Ninety-six million Americans now call themselves bird-watchers.

That’s nearly one in three people. What was once the domain of retired dentists with too much time and too many thermoses has become a national pastime.

'You don’t need equipment to go birding,' he says. 'Just walk outside and look or listen for birds. It’s like a treasure hunt — where can I find a new or different one?'

Or, as the bureaucrats insist, a “sport.” (Blame linguistic inflation, but that’s beside the point.) Bird-watching has gone mainstream, and America has fallen head over talons for it.

'Exhausted by noise and nonsense'

Growing up in Ireland, I used to hunt pheasants with my father. But I also bird-watched with him. He had the patience of a saint and the binoculars of a spy. He could spot a kestrel from what felt like another county. I, on the other hand, had the attention span of a jackdaw. Yet even then, there was something strangely meditative about standing still, waiting for wings to appear.

Bird-watching wasn’t about chasing or conquering. It was about listening, noticing, and finding a kind of peace that didn’t need words. Maybe that’s why it’s booming in America now — a country exhausted by noise and nonsense.

The modern American lives in a blizzard of screens, sound bites, and sirens. Every scroll and ping pulls the mind farther from the present moment. Bird-watching is the perfect rebellion against that chaos. It rewards stillness. It teaches patience. It’s meditation with feathers. You can’t doomscroll while trying to spot a warbler. And unlike most modern hobbies, it doesn’t demand equipment that costs more than your car. A decent pair of binoculars and a curious soul will do.

It also helps that bird-watching is wonderfully democratic. You can do it anywhere — city park, back yard, Walmart parking lot, even your ex’s front yard if you’re brave enough. Birds don’t discriminate by zip code. From Brooklyn to Baton Rouge, the same act of quiet wonder unites people who otherwise wouldn’t share a word. A cardinal on a branch can silence even the loudest partisan. Or can it?

Taking off with Birding Bob

Who better to ask than Robert DeCandido, Ph.D., more commonly known as “Birding Bob.” Bronx-born and proud of it, he’s been leading bird walks for the best part of 40 years, charming tourists and occasionally scolding squirrels. He’s studied owls in Central Park, falcons on skyscrapers, and raptors in Nepal — because, apparently, the city’s pigeons weren’t exotic enough. With his encyclopedic knowledge, laser pointer, and unflappable enthusiasm, the Bob has turned Manhattan into one big aviary.

When asked why bird-watching has suddenly become the new yoga, Bob doesn’t entertain the hype. “To me, this has been building since the late 1990s,” he says. “It seems to track the use of the internet in people’s lives. I’ve been leading bird walks since the late 1980s, so I’ve watched the growth.” In his eyes, birding is less a sudden craze than a steady cultural migration decades in the making.

As for the pandemic’s supposed role in reviving our hunger for slow living, Bob’s answer is brisk. “No,” he says. “I think birding was one of the few activities you could do early on in the pandemic — especially with others.”

When the world shut down, birding stayed open. “If you had a park in your neighborhood, you could just walk over. No need for mass transit or being in close proximity indoors.” For Bob, that’s when many realized bird-watching was accessible, social, and a way to stay sane in those rather insane times.

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Image Courtesy of the National Park Service

'Just walk outside and look'

And about that “retired dentist with binoculars” stereotype? Bob laughs it off. “Where or how did you come up with this idea? It was never, ever that.” His tours are proof. They draw everyone from teenagers to tech workers, stay-at-home moms to deadbeat dads. If anything, birding has become one of the few spaces in New York where social class often dissolves into shared curiosity.

Gen Z’s growing interest doesn’t surprise him either. “It’s cheap,” he says flatly. “People like nature. And the media’s pushing birding now, so different folks are giving it a go.”

It sounds simple, but it explains a lot. Birding offers something both primal and portable in an age hooked on algorithms and AI-fed sludge. It’s a dopamine hit that doesn’t come from Silicon Valley — though plenty of apps now let users flaunt their feathered finds. There’s Merlin Bird ID, which can identify a species from a photo or song; eBird, where users log sightings and climb leaderboards; and Birda, the “Strava of birding,” complete with challenges and badges.

Bob’s Bronx bluntness resurfaces when asked if birding could unite left and right.

“No. Americans will find a way to fight no matter what,” he says, half-joking. “Most birders are moderate to left, so the infighting has been mild so far. But it’s there.” He doesn’t hide where he stands — he lets his politics show — but never in a preachy or polarizing way. It’s more observational than ideological, the way a field biologist might note the plumage of a particularly noisy species.

Then, almost as if to re-center the conversation, he lands on what really matters. “You don’t need equipment to go birding,” he says. “Just walk outside and look or listen for birds. It’s like a treasure hunt — where can I find a new or different one? No need to make lists or find rare ones. Just go out and look. Have fun. Learn about your local environment.”

That, in the end, might explain why bird-watching has taken flight across the nation. In a culture obsessed with competition, Birding Bob reminds us that not everything needs to be a race. You don’t win at bird-watching. You simply show up, look up, and listen. It’s the most affordable form of mindfulness on the market. In an era powered by progress bars, birding is gloriously buffering. No feeds, no frenzy, just feathers in flight — and the occasional pigeon dropping on your $200 North Face jacket.