed him the photos I had taken and he told me about the birds in them. I looked forward to his informal lessons, but especially to the extra time to connect with him.
It was on a father-daughter backcountry canoe trip the year prior when I first asked my dad how he got into birding.
“Gramma Annie,” he said, referencing his mom. “I remember being on a walk with her and she had heard that a scarlet tanager had been spotted in the area. Have you ever seen one?”
I shook my head, nervous that my voice would disrupt this rare moment of vulnerability from him.
“They’re beautiful birds. Bright red with black wings. Anyway, she spent forever looking for that bird. I thought it was so stupid.”
I laughed, waiting for him to go on.
“After she died, I was working at Adam Lake and I heard a bird singing. I looked up and there was a scarlet tanager sitting in a nearby tree. And that was it.”
It being the moment he understood why his mom had searched for the scarlet tanager all those years ago. The moment he decided to start searching himself.
I never saw a scarlet tanager in my parents’ backyard that first COVID spring, but I saw many other birds. The backyard became my personal classroom; the birds my subjects, my dad my teacher. Later that year, I joined him on the volunteer Christmas bird counts in his area – a tradition we have shared since – and when I go home to visit these days, we go birding. For fun. An adventure last May took us to Murphy’s Point Provincial Park at sunrise. Walking ahead of me, my dad stopped and raised his binoculars. “That’s a scarlet tanager,” he said.
“Really?!” I whispered, tiptoeing up the path to where he stood so I could see for myself.
My dad pointed through the trees at a flash of red. I held up the binoculars he had given me as a gift, adjusting the dial in the centre until I focused on the bird.
“That’s a scarlet tanager?” I said. “Are you sure? It looks like a cardinal.”
“What? No.”
I shifted my body slightly so I had a better view of the bird. “Dad. That’s a cardinal.”
He put his binoculars back up to his eyes and was silent for a long moment, then: “Yep, it’s a cardinal.” He turned to look at me and we both burst into laughter. (In my dad’s defence, he is exceptionally skilled at identifying birds.)
Later on the walk, my dad thought he spotted another scarlet tanager.
“Are you sure it’s not a cardinal?” I teased.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He pointed through the trees so I knew where to aim my binoculars.
“Wow.” He was beautiful. A brilliant poppy red, it was as if his wings and tail had been dipped in jet black ink. His mate – olive yellow with grey wings and tail feathers – sat on the forest floor below him. I stared at them both for a long time before my dad gently nudged me along the path.
As we continued walking, I thought of my parents’ backyard, where my dad had given me my first lessons in bird identification. If someone had told me then that I would be an avid birder in my early 30s, I wouldn’t have believed them. But I can’t imagine my life without birds now. They have taught me how to be present. They have reminded me to look at the world with childlike wonder and curiosity. And they have given me and my dad something that is ours. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know that we will be birding together for as long as we can. There will always be more scarlet tanagers to search for.
Sophie Mercer lives in Toronto.
