The other day I was part of a field trip in the Nature Conservancy's preserve when two young herons dropped out of the ozone and landed in the pond.
“Tricolored Herons,” someone shouted out.
They're aptly named and elegant marsh birds with reddish necks, bluish backs and white underparts. They are not especially uncommon (the birds breed in Cape May County) but they are certainly less common than the all white Snowy and Great Egrets that enliven the region's marshes and their appearance was greeted as something as a treat by all assembled.
It never occurred to me that the birds might constitute the source of consternation for two members of the group. But they did.
“We can't find them in our field guide,” they confided.
It didn't take long to figure out what the problem was.
“That's because your book is about as ancient as the Rosetta Stone,” I said, looking at the much loved book clutched in their hands. “The bird's name was changed from Louisiana Heron to Tricolored Heron several decades ago. Nobody calls them Louisiana anymore.”
“Oh,” they said, somewhat chagrined (and maybe a little put out, too). Sure enough, a perusal of the index got them to the right page and the illustration that matched the bird standing in front of them.
“Why'd they change the name?” they wanted to know.
I shrugged. “That's a little like asking why martinis are in and white zin is out,” I said.
They looked at me blankly.
“There's a committee that controls these things,” I said.
“Oh,” they said, nodding their heads to convey their understanding.
Whether they did or did not understand isn't germane to this article. The fact is I don't pretend to understand all the factors that move and shake the American Ornithologist Union's committee on nomenclature myself, and that's not germane to this article, either.
What is key, is that if you have a field guide that is more than several years old then you are bound to discover, much to your frustration, that many of the bird names you are familiar with are no longer found there, no longer accepted, and, in many cases, the names no longer even recognized by other birders in the fields.
For example, do you have a field guide that describes the Northern Oriole? If you do, you might want to make a notation that the bird has been split into two species - the Baltimore Oriole and Bullock's Oriole.
“But,” some of you birders of long standing are thinking, “that's the way it was back when gas was 32 cents per gallon.”
“Yes it was. Like I said, these things are decided by a committee. Change “split” to “resplit” if that makes you feel any better. Many years ago, the two species were considered distinct. Then they were considered genetically similar. Then, after more deliberation, they were considered distinct again.
Heck, fashions come and fashions go and nobody thinks it's odd. And fashions make a comeback, too. Look at the miniskirt.
Back to birds. Here's another bellwether name change. Does your have a field guide describe two small falcons called the “Pigeon Hawk” and the “Sparrow Hawk?” If it does then, once again, your field guide is way out of date. These two birds were renamed, respectively, Merlin and Kestrel back about the time fish net stockings were fashionable - the first time.
How about Holboell's Grebe?
A what?
Holboell's Grebe. Anyone who started birding after VJ day probably recognizes this species as Red-necked Grebe. But old books don't automatically update (like virus protection programs). Once a bird's name is in print, it stays in print (long after it stops being correct).
What can you do?
Easy. For far less than the price of a tank of gas you can go out and buy yourself a new field guide. My recommendation? Try Kenn Kaufman's Field Guide to the Birds of North America. It's easy to use. Easy to carry. Easy on your mind. The book was recently reprinted. Names are current.
But you'll have to act fast. There's still that committee out there. Two more name changes are pending. If you act now you can be current for at least a little while.