A Very Big Year
- an untitled work in progress
Chapter I: January 1, 2024
With an interior volume of 117.3 cubic feet, seating for five, 45 inches of legroom in the front and smidge over 36 inches in the back, the 2018 Nissan Altima is a very comfortable midsize sedan. That is, unless you are trying to sleep in it. Particularly when you’ve been up all night due to locals celebrating the impending New Year in the parking lot you’re trying to sleep in, it’s thirty-six degrees outside, and your car battery is dead. Nonetheless, Ezekiel Dobson was ready. He was nineteen years and eighty-one days old, had been birding since age twelve, and had been planning his big year since the previous November, though in reality he had been preparing for it for as long as he could remember.
Located in Montauk Point State Park, at the easternmost point of Long Island, Montauk Light House was commissioned in 1792 by none other than President George Washington. It was designed by influential architect John McComb Jr., who also designed the home of the Mayor of New York City—Gracie Mansion, the home of Alexander Hamilton—Hamilton Grange, and New York City Hall, among many other prominent homes and governmental, religious, and university buildings. Completed four years later, in 1796, it was the first lighthouse built in New York, and is today the fourth oldest working lighthouse in the United States, as well as a National Historic Landmark.
As the first glimmers of the 7:20 a.m. sunrise danced on the serene waters of the Atlantic, it was hard for Ezekiel to imagine that these could be the same waters regularly navigated by Frank Mundus, the Montauk-based charter captain and shark hunter who is said to have been the inspiration for the character Quint in the book and movie Jaws. Mundus, commonly known by his nickname, “Monster Man,” still holds the record for not only the largest shark, but the largest fish of any kind ever to be caught by rod and reel, a 17-foot, 3,427-pound great white, about 28 miles off the coast of Montauk, in 1986. Perhaps the basis of “Jaws” altogether, local legend has it that Monster Man once harpooned and landed a great white estimated at 4,500 pounds. He later became a shark conservationist, as well as an avid lover of seabirds.
Like Ezekiel, Mundus initially came to Montauk seeking a seabird of sorts, the 42-foot, 14-ton party boat Pelican. Operating out of Montauk, it capsized on September 1, 1951, killing 43 of its 62 fares, as well as its captain, Eddie Carroll, and his first mate. At approximately 2 p.m., when 35 mph winds began fighting an outgoing tide, the waves reached 15 feet in the riptides near Montauk Point. The Pelican was hit by two successive waves on the starboard quarter and capsized to port, spilling most of its passengers and the first mate into the water, while trapping others inside the cabin. The foundering vessel would have been visible from where Ezekiel was standing, at the Montauk Lighthouse, as it sank less than one nautical mile from its shore, in an area known as Endeavor Shoals.
Looking out over the horizon, Ezekiel’s Big Year endeavor would also begin with Endeavor Shoals in sight, as he squinted through his Vortex binoculars to make out the tell-tale rusty red throat patch, gray head, thin black-and-white stripes on the back of the neck and sides of the breast, and blood-red eyes of a large, duck-like seabird bobbing up and down. “Red-throated Loon will do just fine for bird number one of my 2024 Big Year,” Ezekiel thought. A moment later, the bird was gone, as its head dipped and it plunged beneath the water’s surface, diving rapidly in hot pursuit of its breakfast. It wasn’t a particularly unique or exciting start, as Red-throated Loons occur across North America, Europe, and eastern Asia, are not endangered, and the species rates as an overall low conservation concern. In fact, it was a predictable one, as although they typically breed in the arctic in tundra and taiga lakes, Red-throated Loons are regularly present in and around New York City in the winter.
Looking out over the ocean that morning though, standing under a partly cloudy sky with a slight westward breeze tickling his face, Ezekiel thought the Loon was beautiful—perfect even— yes, a perfect creation of an awesome God. It was an ideal beginning to his Big Year. His goal was to see 700+ species of birds within the lower-48 states throughout the year, and preferably before his 20th birthday on October 12th. If he could do so, he would become the youngest birder to break the 700 species barrier for an American Birding Association (ABA) Big Year, decimating the record set by Christian Hagenlocher in 2016, at the age of 27.
The race was on.
Chapter II:
Rediscovering Dreams Deferred
When I was young my parents and teachers would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I would reply without hesitation, “A writer.” I suppose it’s because I’ve always loved to read and for as long as I can remember have lived a sort of secondary existence in my mind, imagining a future full of promise and fantasizing about a life and plans that tend to both far exceed and somehow simultaneously fall short of the reality that comes to pass. The first real book I can recall reading, in the third grade, was Charles Dickens’ timeless coming of age tale, Great Expectations. I enjoyed the book because it flowed smoothly and on some levels I related to Dickens’ protagonist, Pip. Although I’d never been ashamed of my humble beginnings in a small Illinois town, I could empathize with Pip’s desire to rise above his station in life. Of course, I also didn’t have a run-in with a convict when I was young, or a mysterious benefactor financing my lavish lifestyle in my early twenties—but who wouldn’t be ok with the latter? In reality, the lessons that ultimately shaped Pip’s character and worldview came naturally to me, having been instilled through my parents, the books I read, and an innately thoughtful disposition.
But then I grew up, and I didn’t become a writer.
Like so many before me, I pushed my dreams to the backburner. After all, there was plenty of time and I could always write later. Then, like many before me, I got bogged down with life—work, marriage, raising an amazing daughter—and “later” kept getting pushed further and further down the line.
In my mid-thirties, I owned a small business providing massage therapy services in poker rooms and casinos across the United States. The first few years of ownership were a blur of phone calls, travel, presentations, negotiations, and managing every tiny issue from afar. I made the common mistake of trying to do everything myself. Eventually, however, I took stock of my situation and began to trust my local managers at each of the seven locations. Suddenly, ownership had some amazing perks.
My wife, who I married at the ripe old age of twenty-five, was only twenty-two when we said “I do.” It was and still is the best decision I’ve ever made. We were crazy about one another in an almost storybook way, and by the time I got my business comfortably off the ground and running on cruise control, I was thirty years old, she was twenty-seven, and we were ready to explore the world together. It wasn’t long before we fell in love with the Rocky Mountains. We found that amazing little ski towns like Breckenridge, Frisco, and even Vail, though notoriously pricey in the winter months, were much more affordable in the off-season, and that was just fine with us, as we’d begun logging some serious mileage hiking all over southern Illinois and Missouri. The warmer months in Colorado were our idea of nirvana. Elephant Rocks State Park, the giant boulders of which resemble a train of circus elephants, is a fascinating geological wonder of southeastern Missouri and a joy to hike. However, the largest of the boulders, standing roughly 27 feet tall and weighing hundreds of tons, simply does not compare in our minds to the splendor of driving away from Denver on I-70, when you circle around that giant crag sticking out into the road and the Rocky Mountains come into full view. Anyone who has made the trip can picture it vividly in their mind, and for us everything from that point on is near-perfection.
Breckenridge, Colorado became our home base for several weeks each summer. Nestled in the Tenmile Range about 80 miles west of Denver, the town has a rich and varied history. Prior to the arrival of European settlers, and particularly before the Pike’s Peak Gold Rush and the discovery of gold in Blue River, which runs directly through downtown, the area was home to multiple Native American tribes, most primarily the Ute people. Established as a gold-mining town by prospectors in 1859, even the town’s name has an interesting history. It was originally spelled Breckinridge, after John C. Breckinridge, the 14th and youngest-ever Vice President of the United States, who served alongside President James Buchanan from 1857-1861. Throughout his political career as a Representative of the state of Kentucky and later as Vice President, Breckinridge remained fervently pro-slavery, and when the Civil War brokeout, he was expelled from the U.S. Senate after joining the Confederate Army, where he was appointed Confederate Secretary of War in 1865. As a result, in 1861, the town of Breckinridge quietly changed the spelling of its name to Breckenridge, to avoid any negative association. Purchased most recently by Vail Resorts in 1996, “Breck,” as the locals call it, projects a rugged and scenic backdrop with sweeping mountain views, regardless of how it’s spelled. There are multiple nearby “14ers” (peaks higher than 14,000 feet above sea level), vibrant shops, restaurants, arts and culture, and of course a world-renowned ski resort cuddling snuggly around the entire town.
In July of 2015, my wife, Erica, decided we should drive north of Denver to Estes Park to stay a couple of nights and explore the Stanley Hotel. As movie buffs and fans of The Shining, we were very excited to check out the inspiration for the Overlook Hotel, where Stephen King set Jack Torrance loose to chase after his wife and child, and to nearly beat Hallorann to death. Like Breckenridge, Estes Park has a long and storied history, and was also home to multiple Native American tribes, particularly the Ute and Arapaho people, prior to European settlers arriving. One of the most influential early developers was the Irish nobleman, Lord Dunraven, who visited in the 1870s. He bought large tracts of land with the intention of creating a private hunting preserve, but faced opposition from local settlers. Despite the controversy, Dunraven's efforts helped to publicize Estes Park as a destination. Even today, it’s not uncommon to run into delays on the roads when elk decide to mosey through town, and both nights we spent in Estes Park, we were able to sit in awe at the edge of the local golf course and watch an entire herd of elk settle in for the night.
The morning we arrived, we visited several nearby scenic spots, one of which was Lily Lake. At 0.8 miles in length and only ten feet of total elevation gain, Lily Lake is as serene and easy a hike as one could hope for so close to the Rockies. If you’re planning a scenic picnic, if you want to meditate within the tranquility of nature, or if you’re thinking of proposing, Lily Lake is an excellent choice. For me though, strolling along on a beautifully mild summer day, surrounded by wildflowers and chatting with Erica about everything we planned to do while in Estes Park, it became the place where I noticed a hummingbird that was different from any I had ever seen back home in Missouri, or in Illinois growing up. It buzzed by us, bouncing forward, then side to side, its little propellers whizzing along as it stopped only momentarily at a bright red flower that I later learned was an Indian Paintbrush. Then it rocketed around a corner and out of sight.
I looked at Erica, “What the hell was that?”
“What,” she asked, oblivious to the tiny orange and green missile that had just whizzed by us.
“That hummingbird. I’ve never seen one like it!”
Then I saw it again and jogged forward, trying to gain a better vantage. It was orange, with what appeared to be a bright red throat and a white chest. I saw a flash of what I thought was green when it darted away again. I gave chase. This time when I saw it though, it’s throat appeared to be almost yellow, and I saw an even brighter glimmer of green on its head. Was this the same hummer? Off it went again and again I followed, working about a third of the way around the short hike by this point. It landed momentarily on the branch of a small tree and appeared almost entirely orange, head to tail, with a white chest and dark olive wings. From my view, it’s throat was essentially inline with the color of its back, and where I'd have sworn there was green on the top of the head just moments before, I saw none. Off the bird went again, stopping briefly at a tall purple flower before speeding across the lake and out of sight. I did the only sensible thing and ran all the way to the other side, but never saw my amazing discovery again.
I would learn later that it was a Rufous Hummingbird, and although I didn’t know the term “life bird” at the time, it was a lifer for me. After shocking my wife by shelling out nearly $30 for a National Geographic Field Guide to the Birds of North America later that day in town, I learned that I had not made a significant ornithological discovery, and that the bird I had seen was a common fall migrant through the Rockies. Nonetheless, it was very significant for me on a personal level, as I spent the remainder of our three week stay in Colorado learning about the birds of the region and admiring them as I hiked and played an internal game of I Spy. For a semi-obsessive neurodivergent mind like mine, the birds on that trip might as well have been crack cocaine. With my Field Guide regularly within arms reach and migration underway, the addiction took hold, and from that trip forward I’ve been hooked.
No longer in my early thirties and a casualty of the great tech layoffs of 2022-2024, during which hundreds of thousands of tech and tech-adjacent employees were let go, I am 43, seven months unemployed, and I can’t think of a better time to pursue my lifelong dream to be a writer.