Sometimes you just know you are in a good spot. As I approached the line of flowering bushes and small trees in perfect morning light, I found that they were divided by a small stream that had formed a shallow pool. The shrubs on either side had leaned in toward each other, close enough that the vines had closed the gap. A low dome of greenery was formed over the water beneath, and I could see at least half a dozen small birds darting back and forth in and around this little cave of intertwining branches. They seemed to feel secure in this little sanctuary, and allowed me to approach quietly. One of the birds was the northern parula I wrote about recently. A bright yellow blue-winged warbler with his black superhero mask briefly popped up on top, where he was joined by several of the resident cardinals. As I peered into the interior of the dome, a small bird zipped from one side to the other and disappeared into the tangle. It was visible for only an instant as it streaked across the open space, paused for a split second on the other side, and then disappeared into the undergrowth. The light was dim and I could see no color, only a fast-moving silhouette. Yet in this half-second glimpse, I was almost surprised when my brain somehow registered “American redstart.”
Just a few seconds later the same bird got curious, emerged on top of the snarl, and paused long enough to check me out. I was grateful for the rare opportunity to capture an up-close image of one of these migrating fall warblers. They rarely stop long enough or perch low enough for a high-quality shot, but this one in this spot was an exception, and I was happy to confirm with forty-six megapixels of digital photo what I somehow already knew from a half-second glimpse in the dark. It was, in fact, an American redstart, and I had correctly distinguished it from at least a dozen other possibilities with seemingly very little information. This happens for me somewhat regularly now, more often as I become more experienced with bird identification. I somehow know what a bird is before I know that I know. How does that work?
This ability to make accurate judgements at a glance represents both progress and peril. Applied appropriately, it is a valuable skill. It indicates that I am coming to know the whole bird, not just a specific color pattern that can change throughout the year, and even from one individual to the next. It is what birders refer to as the “gestalt” of a bird. Gestalt roughly translates as “form” or “shape,” and is used to mean “an organized whole that is recognized as greater than the sum of its parts." It is also called the “GISS” of a bird (pronounced “jizz,” for General Impressions of Size and Shape). It is the bird’s vibe, its feel.
Many will have read Malcolm Gladwell’s best-seller, Blink, which is subtitled The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. Gladwell is a fantastic storyteller, and he leads with the tale of art historians who somehow know a statue is a forgery from a nagging intuition they can’t quite articulate, even when a barrage of sophisticated tests indicate that it is authentic (and worth millions). Gestalt and GISS are the “blinks" of bird identification, and knowing a bird by blink is important. But if relied upon too heavily and without scrutiny, it is a liability. After enough time in the field, my brain registered “American redstart” at a nearly subconscious level, but the subconscious is where biases live too, and since we can’t peer in there directly, it can be very hard to know blink from bias.
Separating the two requires us to understand something about ourselves and how different situations affect us. In the case of the redstart, I felt secure with my blink because with a redstart I know I am neutral. American redstarts are beautiful, to be sure. The male in spring breeding plumage is one of my favorites. I love finding them, but they are also quite common. I see American redstarts almost every time I go out during both spring and fall migration. The stakes are low with the abundant redstart. I don’t particularly want or need that warbler zipping past to be a redstart, and the stakes are low if I get it wrong. Likely no one will ever even know (including me). But if it was spring and I caught a glimpse of yellow and gray warbler-sized bird skulking in the undergrowth, I would have to be much more careful. That bird could be a very common Nashville warbler, or a much less common mourning warbler. I have never seen a mourning warbler. It would be a “lifer.” Birds are misidentified all the time. It’s not the end of the world. But in the case of a mourning warbler, the stakes are at least a little higher. I don’t want to add birds to my life list incorrectly, and reporting a mourning warbler would result in some number of birders rushing to that location to find it. I do not want to unnecessarily send others on that sort of wild goose chase (or wild mourning warbler chase, in this case). Thus in this context I need to challenge my blink. I am aware that I want that bird to be a mourning warbler, not just another Nashville, and if I am not careful I will subconsciously find evidence that it is while rejecting evidence that it isn’t, something we humans are exceptionally good at doing without knowing we are doing it.
Nashville (definitely not mourning) Warbler (Leiothlypis ruficapilla) | Cherokee Park | Louisville, Kentucky
600mm | 1/640th second | f/6.3 | ISO 900
But on the other hand, if my blink is “that just didn’t feel like a Nashville…,” it could be the motivation that prompts me to take a little more time and work a little harder to get a better look. And that better look could be how I avoid dismissing a mourning warbler lifer as just another Nashville. I have found more than one rarity this way. So should I honor the blink or dismiss it? As with so many things in this complex life, the answer is, it depends. There is no simple solution.
What, then, can we do to guard against harmful bias contaminating helpful blink? I cannot change the fact that I want to see a mourning warbler. In many cases, I cannot easily eliminate my bias. All I can do is be aware of the fact that I want it to be one thing and not another. All I can do is notice that I am not neutral, and realize that in those situations it is not enough to know without knowing. I have to know how I know. In the case of the redstart, my accurate blink was not magic. It was simply an aggregation of a lot of data taken in all at once, often at a subconscious level. When I rewind the tape and play it back in slow motion, what I actually observed was this:
A bird of typical warbler size and shape, on the slender side with a relatively long tail,
that was in the right place (zipping around in the mid-to low-level understory),
at the right time (roughly May or September in this area),
hyperactive, even for a warbler, never stopping for more than a split second,
habitually fanning its tail in a quick flicking action, like snapping a folding fan quickly open and closed (they do this to flush insects).
The first four clues are usually enough. But the fifth - that fan of the tail - is the giveaway: classic redstart behavior. In good light, this reveals the stripes of bright yellow or red-orange on their outer tail feathers for which they are named - “start” being an old word for tail. But good light is not necessary. Even in silhouette, spotting these clues is enough to correctly identify the bird ninety percent of the time. What I find fascinating is that I did not learn those characteristics in advance. That came later. I absorbed this gestalt of the American redstart over time, subconsciously. I was unconsciously competent at redstart identification before I became consciously competent.
Blinks are real. The gestalt of a thing is not imagined. I am learning to pay careful attention to that knowing without knowing. I find a lot of great birds that way. But now I am trying to get behind the scenes, deepen my understanding, and take time to know how I know, and how I might not know too. Especially when the stakes are high.
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Greg
American Redstart (male in breeding plumage) | Caperton Swamp | Louisville, Kentucky
600mm | 1,000th second | f/6.3 | ISO 800