I caught the birding bug some 16 years ago in Canada on a lake, watching loons up close for the first time. There was a family of three that would allow my wife and me to drift reasonably close to them with the motor of our little boat off. They would unpredictably dive and come up perhaps 75 yards away in any direction. That got me. We were there at their behest; they were not live stuffed animals or paintings in a museum exhibit but living creatures that may not have been comfortable with us there. They were in control, not us.

There's almost nothing comparable to a first time glimpse of even a common bird. A second time view, can be almost as exciting. One cool, windy, cloudy day at the end of this past April, I was in a large open field of the Greenbelt Trail by Stillwell Woods with a hiking group. One of the group, an excellent birder, spotted something in a tree. Moving closer I raised binoculars. There, on a winter pale, bare branch with its curved bill opening and closing, as it let out high calls, was a brown thrasher. The sight and sound of the richly colored brown bird's sounds carried on the wings of the wind, was as invigorating as the morning air. This was the second time I'd seen this bird.

I first saw it almost a year ago in Virginia. My wife found the bird after we both got a too quick look at a rust blur, which disappeared into the bushes. We both had a long eye-popping look at the lean, athletic-looking brown bird now perched on a bush. I noted every detail that I could, of its lush coloring and sculpted tail and almost immediately found it in my field guide. I can still feel the excitement.

Some eight years ago in early April with the first buds of spring in bloom my wife and I were walking a section of the Greenbelt Trail when we heard a persistent, loud, calling noise. High in a decayed section of two joined trees, was the head of a male red-bellied woodpecker sticking out of a freshly excavated hole. It was like seeing a bird appear from a cuckoo clock. We watched and listened in fascination; this was the first time we'd seen a red-bellied woodpecker.

My wife believed his persistent call was to attract a mate; after all he had these splendid new digs to offer. We left so courtship might take its course. I came back the next day and countless times for nearly two months with binoculars and my scope. I got to know "Big Red" as I came to think of the male, watching him go into and out of that hole bringing food for his mate and for a nestling, which we first saw on Father's Day. I watched as the black and white pattern on his back become worn and frayed during his comings and goings as he scraped it on the top of the hole entering and leaving.

While his mate never liked my presence, even though I stayed at least 20 yards from their tree, "Big Red" however seemed not to mind. Early one morning when I came with a telephoto lens and set up at the base of the tree below the hole, he rewarded me with a bang-up view. While he and his lone offspring flew into and out of the hole I clicked away taking photos that I still have. As often and well as I've come to know red-bellied woodpeckers, nothing will ever match the thrill of that first time on a long ago morning.

A view hard earned by sleuthing and determination can be almost as exciting as an unexpected one. One morning last winter in Hawaii my wife and I were birding on the grounds of a large hotel adjacent to a golf course. An eleven-inch bird with a glossy black head and back, rust belly, white rump and long tail, the under part which was white, simply showed up on a tree branch and posed for at least five minutes. I'd never seen this one. We were taken by the striking contrast of colors and the long tail and saw it or another just a few minutes later for an equally long time. My old field guide identified it as a white-rumped shama and said that it was a woodland bird. It also added that some people thought it had the sweetest sound of any bird in the islands. Lucky us!

After returning to the spot for a few mornings and not seeing the bird again I concluded that we had, by happenstance, come upon a very long shot. A few days later, I found out that I was wrong. My wife and I were at the end of a walk down a hedged path near the same hotel golf course when a bird crossed the road in front of us and landed on a branch.

Wanting a better look I followed and it quickly flew to another branch and another with me in pursuit. Finally it disappeared into some deep scrub in low light conditions. Quiet as a church mouse, I peered in knowing that if I saw anything it would be little more than a silhouette. I didn't look long for there it was; blackish on top with a white undertail and rump: it was a white-rumped shama. Filled with satisfaction, I remembered the words of a middle-aged pool hustler played by Paul Newman in the film, The Color of Money: "money won is twice as sweet as money earned." The chase gave the words an avian meaning.

First or second views of a bird, rare or common, can stay in your mind's eye like a glimpse of a painting which touches something in you that you cannot explain but keeps you looking at it and coming back for more. The more you go out birding the more you are likely to have such momentarily thrilling encounters and experience beauty that you didn't know existed.