Learning to Speak Bird - RVing with Rex

Learning to See: Lessons from 30 Years of RV Snowbird Living

After 30 years of RV snowbird living, I’ve learned that travel changes more than where we go. It changes how we see the world, teaching us to slow down, pay attention, and discover what we might otherwise miss.

Editor’s Note: This article is part of The Road and the Lessons It Taught Me, a series reflecting on thirty years of RV travel and the unexpected lessons the journey has taught me. It follows RVers in Their 70s & 80s Are Redefining the Road, which explored how a growing generation of older RVers is challenging traditional ideas about aging, adventure, and life on the road.

The journey continues with a reflection on how travel changed the way I experience the world—not simply by showing me new places but by teaching me how to truly see them.

For most of my life, I thought seeing was simply about eyesight. We opened our eyes, looked at the world around us, and assumed we understood what we were seeing.

The older I get, the more I realize that eyesight is only the beginning. Seeing is a lifelong process of paying attention.

The longer I travel, the more time I spend outdoors, and the more I pay attention to the small details that surround us, the more I understand that looking and seeing are not the same thing.

Looking happens quickly.

Seeing takes time.

Morning light washes across Usery Mountain Regional Park near Mesa, Arizona, revealing details in the desert that are easy to miss at first glance. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The places that reveal themselves slowly

What we discover when we stop rushing through the world

Some places reveal themselves immediately.

A mountain range, dramatic coastline, or famous landmark can capture our attention the moment we arrive.

Others require patience. They ask us to spend time with them before revealing what makes them special.

The Sonoran Desert was one of those places for me.

At first, I saw a dry, rugged landscape that appeared harsh and almost empty.

I was looking at the desert.

I had not yet learned how to see it.

A week exploring Usery Mountain Regional Park began to change that. Morning light revealed new textures and colors. Plants that once blended together became individual species. The quiet landscape was no longer empty.

It was alive.

The desert was not changing.

I was.

That may be one of the greatest lessons travel has taught me. Places reveal themselves when we slow down enough to notice them.

A familiar trail reveals something new. A landscape changes with the light. A place we thought we understood shows us how much we had missed.

After 30 years of RV snowbirding, I have learned that the best experiences are often found when we stop rushing toward the next destination.

A desert sunrise.

A quiet morning walk.

A familiar trail revealing something unexpected.

These moments cannot be hurried.

Perhaps that is the first lesson in learning to see: The world is always offering more than what appears at first glance.

We simply have to pay attention.

Learning to speak bird

When observation becomes connection

The more time I spent in the Sonoran Desert, the more I realized the landscape was never empty.

It was alive with stories.

Some were written in the mountains, the plants, and the changing light across the desert floor.

Others moved.

Perhaps nowhere have I experienced the difference between looking and seeing more clearly than in learning about birds.

At first, birding is about identification.

What species is it?

How do I recognize it?

Where can I find it?

Names matter. Knowledge matters.

But eventually something changes.

The bird becomes more than a name.

The cactus wren became one of those teachers for me. It does not quietly blend into the desert. Its distinctive call became part of my understanding of the Sonoran Desert.

The cactus wren was no longer simply a bird I identified.

It became a symbol of the desert itself—its life woven into the cactus, the landscape, and the environment that shaped it.

The bird had always been there.

I was the one who was changing.

Learning about birds taught me that observation is more than collecting information. It is about understanding relationships.

A bird becomes more than a shape moving through the landscape. We begin noticing its habits, patterns, and place within the larger world.

The goal is no longer simply to know its name.

The goal is to understand its story.

In many ways, learning to speak bird is another form of learning to see.

The natural world reveals itself to those willing to pay attention.

Cowpens National Battlefield may look like a quiet field today, but learning its story changes the way we see the landscape. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

History is waiting for those who slow down

When places become stories

Some places reveal their stories immediately.

Others ask us to slow down.

When I first visited Cowpens, I saw a field.

There was nothing about the quiet landscape itself that explained what had happened there. It was a place that could easily be passed by without recognizing the significance of the ground beneath our feet.

But history has a way of changing how we see a place.

The field was no longer simply open land. It became a connection to the people who stood there, the choices they made, and the events that shaped their lives.

Historic places are not just locations where something happened long ago.

They are places where stories remain.

A sign can provide dates and facts. A monument can mark an event. But understanding comes when we slow down enough to imagine the human experience behind them.

Who stood here

What were they thinking?

What did they hope for?

What did they fear?

Those questions transform a place.

The same lesson I learned in the desert applies to history.

A landscape can appear ordinary until we learn how to see it.

A field can become a story.

A quiet place can remind us that the past is not gone. It is still present, waiting for those willing to pay attention.

The world is filled with stories. We simply have to slow down long enough to notice them.

Photographers gather before sunrise at Bosque del Apache, watching the morning flyout through their lenses and learning to see the moment with new eyes. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Seeing through the lens

How photography changed the way I experience the world

Photography has taught me to see with new eyes.

When I first picked up a camera, I thought its purpose was to capture what I was seeing—to preserve a moment, a landscape, or a memory.

Over time, I realized something different.

The camera was not simply recording what I noticed.

It was encouraging me to notice more.

Photography changes the way we see the world. We begin looking for details that might otherwise go unnoticed—the way light transforms a landscape, the movement of a bird, or the small details that reveal the character of a place.

The world has not changed.

We have.

Photography has taught me that the most meaningful images are not always the most dramatic. Often, they are the moments that ask us to slow down, wait, and pay attention.

A desert sunrise.

A cactus wren moving through its environment.

The quiet landscape of a historic battlefield.

The photograph is only the result.

The real gift is learning to see the moment before the shutter opens.

Photography has changed the way I travel. It has taught me to look closer, understand light, and notice things I might have passed by before.

In many ways, photography is another path to learning how to see.

The camera is simply a tool.

It can record what we see but the real discovery happens through our eyes—the way we notice light, recognize details, and understand the moment before the shutter opens.

First, we have to truly see. And the camera can be the tool that helps us see.

Fall colors along the Blue Ridge Parkway invite us to slow down, look a little closer, and see the landscape in a different way. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Learning to see

The world reveals itself to those willing to pay attention

For most of my life, I thought seeing was simply about eyesight.

I assumed that if we opened our eyes, we understood what we were seeing.

The longer I have traveled, the more I have learned that seeing is something deeper.

It is learning to pay attention.

The desert, the cactus wren, a historic field, and photography have all taught me the same lesson:

The world has not changed.

I have.

The road has shown me that travel is not only about discovering new places. It is about experiencing them more deeply.

A desert sunrise.

A bird calling from the cactus.

A quiet field holding the stories of those who came before us.

A photograph that reveals a moment I might have otherwise missed.

These are the moments that stay with us—not because we simply saw them, but because we took the time to truly experience them.

A lifetime is not long enough to see everything.

But it may be long enough to learn how to see more deeply.

Looking happens quickly.

Seeing takes time.

Next in the series: George Forster and the Deeper Meaning of Seeing
The journey continues with a reflection on why seeing the world requires more than observation—it requires curiosity, connection, and a willingness to understand the relationships that connect everything around us.

The beauty of a Sonoran Desert sunset is easy to see, but slowing down to watch it unfold reveals so much more. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

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Editor’s note

This article was originally published in October 2026. Information reflects what was accurate at the time of writing. Conditions, access, and amenities may change over time, so please verify current details before planning your trip.

To maintain transparency and editorial independence, this website contains no ads, no sponsored content, and no affiliate links—just firsthand RV travel experiences and practical information for fellow travelers.

How Learning to Speak Bird Keeps the Mind Engaged

Learning to speak bird began as a way to understand the birds around me. Along the way, I’ve discovered that identifying birds engages memory, observation, curiosity and a desire to keep learning.

I never set out to exercise my brain when I began learning to speak bird. I simply wanted to know what I was seeing and hearing around me. But identifying birds requires remembering shapes and colors, recognizing calls, noticing behavior, and comparing one bird with another. There is always something new to learn and even familiar birds can present a challenge.

The more I learn, the more I wonder if birdwatching is doing something beyond satisfying my curiosity. Could learning to speak bird actually help keep the mind engaged?

A Yellow Warbler gives me another reason to stop, look closely, and keep learning. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

More than knowing a name

Every bird presents another little puzzle to solve

When I see a bird I don’t recognize, my mind goes to work. What size is it? What does its shape tell me? What are the colors and markings? Where is it and what is it doing? If I hear a call, I try to connect it with something I’ve heard before.

Sometimes I know the answer. Sometimes I have a pretty good idea. And sometimes I’m completely stumped.

That’s what makes learning to speak bird so engaging. It isn’t simply memorizing names. It’s noticing differences, remembering details, and putting pieces together. The more birds I learn, the more connections I make.

A bird I once would have dismissed as “a little brown bird” now makes me stop and look again. I may recognize its shape, behavior, or call before I know its name. Each encounter adds another piece to what I already know.

Maybe that’s one of the pleasures of learning something new. There is always another bird to figure out.

A Golden-fronted Woodpecker turns an ordinary moment into another opportunity to observe, remember, and learn. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The brain is paying attention

Learning leaves a mark

What happens in the brain when we keep learning something new? Apparently, more than I realized.

A Canadian study published in the Journal of Neuroscience compared expert birders with people who had little experience identifying birds.

MRI scans found greater tissue density in several brain regions among the expert birders, including both younger and older participants.

The study doesn’t prove that birdwatching causes these differences or prevents cognitive decline. But it does add to evidence of the brain’s ability to adapt through learning and repeated activity.

Bird identification draws on several abilities at once. We look, listen, remember, compare, and recognize patterns. Then we do it all again with the next bird.

The brain isn’t simply storing bird names. It’s continually making connections.

A Black-crested Titmouse might have once been just another small bird in the trees. Now its crest, markings, and movements make me stop and take a closer look. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Memory makes the connection

What we learn becomes part of what we see

One of the things I enjoy about learning birds is realizing that something I learned months or even years ago can suddenly become useful. A bird appears and something about its shape, color, or behavior triggers a memory. I may not immediately remember the name but I know I’ve seen something like it before.

The same happens with bird calls. A sound I once would have ignored may now make me stop and listen. Sometimes I recognize it immediately. Other times I have to work through the possibilities in my mind or check a field guide or birding app.

I find that process satisfying. I’m not simply looking at a bird. I’m drawing on things I’ve learned before and adding something new to them.

That’s probably one reason learning to speak bird never seems finished. Every new bird has the potential to strengthen an old memory or create a new one.

A bright red Northern Cardinal catches the eye, but its familiar call and lively behavior make me stop and watch a little longer. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Curiosity keeps us learning

Knowing a little makes us want to know more

One of the surprises of learning to speak bird is that knowing more doesn’t seem to satisfy my curiosity. It seems to increase it.

Once I recognize a bird, I want to know what it’s doing. Why is it here? What does it eat? Where does it nest? Will I see it again tomorrow? A bird I once might have simply noticed can now lead me down a trail of questions.

A 2026 study at the University of Tübingen’s Botanical Garden in Germany offers an interesting perspective. Researchers had 47 people, ages 19 to 80, take a 30-minute walk through an arboretum while paying attention to birdsong. Researchers measured their well-being and physiological stress before and after the walk.

The walk was associated with improved mental well-being and reduced stress. More interesting to me, people with greater bird-species knowledge and more experience with nature reported greater improvements in well-being.

That makes sense to me. The more I learn, the more there is to notice.

Learning to speak bird has become a little like opening a book with no final page. Each answer seems to create another question.

A flock of Sandhill Cranes is hard to overlook, and once I know their calls, their arrival becomes something I listen for as well as watch. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The more you know, the more you see

Learning changes the experience

There was a time when a bird in the trees was simply a bird in the trees. Now I find myself noticing details I once would have missed.

A familiar call gets my attention. A quick movement through the branches makes me wonder what species it might be. I notice where a bird is perched, how it moves, and what it is doing. Even when I can’t identify it, I am paying closer attention.

That’s what learning to speak bird has changed for me. It hasn’t simply given me more names to remember. It has given me more reasons to look, listen, and wonder.

A landscape that once seemed quiet can reveal a surprising amount of activity when you know what to listen for. A campground, a trail, or a patch of desert can become a place of discovery simply because I have learned a little more about the birds that live there.

The more I learn, the more interesting ordinary places become. And perhaps that is one of the rewards of learning anything new. Knowledge doesn’t close the door on curiosity. It opens another one.

A Vermilion Flycatcher’s brilliant red plumage makes it hard to miss, but learning to recognize it makes the sighting even more rewarding. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

There is always more to learn

Curiosity doesn’t have an expiration date

One thing I appreciate about learning to speak bird is that I will never know it all. There will always be another species I don’t recognize, another call I can’t place, and another behavior I don’t understand.

That’s not frustrating. It’s part of the fun.

At this stage of life, I have no need to become an expert. I’m simply enjoying the process of learning something I didn’t know yesterday. Sometimes I remember what I’ve learned. Sometimes I forget and have to look it up again. Either way, my mind is engaged.

Perhaps that’s an overlooked benefit of having a continuing curiosity. We don’t have to master something for learning to be worthwhile. We just need something that keeps us asking questions.

For me, birds provide an endless supply of them.

And as long as I’m curious, there is always something ahead to discover.

A pair of Royal Terns reminds me that once we learn to recognize a bird, we start paying closer attention when we see it again. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Staying curious

There is always a reason to keep paying attention

Perhaps what I value most about learning to speak bird isn’t how many species I can identify. It’s the fact that birds keep me curious.

There is always something I don’t know. A call I can’t place. A bird I haven’t seen before. A behavior that makes me wonder what is going on. Those moments give me a reason to stop, pay attention, and engage my mind.

I think that’s important. Learning doesn’t have to be formal, difficult or connected to a particular goal. It can begin with something as simple as wondering what made that sound in the tree.

For me, learning to speak bird has become one of those small but meaningful ways of staying curious about the world.

And perhaps curiosity itself is one of the best exercises we can give the mind.

Once I learned to recognize the Northern Mockingbird, its songs became part of the soundtrack of the places I travel. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Keeping the mind engaged

Perhaps the real reward is staying curious

I began learning to speak bird because I wanted to understand more about the birds around me. I didn’t set out to exercise my brain or accomplish anything in particular.

Yet learning to identify birds requires attention, memory, observation and curiosity. Every new bird gives me something to figure out, and every answer seems to lead to another question.

Research is beginning to suggest there may be real benefits to this kind of mental engagement, although it is still too early to know exactly what birdwatching can or cannot do for the aging brain.

What I do know is what learning to speak bird has done for me. It has given me another reason to stay curious, pay attention, and keep learning.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe keeping the mind engaged is reason enough to keep wondering what’s in that tree.

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Editor’s note

Snowbirds of a Different Kind

Every fall, we snowbirds head south in our RVs, following familiar roads toward warmer days. Along the way, we encounter another kind of snowbird: migratory birds making remarkable journeys of their own.

We think of ourselves as snowbirds.

Each fall, we leave the north behind and head south in our RV, following familiar roads toward warmer days. Along the way, we encounter birds doing much the same thing—only their journeys are often longer, their highways invisible, and their destinations known without maps or GPS.

In an earlier article, I looked at the remarkable phenomenon of bird migration. This time, I want to look more closely at some of the birds I’ve encountered during our own travels south.

Where did they come from? How far have they traveled? And what can their journeys tell us about our own?

The more I learn, the more I realize that these aren’t simply birds we happen to encounter along the way.

They are fellow travelers.

As the first light of day reaches the wetlands, Sandhill Cranes gather for their morning lift-off at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Sandhill Crane

When you can see—and hear—the migration

There is something about hearing Sandhill Cranes that makes you stop and look up.

I’ve experienced it many times during our travels south but nowhere more memorably than Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico. I’ve attended the Festival of the Cranes held annually in early December and spent many mornings photographing the birds as they gathered in the wetlands.

Before sunrise, the refuge can seem almost still. Then comes the calling. One crane answers another, and soon the air fills with their distinctive rolling calls. As daylight arrives, thousands rise from the water and head into the surrounding fields.

I’ve also photographed cranes at Whitewater Draw near Willcox, Arizona, and in Florida. Each encounter reminds me that these birds are part of the same seasonal movement that brings us south.

Of course, their journey is very different from ours. Some Sandhill Cranes travel thousands of miles between breeding and wintering grounds while others remain in the same region year-round.

But the connection is there.

The seasons tell both of us when it’s time to move.

Small enough to overlook, this Yellow-rumped Warbler is nevertheless part of one of nature’s great journeys, moving south with millions of other birds as winter approaches. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Yellow-rumped Warbler

One small bird in a continent of travelers

During our snowbird travels in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, I’ve photographed Yellow-rumped Warblers. They’re easy to overlook—small, active birds moving through the trees.

But there’s much more to that little bird than meets the eye.

Yellow-rumped Warblers are among the most abundant warblers in North America. Each fall, they sweep south across the continent in remarkable numbers. Some winter in the southern United States while others continue into Mexico and Central America.

Think about that the next time you see one.

The bird in my photograph may be one small traveler but it is part of a movement involving millions of birds crossing the continent.

We snowbirds can relate to that. A single RV heading south doesn’t seem like much but put us all on the road and the annual migration becomes impossible to miss.

Sometimes it takes looking closely at one traveler to appreciate how large the journey really is.

An Indigo Bunting pauses along its journey south, following a route written in the stars rather than on a map. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Indigo Bunting

Finding the way without a map

During our snowbird travels in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, I photographed an Indigo Bunting. At first glance, it seemed like just another small bird passing through.

But Indigo Buntings have an extraordinary way of finding their way.

They migrate at night, traveling about 1,200 miles between their breeding and wintering grounds. And one of the tools they use is something we rarely think about when finding our own way—the stars.

Scientists discovered this by placing Indigo Buntings under artificial night skies. When the stars were changed, the birds changed their direction.

We snowbirds have it easier. We have highways, road signs, and GPS to guide us south.

The bunting has the night sky.

Somehow, it knows how to read it.

Looking at this Whimbrel, it’s hard to imagine that it may have crossed an entire ocean to reach the Texas coast. Some journeys are far greater than they appear. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Whimbrel

The journey we can hardly imagine

During our snowbird travels, I photographed a Whimbrel at Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge in South Texas. At the time, I was simply pleased to capture the photograph. I didn’t realize the journey that bird may have already made.

Some Whimbrels make a nonstop flight of about 2,500 miles over open ocean between North America and South America. For days, there is nowhere to land, no place to rest. One tracked female named Hope flew more than 50,000 miles over three years between her breeding and wintering grounds.

Suddenly, the bird in my photograph seemed very different.

I had driven our RV to South Texas. The Whimbrel had arrived after a journey that could span an entire ocean.

Sometimes we don’t realize how far a fellow traveler has come until we learn its story.

An Osprey takes flight from Lovers Key with an enormous fish in its talons. Watching it struggle to carry its catch made the moment all the more memorable. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Osprey

The journey that keeps repeating

I’ve photographed Ospreys in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas and along Florida’s Gulf Coast. In Florida, I caught one carrying a fish so large it seemed almost too big for the bird to fly with.

It was a great photograph. But the more I learned about Ospreys, the more I realized there was another story behind that moment.

Many Ospreys that breed in the northern United States and Canada migrate south for the winter, some all the way to Central or South America. Others remain along the Gulf Coast and in Florida where fish are available year-round.

One tracked Osprey flew 2,700 miles from Massachusetts to French Guiana in just 13 days. Over a 15- to 20-year lifetime, an Osprey may log more than 160,000 migration miles.

That gives a different meaning to seeing one perched above the Gulf or flying past with a fish in its talons.

For us snowbirds, the trip south is something we repeat every year. For the Osprey, it is part of a lifetime pattern—leave, travel, arrive, and eventually turn north again.

We may travel the same roads each year. The Osprey simply follows a different route.

After their long journey south, Snow Geese gather at Bosque del Apache, filling the wetlands with life as they settle into their winter home. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Snow Goose

Choosing a winter destination

In late November, I’ve photographed Snow Geese at both Bosque del Apache and Bitter Lake National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico. At first, it might seem they simply arrived because winter was approaching.

But they didn’t choose these places by accident.

Snow Geese breed in the Arctic and subarctic regions of Canada and Alaska. Each fall, they head south along established migration routes, seeking wetlands, fields, and other places where food and water are available.

At Bosque del Apache and Bitter Lake, those needs come together. Thousands of geese gather there for the winter.

We snowbirds understand something about choosing a winter destination. We look for the things that make a place comfortable and give us reasons to stay.

The Snow Goose has a simpler checklist.

Find food. Find water. Find safety. Stay until it’s time to go.

Along the Texas Gulf Coast near Rockport, American White Pelicans gather for the season, another group of fellow travelers finding their way south. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Pelicans

Migration doesn’t follow a simple rule

Along the Texas Gulf Coast, I’ve photographed both species of pelicans—the Brown Pelican and the American White Pelican. I naturally thought of them as two versions of the same bird but seeing them in the same general region made me curious about how their lives differ.

But their migration stories are surprisingly different.

American White Pelicans breed primarily inland in the northern part of the continent and migrate south for winter, often to the Gulf Coast. Some populations, including those breeding in Texas, remain year-round.

Brown Pelicans are primarily coastal birds and their movements vary by location. Some Gulf Coast birds move farther south during the coldest months while others remain in the same general area.

It reminded me that migration isn’t simply a matter of going or staying. Even birds that share the same coastline can respond to the seasons in very different ways.

We snowbirds know that, too. Some travel thousands of miles each year. Others move only a few states south. And some never leave home at all.

There is more than one way to be a snowbird.

A Great Blue Heron patiently stalks its prey, reminding me that not every traveler is in a hurry to get somewhere. *© Rex Vogel, all rights reserved*

The Great Blue Heron

Sometimes the traveler stays

I’ve photographed Great Blue Herons in many places along our travels through the South from Texas eastward. They seem almost like permanent fixtures—standing patiently beside a pond, river or marsh, waiting for a fish to come within reach.

But not every Great Blue Heron is a permanent resident.

Northern populations migrate south for the winter while many herons farther south remain year-round. Some birds move only short distances while others travel much farther. In other words, there isn’t one migration pattern for every Great Blue Heron.

That makes the heron an interesting fellow traveler. The one standing quietly in front of me may have traveled hundreds of miles—or it may have spent its entire life nearby.

We snowbirds have our own version of that choice. Some of us make a long journey south every year. Others move only a short distance. And some are perfectly happy staying where they are.

Migration isn’t always about how far you go. Sometimes it’s simply about knowing where you belong.

A sky full of fellow travelers

What migration has taught me

Over these eight birds, I’ve come to see migration differently. It isn’t simply birds moving from one place to another. It is a collection of remarkable journeys—some short, some thousands of miles long, some guided by stars, some crossing oceans, and some barely noticeable at all.

Through our own travels, I’ve realized something else. Every fall, we snowbirds join this great seasonal movement. Our journeys are easier, our routes are mapped, and we have the luxury of turning around whenever we choose.

The birds don’t have those choices. Yet year after year, they leave when the time comes and somehow find their way.

Perhaps that’s why encountering them along our travels feels different now.

We aren’t simply passing through their world. For a little while, we’re fellow travelers.

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Editor’s note

Beyond Looking: How Knowledge and Mindfulness Teach Us to See

Learn how mindfulness, knowledge, and attention can transform the way we see birds, nature, landscapes, and familiar places, opening the door to awe.

We spend much of our lives looking at the world around us. We see birds in the trees, flowers in the garden, mountains on the horizon, and landscapes passing beyond the windshield. Yet looking and seeing are not quite the same thing.

Seeing is something we can learn. Knowledge teaches us what to look for and helps us understand what we discover. Mindfulness takes that knowledge a step further by allowing us to be fully present with what is before us. Together, they can transform something familiar into something we suddenly see in an entirely different way.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons awe can find us in the most unexpected places. The world hasn’t necessarily changed. We have learned to see more of it.

Looking at a sunflower is easy. Seeing its beauty takes a moment. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Looking is not seeing

The world we pass by every day

We look at things all day long. A bird in a tree, a flower in the garden, a mountain in the distance. We recognize what we’re seeing and move on. Looking is easy. Seeing asks more of us.

Our brains are constantly sorting through an enormous amount of information, deciding what deserves our attention and what can remain in the background. We couldn’t possibly process everything around us—so much of what we encounter becomes part of the scenery.

That is how the familiar can become invisible.

A bird becomes simply a bird. A flower becomes a splash of color. A mountain becomes a beautiful view.

But pause and pay attention and the experience begins to change. We notice the bird’s behavior, the intricate structure of the flower, the layers and shadows of the mountain. We begin to see details that were there all along.

Nothing in the world has changed.

Our attention has.

And that small shift—from looking to truly seeing—is where the journey begins.

A small ripple may seem insignificant, but paying attention reveals how one movement becomes another, until the whole water is in motion. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The power of paying attention

Being present changes what we notice

Paying attention sounds simple but in a world filled with distractions, it has become a skill. Our minds are often somewhere other than where our bodies are. We may be looking at a landscape while thinking about where we’re going next or watching a bird while wondering what we’ll look for next.

Mindfulness changes that. It asks us to be present with what is actually happening rather than rushing past it.

When we’re mindful, we don’t necessarily see more. We see more deeply. We give ourselves time to notice details, movement, sounds, and relationships that a hurried glance misses.

This is particularly true in nature. Sit quietly beside a pond and eventually the scene begins to reveal itself. Birds appear from the vegetation. Ripples become movements. Sounds separate into individual voices. Things that seemed absent were there all along.

Mindfulness doesn’t change the world around us. It changes our relationship with it.

And once we learn to stay with what we’re seeing, another possibility opens: we can begin to understand it.

Learning changes what we see

Knowledge teaches us what to notice

Mindfulness helps us pay attention but attention alone doesn’t tell us what we’re looking at. That comes with learning.

Research on perceptual learning shows that experience changes how we extract information from what we see. As we learn about something, we become better at recognizing the details that matter. We aren’t simply accumulating facts; we’re learning what to notice.

Birding is an easy example. Someone new to birds may look into a tree and see several birds moving among the branches. A birder who knows their shapes, calls, behaviors, and habitats sees much more. A subtle movement or familiar call can suddenly identify a bird that a beginner might not even notice.

The scene hasn’t changed. The observer has.

And it isn’t simply about years in the field. Knowledge, attention, curiosity, and experience work together. Learning gives our attention somewhere to go.

The more we understand, the more we see—and the more there is to notice.

Knowledge changes the experience. Once we understand the scrub jay, we begin to see more than a bird. We see behavior, character, and a life unfolding in front of us. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Knowledge deepens the experience

Understanding can make the familiar extraordinary

We sometimes think that learning more about something will take away its mystery. The opposite can be true. Knowledge can open another layer of experience.

Once we know something about a bird’s migration, its song is no longer simply a sound. We know something of the journey behind it. A flower is more than simply beautiful when we understand its relationship with pollinators, sunlight, and soil. A mountain becomes more than scenery when we understand the forces and immense span of time that shaped it.

Knowledge gives context to what we see.

But knowing about something isn’t the same as experiencing what we know. We can memorize facts about a bird and still barely notice the one in front of us. Mindfulness changes that. It brings knowledge into the present moment.

We see the bird. We understand something of its world. For a moment, those two things come together.

The familiar becomes richer—not because the world has changed but because we now have the knowledge to see what was there all along.

Seeing the connection, we begin to understand that these birds are not flying alone. Across the Salton Sea, each movement is part of something larger, a living rhythm shared by thousands. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Seeing the connections

Nothing exists entirely by itself

The deeper we look, the harder it becomes to see things as separate from everything around them.

A bird is not simply a bird. Its presence is connected to the season, its habitat, the food available to it, and the other birds around it. A flower is connected to soil, sunlight, weather, and pollinators. A mountain is connected to water, vegetation, geology, and the immense passage of time.

Knowledge helps us recognize these connections. Mindfulness allows us to notice them as they unfold.

This is one of the gifts of slowing down. When we aren’t rushing from one place to the next, relationships begin to emerge. We hear one bird answer another, notice an insect moving from flower to flower, or watch how rain transforms a landscape.

The world becomes less a collection of separate things and more an interconnected whole.

And perhaps this is where seeing begins to become experiencing. We are no longer simply observing the world. We are beginning to understand our place within it.

Coming upon a massive waterfall, seeing becomes something more than looking. The sheer power and scale stop us in our tracks and make us feel part of something far greater than ourselves. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

When seeing becomes something more

When what we discover is larger than what we expected

There are moments when seeing takes us somewhere we didn’t expect. We may begin by observing a bird, a landscape, or a flower but the more we notice and understand, the larger the experience becomes.

This is where awe can enter.

Awe is often associated with spectacular things—a vast landscape, a star-filled sky or something so beautiful that it stops us in our tracks. But it can also arise when understanding reveals something we once overlooked. The familiar can suddenly seem extraordinary.

Perhaps that is because deeper seeing can challenge what we thought we knew. We discover complexity where we saw simplicity, connections where we saw separate things, and a depth our previous understanding didn’t prepare us for.

The science of awe describes this as accommodation—adjusting or expanding our mental framework when an experience is greater than what our existing understanding can contain.

Mindfulness keeps us present. Knowledge helps us recognize what we’re experiencing. And sometimes their combination reveals something that leaves us with more questions than answers.

We haven’t simply learned more. We’ve discovered that there is more to see.

Picacho Peak reminds us that seeing the world differently can begin with simply changing our perspective. What looks familiar from below can become an entirely different landscape from above. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Seeing differently

The world was there all along

Perhaps learning to see is not about seeing more but seeing differently. Mindfulness makes us present, knowledge gives meaning to what we notice, and together they can reveal a world far richer than the one we simply look at.

And sometimes, in that deeper seeing, we experience something more—awe.

The world hasn’t changed. We have learned to see it.

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Editor’s note

This article was originally published in September 2026. Information reflects what was accurate at the time of writing. Conditions, access, and amenities may change over time, so please verify current details before planning your trip.

Learning to Speak Bird: The Language of Woodpecker Drumming

Learn to recognize five familiar North American woodpeckers by their drumming and calls, and discover what their distinctive sounds reveal about bird communication.

“I love woodpeckers—they’re so specialized and focused on their work.”

My daughter Sandy said that after watching these remarkable birds and I think she captured something that makes woodpeckers endlessly fascinating. They are specialists in every sense of the word. Their bills, claws, tongues, and behaviors are all perfectly adapted to the life they lead.

In the first article of this two-part series, we learned to notice woodpeckers—their colors, patterns, movements, and the remarkable adaptations that make each species unique.

This time, we’re going to discover another part of their story.

We’re going to listen.

Long before many woodpeckers reveal themselves, they announce their presence with sounds that echo through forests, parks, and neighborhoods.

A rhythm.

A pattern.

A voice.

To many people, it sounds like random tapping echoing through the trees. But woodpecker drumming is anything but random. Every burst of sound has a purpose—claiming territory, attracting a mate, or communicating with another woodpecker.

Like spoken languages, each species has its own rhythm and voice. The more time you spend listening, the more those differences begin to stand out. What once sounded like noise becomes something altogether different.

It becomes a language.

The quick, rhythmic tapping of a Ladder-backed Woodpecker blends into the thornscrub, rewarding those who slow down enough to listen. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Every drumbeat has a purpose

Every rhythm carries a message for those willing to listen

At first, woodpecker drumming can sound like nothing more than random tapping echoing through the trees. But once you begin to understand what you’re hearing, those sharp bursts of sound take on an entirely different meaning.

Woodpeckers don’t drum to make noise. They drum to communicate.

A rapid burst of drumming may be a male announcing that a territory is already claimed. Another rhythm may be part of attracting a mate. Sometimes it’s simply one woodpecker letting another know exactly where it is. Unlike songbirds that rely primarily on vocal calls, woodpeckers have turned drumming into another language.

Not all drumming sounds the same. Some species produce a quick, rapid-fire roll, while others drum more slowly or with a different cadence. Just as each species has its own markings and behavior, each has its own rhythm.

One of the things that surprised me most was discovering that woodpeckers aren’t always looking for food when they drum. A bird searching for insects pecks differently than one sending a message. When they’re communicating, they’re often looking for the loudest stage they can find.

That’s why you may hear a woodpecker drumming on a hollow tree, a fence post, a utility pole, or even the metal flashing on a chimney. To us it may sound like an odd choice. To the woodpecker, it’s simply the best way to make sure the message carries.

The longer I spend watching birds, the more I realize that learning to speak bird isn’t just about recognizing feathers and field marks. It’s about learning to recognize voices, rhythms, and the hidden conversations taking place all around us.

Before long, what once sounded like random tapping becomes something much more familiar.

It becomes a language.

The rapid drumming of a Red-headed Woodpecker echoes through the forest, announcing its presence before its brilliant red head comes into view. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Red-headed Woodpecker: A voice as striking as its appearance

The voice behind the flash of red

The first time I encountered a Red-headed Woodpecker, it was the sound that drew me in.

Following the drumming through a forest in central Alberta, I eventually spotted a flash of brilliant red moving among the trees. Clinging to the trunk was a Red-headed Woodpecker, one of North America’s most striking and memorable birds.

At the time, I was focused on what I could see—the bold red head, the black-and-white pattern of its feathers, and the confidence of a bird that seemed impossible to miss.

But the sound was telling its own story.

The Red-headed Woodpecker’s voice is just as distinctive as its appearance. Its loud churr-churr and rolling yarrow-yarrow-yarrow calls carry through the forest, often revealing its presence before the bird comes into view. Like its drumming, these calls are part of how it communicates with others and announces its place in the landscape.

Learning to recognize that sound changes the experience. A walk through the woods is no longer just a search for a bird perched in a tree. It becomes a search for the voice that introduced itself first.

The soft, rapid tapping of a Ladder-backed Woodpecker can be easy to miss, making its quiet drumming another reason to slow down and listen. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Ladder-backed Woodpecker: The quiet specialist of thornscrub

The quiet specialist of thornscrub

In the thornscrub of the Rio Grande Valley, life can appear hidden at first glance. The landscape is dry, dense, and filled with plants adapted to survive with limited water. But slow down and pay attention, and the quiet places begin to reveal their secrets.

That is where I spotted a Ladder-backed Woodpecker, carefully working its way along a tree trunk.

In my first encounter, I noticed the bird’s remarkable markings and the way it moved through a landscape that many people might pass by without a second look. But learning its voice revealed another way to find this small specialist of the thornscrub.

The Ladder-backed Woodpecker’s call is not as dramatic as some of its larger relatives. A sharp pik note, sometimes compared to the call of a Downy Woodpecker, can easily disappear among the sounds of the desert. It may also give a descending whinny that carries through the brush.

But that is part of what makes learning bird language so rewarding. Not every bird announces itself with a loud call or a powerful drum. Some require patience. Some require listening closely.

The more familiar we become with their voices, the more we realize that even the quietest landscapes are filled with conversations waiting to be heard.

The loud, rolling drumming of a Golden-fronted Woodpecker carries through the Texas brush, making its presence known long before the bird comes into view. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Golden-fronted Woodpecker: The voice of the thornscrub

The bird that always had something to say

The Golden-fronted Woodpecker rarely arrived quietly.

While exploring the dry brushlands and shady bosques near the Rio Grande in south Texas, I often heard these woodpeckers before spotting them. Their loud calls announced their presence long before I caught sight of the flashes of gold and red moving through the trees.

Some birds seem to blend into their surroundings and wait to be discovered. The Golden-fronted Woodpecker seems to take the opposite approach. It lets you know it is nearby.

Its voice is hard to miss—a loud, rolling churrrr or a burry chuck-chuck-chuck that carries through the landscape. Once you learn that sound, the bird becomes easier to find, even when branches and foliage hide the colorful markings that make it so memorable.

The Golden-fronted Woodpecker is a reminder that learning to speak bird is not only about recognizing a quiet call in the distance. Sometimes the lesson is learning to appreciate the birds that proudly introduce themselves.

The Gilded Flicker’s rapid, rolling drumming carries across the open Sonoran Desert, its rhythm echoing among the saguaros. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Gilded Flicker: The voice of the saguaro forest

Finding a home where few trees exist

The Sonoran Desert does not look like a place built for woodpeckers.

Yet among the towering saguaros and rugged desert landscape, one woodpecker has found a way to thrive. While camping at Usery Mountain Regional Park in Arizona, I was fortunate to spot a Gilded Flicker, a bird perfectly adapted to a landscape unlike any other.

In the first article, the Gilded Flicker introduced us to the remarkable relationship between a bird and its environment. The saguaro may not look like a traditional tree but for this woodpecker, it provides a home, shelter, and a place to raise young.

But the desert does not just reveal this bird through its bright markings and distinctive habitat. It also reveals it through sound.

The Gilded Flicker’s loud, repeated woika call carries across the open desert, sometimes followed by a series of sharp kee notes. In a landscape where sounds can travel across great distances, its voice becomes another way this woodpecker announces its presence.

The more time we spend listening, the more we realize that every landscape has its own soundtrack. In the Sonoran Desert, the voice of the Gilded Flicker has become part of the music of the saguaros.

The loud, distinctive drumming of an Acorn Woodpecker echoes through the forest, punctuated by its unmistakable calls as it announces itself to the entire family group. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Acorn Woodpecker: The sound of the acorn forest

The bird that turns trees into treasure chests

The first time I encountered an Acorn Woodpecker, I had to stop and wonder what I was seeing.

While camping in the Sierra Nevada, not far from Yosemite, I came across a bird unlike any woodpecker I had known. It was not simply searching for food—it was storing it.

The more I learned about the Acorn Woodpecker, the more fascinating it became. This clown-faced western woodpecker lives in small family groups and has developed one of the most unusual survival strategies in the bird world. Instead of hiding individual acorns, these birds create shared storage sites, carefully placing their winter food supply into thousands of small holes drilled into trees and other wooden surfaces.

But the Acorn Woodpecker’s story is not only written in the trees. It is also heard in the forest.

Its loud, distinctive ja-cob, ja-cob call—or what some describe as wake-up, wake-up—is one of the easiest woodpecker voices to recognize once you learn it. Unlike the quiet work of storing acorns, this bird has a voice that seems to announce the activity of the entire colony.

Listening to an Acorn Woodpecker is a reminder that every bird has its own personality. Some The Acorn Woodpecker does not simply live in the forest—it transforms the forest around it, leaving behind a story written in thousands of tiny holes.

The rhythmic drumming of a Golden Flicker echoes through the trees, announcing its presence with a steady tapping that carries across the landscape. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Every forest has a voice

Learning begins when we slow down enough to listen

The longer I watch birds, the more I realize that seeing is only part of the experience. Learning to speak bird also means learning to listen.

Sometimes the forest reveals its stories through a flash of color. Other times, those stories begin with a rhythm echoing through the trees or a familiar call drifting through the branches. Either way, the lesson is the same: slow down, pay attention, and let nature introduce itself.

Every woodpecker has its own voice. Some announce themselves with loud, unmistakable calls. Others communicate through rapid drumming that carries across the landscape. Some require patience to hear at all. But each reminds us that nature is constantly communicating with those willing to listen.

The next time you hear a woodpecker tapping somewhere beyond the trail, resist the urge to simply look for the bird. Pause for a moment. Listen to the rhythm. Wonder what message it might be sending. You may discover that what once sounded like random tapping has become something much more meaningful.

That is how we begin learning to speak bird.

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Editor’s note

The Bird in You: Learning to See Birds and the World Differently

Learning to speak bird is about more than identifying species. It is about slowing down, paying attention, and discovering how knowledge and mindfulness can transform the way we see birds—and the natural world around us.

A note on this series: This is a five-article exploration of birds, attention, awe, and the RV lifestyle.

Notice → Understand → Experience → Awe → Meaning

Each article stands on its own but together they form a progression—from learning to pay attention to discovering why awe matters and how the RV lifestyle gives us opportunities to experience it.

I’ve written an entire series about Learning to Speak Bird—learning to slow down, look closely, listen carefully, and understand what birds are saying.

But as I’ve explored the power of awe, I’ve begun to see those lessons differently.

The more closely we learn to observe the natural world, the more extraordinary the ordinary becomes.

A bird is no longer simply a bird. It becomes a story of adaptation, instinct, survival, beauty, and mystery.

And sometimes, understanding what we are seeing leads to awe.

The Great Blue Heron may appear to be simply standing still, but patience, precision, and purpose lie beneath that stillness. The more we understand what we’re seeing, the more there is to see. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

Learning to see

The ordinary becomes extraordinary

When I began Learning to Speak Bird, I thought I was learning about birds.

I was but I was also learning to see.

I learned to slow down. To listen before looking. To notice where a bird was perched, what it was doing, and what was happening around it. The more I learned, the more I began noticing what I had previously overlooked.

A bird that once seemed ordinary could suddenly become fascinating.

Its song. Its behavior. Its relationship with its surroundings. The remarkable adaptations that allow it to survive.

The bird hadn’t changed.

I had learned to see it differently.

And that may be one of the quiet pathways to awe: the more closely we observe the natural world, the more extraordinary the ordinary can become.

The Yellow Warbler can be easy to overlook until we learn its song. Sometimes learning to see begins with learning to listen.

The more you learn, the more you see

Knowledge deepens wonder

At first, learning a bird is mostly about recognition.

What species is it? What does it sound like? Where does it live?

Then recognition becomes observation. You begin noticing behavior, habitat, relationships, and differences you once overlooked.

And something unexpected happens.

The more you learn, the more there is to notice.

A bird becomes more than a name on a checklist. Its migration, feeding, courtship, nesting, and survival reveal a complexity that was always there but invisible to you.

Knowledge doesn’t take away the mystery.

It makes the mystery larger.

And that is where learning to speak bird connects with awe. The more closely we look, the more extraordinary the familiar world becomes.

The Purple Finch rewards a closer look. What first seems like a simple bird can reveal unexpected color, character, and beauty. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

When a bird becomes more than a bird

Seeing the life behind the name

There is a moment when knowing a bird changes the experience of seeing it.

A robin is no longer simply a robin. You recognize its call before you see it. You notice what it is eating, where it is nesting, or how it responds to another bird nearby.

The name is only the beginning.

Behind it is a living creature finding food, avoiding danger, raising young, communicating, migrating, and responding to a world we are only beginning to understand.

The more we notice, the harder it becomes to see a bird as simply part of the landscape.

It becomes a life.

And perhaps that is another path to awe: when we stop simply seeing a creature and begin to glimpse the complexity of the life it is living.

The Cactus Wren makes its presence known before we may even see it. Learning to listen is often the first step toward learning to see. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

The bird that makes you stop

Sometimes attention begins with surprise

Some birds are easy to overlook. Others seem to demand your attention.

For me, the Cactus Wren is one of those birds.

It isn’t especially colorful or delicate. Against the Sonoran Desert, it can look almost ordinary. But once I began paying attention, I discovered a bird perfectly adapted to its surroundings—its distinctive call, restless movements, and remarkable ability to make the desert its home.

The more I watched, the more interesting it became.

I wasn’t simply identifying a Cactus Wren anymore.

I was watching it.

Identification tells us what we are seeing. Observation invites us to stay long enough to discover something about it.

And sometimes, staying is where awe begins.

The Gilded Flicker can blend into the desert landscape until we learn what to look for. Sometimes seeing begins with knowing where—and how—to look. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

The bird you almost miss

Learning to look twice

Some of the most memorable birds I’ve encountered weren’t the ones I was looking for.

The Gilded Flicker is a good example. At first glance, it can blend into the desert landscape. But once you recognize its call, flight pattern, or the flash of yellow beneath its wings, you begin seeing it differently.

And that’s the curious thing about learning birds.

Recognition changes attention.

Once you know a bird is there, you start looking for it. Once you understand something about it, you notice details you would have missed before.

The bird was there all along.

I simply hadn’t learned how to see it.

Perhaps that’s true of much of the natural world.

Sometimes we just haven’t learned to look closely enough.

Knowing that Sandhill Cranes travel thousands of miles doesn’t make their arrival any less remarkable. It makes watching them take flight feel even more extraordinary. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

Knowledge doesn’t end wonder

It gives wonder somewhere to grow

You might think that learning more about birds would make them less mysterious.

I’ve found the opposite.

The more I learn, the more questions appear. How does a bird know where to migrate? How does it navigate thousands of miles, recognize a mate, or return to the same place year after year?

Consider the Sandhill Crane. Knowing that these birds migrate thousands of miles doesn’t make watching them less remarkable. It makes hundreds lifting into the sky feel even more extraordinary.

Knowledge hasn’t replaced wonder.

It has deepened it.

Perhaps that’s one of the paths to awe.

The more we understand, the more there is left to wonder about.

Gambel’s Quail are more than birds moving through the desert. When we understand how they find food, water, shelter, and safety, we begin to see how deeply their lives are connected to the landscape. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

Seeing the world through a bird’s life

Understanding creates a deeper connection

Consider the Gambel’s Quail. Seeing a covey moving through the Sonoran Desert can seem like a simple encounter. But understanding how these birds live—where they find food and water, how they shelter from the desert heat, and how they move through their habitat—reveals how closely their lives are tied to the landscape.

Suddenly, the bird isn’t simply moving through the desert.

It is part of the desert’s story.

The same is true of a Great Blue Heron standing motionless beside a pond. Understanding how it hunts and what that habitat provides changes what might otherwise look like a bird simply standing still.

Learning to observe birds has taught me that nature is rarely a collection of separate things.

Everything is connected.

And when we begin to see those connections, the world becomes more than a place we move through.

It becomes a living story we are privileged to witness.

The Great Egret can appear almost motionless, but there is a world of attention behind that stillness. When we slow down and truly watch, what seems like standing still becomes a study in patience, purpose, and survival. © Rex Vogel, *all rights reserved*

Seeing what was always there

The world changes when we learn how to see it

I began Learning to Speak Bird because I wanted to become a better observer.

I didn’t realize I was also learning to experience the natural world differently.

The more closely I look, the more I see. The more I understand, the more questions arise. And somewhere between observation and understanding, wonder begins to grow.

Perhaps that is what birds have been teaching me all along.

Look closely. Listen carefully. Pay attention.

There is more here than we realize.

Continue the series

← Previous: The Power of Awe: What Science Is Discovering

Next → The Power of Awe: RVing and the Sense of Awe
How the RV lifestyle creates opportunities for awe.

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Editor’s note

The Power of Awe: What Science Is Discovering

For thousands of years, people have experienced awe without understanding what was happening. Now science is beginning to reveal how awe can change our attention, sense of self, connection to others, and experience of the world.

A note on this series: This is a five-article exploration of birds, attention, awe, and the RV lifestyle.

Notice → Understand → Experience → Awe → Meaning

Each article stands on its own but together they form a progression—from learning to pay attention to discovering why awe matters and how the RV lifestyle gives us opportunities to experience it.

For thousands of years, people have described awe. Philosophers wondered about it, poets tried to capture it, and generations of people experienced it without having a scientific explanation for what was happening.

Today, researchers are beginning to ask a different question: What happens to us when we experience awe?

The answers are still emerging. But the research is becoming difficult to ignore. Awe appears to affect not only how we feel but where we place our attention, how we see ourselves, and how connected we feel to the world around us.

And as I read the research, I kept finding something familiar.

I’ve been experiencing some of this for years.

Fall colors turn an ordinary scenic drive into a moment of awe. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

What exactly is awe?

When something exceeds our usual way of seeing the world

Before scientists can study awe, they have to define it.

In 2003, psychologists Dacher Keltner and Jonathan Haidt identified two essential elements: vastness and a need for accommodation.

Vastness doesn’t have to mean something enormous. It can be an idea, a person, music, an act of courage, or a landscape—anything that feels larger than our usual frame of reference.

Then comes accommodation. Our existing understanding isn’t quite enough, so our minds have to adjust.

We’ve all experienced it.

A landscape we weren’t prepared for. A piece of music that stops us. A bird doing something we’ve never seen before.

For a moment, we don’t need an explanation.

We simply experience it.

And perhaps that’s why awe captures our attention so completely.

The world has exceeded our expectations.

Discovering a unique bird can turn an ordinary moment into one of awe. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Awe captures our attention

For a moment, the mental noise gets quieter

We live in a world designed to compete for our attention. Notifications, headlines, advertising, schedules, and endless information keep asking us to look at one more thing.

Awe does something different.

It pulls our attention away from ourselves and toward the experience in front of us. Researchers describe this as a reduction in self-focused thinking—the constant mental commentary about our problems, plans, and place in the world.

I recognize that immediately.

It’s what happens when I stop to watch a bird. For a few minutes, I’m not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. I’m watching what is happening now.

The bird hasn’t asked me to meditate.

It has simply given my mind somewhere else to go.

Perhaps that’s one reason awe feels so refreshing.

For a moment, we stop thinking about ourselves and start paying attention to the world.

A Sonoran Desert sunset can leave us awestruck by the beauty of a landscape we thought we already knew. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Awe makes the self feel smaller

And the world feels larger

Another important finding in awe research is the “small self.”

It doesn’t mean feeling unimportant. It means that, for a moment, our own concerns occupy less of our attention.

Think of standing beneath a star-filled sky, looking across a vast landscape, or watching a bird go about its life, completely unaware of our worries.

For a moment, we aren’t the center of the story.

Our problems may still be there but they no longer fill the entire frame.

Perhaps that is one of awe’s quiet gifts: It doesn’t make our world smaller. It makes our place in it feel larger.

A mountain vista can fill us with awe by revealing a world far larger than ourselves. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Awe connects us

Beyond ourselves and toward one another

If awe makes the self feel smaller, it may also make room for connection.

Research has linked awe with greater connectedness and prosocial behaviors such as generosity, cooperation, and helping others. When our own concerns become less dominant, we may become more aware of the people and world around us.

I’ve felt this while traveling.

A shared view from a trail. A conversation with a stranger at a campground. Two people stopping to watch the same bird.

For a moment, the usual boundaries between us seem less important.

Awe can make us feel part of something larger.

Pausing along a forest lane in autumn, I found myself surrounded by the quiet awe of the season. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Awe and the body

When attention changes, something else may change too

Awe may reach beyond our thoughts and emotions. Researchers are finding evidence that it can influence how the body responds to stress although this science is still developing.

Studies have linked experiences of awe with lower perceived stress and, in some experiments, lower physiological arousal.

That interests me because it connects with something I’ve practiced for years: mindfulness.

When I slow down and pay attention, I’m not trying to make anything happen. I’m simply noticing what is already there.

Perhaps awe does something similar.

It gives the mind—and perhaps the body—a reason to slow down.

The sculpted formations of the badlands inspire awe as nature reveals the power of time and erosion. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Fifteen minutes can be enough

The experiment that made me think about mindfulness

One study particularly caught my attention.

Researchers asked older adults to take a 15-minute outdoor walk once a week for eight weeks. One group simply walked; the other was asked to look for moments of awe.

The awe-walk group experienced more awe, joy, compassion, and other positive emotions, along with less daily distress. Their photographs also suggested a growing sense of the “small self” as their attention shifted toward the world around them.

The walks were the same.

Fifteen minutes was the same.

What changed was where they placed their attention.

That sounds remarkably like mindfulness to me.

I’ve spent years learning to slow down, notice what is around me, and stay with the moment rather than rush past it.

The researchers called it an awe walk.

I’ve simply called it paying attention.

The otherworldly beauty of White Sands can inspire awe by making us feel as though we’ve stepped into another world. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Awe can be cultivated

We don’t have to wait for it to find us

Perhaps the most encouraging finding is that we don’t have to wait for awe to happen. Research suggests we can become more receptive to it by slowing down, paying attention, and deliberately noticing what we might otherwise overlook.

That feels familiar to me.

Mindfulness taught me to pay attention. Slow travel taught me not to hurry past what deserves attention. Birding taught me to look and listen more carefully.

Perhaps I’ve been cultivating awe without knowing its name.

Maybe awe isn’t something we find. Maybe it’s something we learn to notice.

I think that is stronger. And it sets us up beautifully for the next part of the article where we can move from what the research says to what all of this means in our own lives.

A meandering mountain stream reflecting the colors of autumn can inspire a quiet sense of awe. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

What we don’t know yet

Science is still learning

The science of awe is promising but it is still young. Researchers don’t agree on every aspect of how awe works or how lasting its effects may be. Some findings are strong; others need more study.

That doesn’t diminish what we’ve learned.

It simply reminds us that awe is an experience we are beginning to understand, not one science has already explained.

Even a single flower can inspire awe when we pause long enough to notice its beauty. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The world feels different

Perhaps that is the power of awe

The science of awe is still young but a pattern is emerging. Awe can draw our attention outward, quiet our preoccupation with ourselves, and deepen our connection with the world and others. Researchers are still working out exactly how and how lasting these effects may be.

What interests me most is how little may be required.

A walk. A bird. A landscape. A few minutes of paying attention.

Perhaps awe doesn’t change the world around us.

Perhaps it changes the way we experience the world we’re already in.

Continue the series

← Previous: The Power of Awe: An Ancient Human Experience

Next → The Bird in You
How learning to observe and understand birds can lead us toward awe.

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Editor’s note

The Power of Awe: An Ancient Human Experience

Long before scientists began studying awe, philosophers wondered why certain experiences stop us in our tracks. From ancient Greek wonder to modern psychology, the story of awe may begin with something surprisingly simple: paying attention.

A note on this series: This is a five-article exploration of birds, attention, awe, and the RV lifestyle.

Notice → Understand → Experience → Awe → Meaning

Each article stands on its own but together they form a progression—from learning to pay attention to discovering why awe matters and how the RV lifestyle gives us opportunities to experience it.

Awe is not a new idea. Long before scientists began studying it, philosophers and writers were trying to understand what happens when we encounter something larger than ourselves.

Perhaps awe is also one of the things that makes a life fully lived. It interrupts the ordinary, pulls us out of ourselves, and reminds us that there is more to the world than what occupies our immediate attention.

I’ve written about mindfulness, slow travel, and learning to speak bird without realizing they share a common thread.

Pay attention.

Perhaps that is where awe begins.

A familiar bird can become something more when we slow down, look closely, and allow ourselves to wonder. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Wonder begins the search

The ancient Greeks had a word for it: thauma

Long before awe became a subject for modern psychology, the ancient Greeks were fascinated by wonder—thauma—the experience of encountering something remarkable, mysterious, or difficult to explain.

For them, wonder wasn’t simply a feeling. It could be the beginning of inquiry.

In Theaetetus, Plato has Socrates describe wonder as the beginning of philosophy. Aristotle made a similar observation in Metaphysics, suggesting that philosophy began with our wondering about the world around us—the moon, the sun, the stars, and ultimately existence itself.

We tend to think of awe as something that stops us in our tracks. But perhaps stopping is only the beginning.

Awe can be found not only in grand landscapes, but in the devotion, craftsmanship, and quiet beauty of places created by ordinary people. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Wonder makes us look again.

A bird can be just a bird. Or we can stop and wonder where it came from, what it sees, what it hears, and what it is saying.

The bird hasn’t changed.

Our attention has.

And perhaps that is the first clue to the power of awe.

Looking beyond ourselves

The Stoics and the larger world

The Stoics took wonder in another direction. They looked at nature as an ordered whole and encouraged us to step outside our narrow concerns and consider our place within it.

Marcus Aurelius often contemplated the stars, the seasons, and the vastness of nature—not simply as things to admire but as reminders that our individual troubles occupy a very small place in a much larger world.

There is something remarkably familiar in that.

Awe can change the scale at which we see our lives. A problem that fills our attention can seem different beneath a night sky, watching a storm cross the desert, or listening to birdsong.

The problem hasn’t necessarily disappeared.

But we’re no longer looking at it from the same place.

Perhaps that is another power of awe: it reminds us that we are part of something larger than ourselves.

Deep beneath the earth, the sheer scale and otherworldly beauty of the caverns evoke the sublime—a feeling of wonder when we encounter something beyond our ability to fully comprehend. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

When the world becomes sublime

Burke, Kant, and the experience of vastness

More than two thousand years after the Greeks wrote about wonder, Edmund Burke gave the experience a new language: the sublime.

In 1757, Burke wrote about things vast, powerful, dark, or overwhelming. The sublime could produce such astonishment that ordinary thought seemed to fall away.

Immanuel Kant later took the idea further. For him, the sublime arose when we encountered something so immense that our ability to comprehend it seemed inadequate.

A mountain. A storm. The ocean. A star-filled sky.

The important thing wasn’t simply the thing itself but what happened within us when we encountered it.

Sometimes we meet something that doesn’t fit neatly into our understanding. We have to stop, take it in, and make room for something larger.

Perhaps that is why awe can feel so powerful.

For a moment, the world exceeds us.

Nature’s wonders don’t have to be vast to inspire awe. Sometimes a simple arch of stone is enough to make us stop, look closer, and wonder how it came to be. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Nature as a doorway

Emerson and the receptive mind

By the nineteenth century, Ralph Waldo Emerson was looking at nature differently. In Nature, published in 1836, he suggested that the natural world could change us when we were truly open to it.

Nature wasn’t simply scenery. It was an experience.

Look at the stars, Emerson suggested, and ordinary concerns can fall away. Enter the woods with an open mind, and the familiar can become new again.

The stars haven’t changed. The woods haven’t changed.

We have changed the way we see them.

Emerson understood something that will become important throughout this series: we don’t always need to travel farther or find something extraordinary. Sometimes we simply need to be present enough to notice what is already there.

Perhaps the experience isn’t about finding a more extraordinary world.

Perhaps it’s about becoming more receptive to the one we already inhabit.

A trail through nature invites us to slow down, pay attention, and discover the quiet moments of awe waiting just beyond the next bend. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

From wonder to science

The question changes

For thousands of years, people could describe awe, wonder, and the sublime. They could tell us what it felt like to encounter something larger than themselves. What they couldn’t do was ask, scientifically, what was happening to them.

That began to change in recent decades.

In 2003, psychologists Dacher Keltner and Jonathan Haidt proposed a framework for studying awe, identifying two essential features: vastness and a need for accommodation—the feeling that what we’re experiencing is so expansive that our existing understanding has to stretch to take it in.

It was an important shift.

Awe was no longer simply something philosophers described.

It had become something scientists could investigate.

And that raises a fascinating question: If humans have experienced awe for thousands of years, what is modern science beginning to discover about what it actually does to us?

Awe doesn’t always wait in the wilderness. Sometimes it lands on the motorhome, reminding us that wonder can find us when we simply pay attention. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

The question becomes personal

Perhaps I have been experiencing awe all along

That question brings me back to my own experience.

For years I’ve written about mindfulness without thinking of it as a way of finding awe. I’ve written about slow travel without thinking of it as creating the conditions for awe. I’ve written about learning to speak bird without realizing that birds were teaching me the same lesson.

Pay attention.

Perhaps that is where awe begins.

A bird outside the RV window. A landscape that makes me stop. The quiet of a desert morning. An old building that suddenly makes history feel present.

None required finding something extraordinary.

They required me to notice.

Perhaps that is why this ancient experience remains so relevant. The world hasn’t become less capable of inspiring awe.

We’ve simply become very good at looking past it.

Standing before an immense waterfall, we are reminded of our smallness and the extraordinary forces of nature that shape the world around us. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Where awe leads

From understanding to experiencing

The more I looked into awe, the more I realized I hadn’t discovered a new subject. I had discovered a thread running through much of what I’ve written about for years.

Birds taught me to pay attention.

Slow travel taught me to linger.

RVing gave me the time and freedom to do both.

Perhaps these aren’t separate interests after all. Perhaps they are different ways of experiencing the same thing.

Awe.

In the articles that follow, I want to explore that connection—not as a theory but through the experiences that have taught me something about paying attention.

And I’ll begin with the creatures that may be our best teachers.

Continue the series

Next → The Power of Awe: What Science Is Discovering
What science is beginning to reveal about this ancient human experience.

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Editor’s note

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Editor’s note

Learning to Speak Bird: What Woodpeckers Teach Us

Woodpeckers are more than birds that tap on trees. Discover what five remarkable species can teach us about focus, adaptation, preparation, cooperation, and paying attention to the natural world.

“I love woodpeckers—they’re so specialized and focused on their work.”

My daughter Sandy’s observation captures something I have always found fascinating about birds. They are teachers in plain sight, quietly showing us lessons about the natural world and, sometimes, about ourselves.

Few birds demonstrate that idea better than woodpeckers.

With their powerful bills, sharp claws, and ability to transform a simple tree trunk into a source of food and shelter, woodpeckers are perfectly adapted for the work they do. They remind us that success does not always come from being the biggest or fastest. Sometimes it comes from understanding your purpose and using the abilities you have been given.

Across North America, woodpeckers have found ways to thrive in forests, deserts, and open landscapes. Some cling to towering trees while others search for insects among dry washes or carve homes into giant saguaro cacti.

The more closely we watch them, the more we discover that these birds are not simply tapping on trees. They are solving problems, communicating, adapting, and creating a place for themselves in the world.

This is another lesson in learning to speak bird: every bird has a story if we slow down long enough to listen.

A Ladder-backed Woodpecker clings to a tree trunk, its distinctive black-and-white markings blending into the South Texas landscape. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

What makes a woodpecker remarkable

Built for a life of purpose

Woodpeckers are easy to recognize but easy to underestimate.

The tapping sound coming from a tree may seem simple but behind that familiar rhythm is one of the most specialized groups of birds in North America. Everything about a woodpecker is designed for the work it does.

Their strong, chisel-shaped bills allow them to excavate wood in search of insects and create nesting cavities. Their specialized skull structure helps protect them from the repeated impact of striking trees. Their long tongues reach deep into crevices while their feet and stiff tail feathers help them cling securely to vertical surfaces.

A woodpecker is not simply hitting a tree. It is using a remarkable collection of adaptations that allow it to thrive in a very specific way.

Even their drumming tells a story. What sounds like random tapping to us is actually communication—a way to announce territory, attract a mate, and make their presence known. The forest is filled with conversations if we slow down enough to listen.

Woodpeckers also leave something behind. The cavities they create become homes for other birds and wildlife, making them important contributors to the ecosystems they inhabit.

Perhaps the greatest lesson woodpeckers teach us is the value of focus. They do not try to be everything. They have specialized tools, a clear purpose, and the ability to adapt to the landscapes around them.

The more closely we watch them, the more we discover that every tap has a story.

A striking Red-headed Woodpecker pauses on a tree trunk, its brilliant red head standing out against the forest. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Red-headed Woodpecker: A flash of red in the forest

The bird that refuses to be overlooked

I heard the drumming before I saw the bird.

Following the sound through a forest in central Alberta, I finally spotted a flash of brilliant red moving among the trees. Clinging to the trunk was a Red-headed Woodpecker, one of North America’s most striking and memorable birds.

Some birds disappear into their surroundings. This one does the opposite. With its crimson head, crisp white body, and bold black-and-white wings, the Red-headed Woodpecker seems almost impossible to miss.

But there is much more to this bird than its appearance.

Found in open woodlands, forest edges, and agricultural areas, the Red-headed Woodpecker is an active and adaptable hunter. It searches for insects, seeds, and nuts, and unlike many woodpeckers, it often catches insects in flight.

It is also a planner. When food is plentiful, these woodpeckers may cache acorns, beechnuts, and other food sources to use later. Behind the brilliant colors is a bird that understands preparation and survival.

Once one of the more common woodpeckers across North America, the Red-headed Woodpecker has declined in many areas and is now a less frequent sight. That makes moments like this one even more memorable.

The lesson from this woodpecker is simple: the things that catch our eye often have the deepest stories waiting to be discovered. A flash of red may get our attention but slowing down allows us to see the remarkable life behind it.

A Ladder-backed Woodpecker works its way along a tree trunk in the thornscrub of South Texas. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Ladder-backed Woodpecker: The quiet specialist of thornscrub

Finding opportunity in a challenging landscape

In the thornscrub of the Rio Grande Valley, life can appear hidden at first glance. The landscape is dry, dense, and filled with plants adapted to conserve every drop of moisture. But look a little closer and there is movement everywhere.

That is where I spotted a Ladder-backed Woodpecker, working its way along a tree trunk.

Unlike some of its larger relatives that depend on towering trees or giant cacti for nesting sites, the Ladder-backed Woodpecker has adapted to a different world. This small woodpecker makes a living among dry washes and scrubby vegetation, finding insects in places that other woodpeckers may overlook.

Its black-and-white pattern gives it a name that seems perfectly suited to the bird. The markings along its back resemble the rungs of a ladder, helping distinguish it from similar species such as the Nuttall’s Woodpecker.

The Ladder-backed Woodpecker is a reminder that thriving does not always require abundance. Sometimes survival comes from knowing how to use the opportunities available, even in places that may seem challenging to us.

In the thornscrub of southern Texas, this small woodpecker quietly goes about its work—proof that even the harshest landscapes are full of life for those willing to look closely.

A Golden-fronted Woodpecker adds a splash of gold and red to the thornscrub of South Texas. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Golden-fronted Woodpecker: A splash of gold in the thornscrub

The bird that always had something to say

The Golden-fronted Woodpecker rarely arrives quietly.

While exploring the dry brushlands and shady bosques near the Rio Grande in south Texas, I often heard these woodpeckers before spotting them. Their loud calls frequently announced their presence long before I caught sight of the flashes of gold and red moving through the trees.

They are handsome birds. Females wear a rich golden-yellow nape and lower belly while males add a golden forehead and brilliant red crown, making them among the most colorful woodpeckers in the region.

Like many birds of the borderlands, the Golden-fronted Woodpecker is adaptable. Rather than relying almost entirely on insects, it also feeds heavily on fruit and nuts, taking advantage of whatever the season provides. That flexibility has helped it thrive across the dry woodlands and river corridors of southern Texas and into Mexico.

Watching these birds, I was struck by more than their colors. They seemed full of confidence, calling frequently as they moved from tree to tree, as if making sure every bird nearby knew exactly where they were.

The Golden-fronted Woodpecker reminds us that nature rewards adaptability. Sometimes the key to thriving is not doing one thing perfectly but learning to make the most of every opportunity the landscape provides.

A Gilded Flicker in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, perfectly adapted to life among the giant saguaros. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Gilded Flicker: The woodpecker of the saguaro forest

Finding a home where few trees exist

The Sonoran Desert does not look like a place built for woodpeckers.

At first glance, the Gilded Flicker may look familiar, resembling the more widespread Northern Flicker. But this desert specialist has its own story. Slightly smaller than its northern relative, it lacks the red patch found on the back of the Northern Flicker’s head and its golden underwings seem to glow when it takes flight.

What makes this bird especially remarkable is where it chooses to live. Rather than relying on traditional tree cavities, Gilded Flickers often carve nesting holes into giant saguaro cacti. In a landscape where large trees are scarce, the cactus becomes both shelter and home.

Like other flickers, the Gilded Flicker spends much of its time searching the ground for food, especially ants and other insects. It is a reminder that not every woodpecker spends its life hammering away at tree trunks.

The Gilded Flicker teaches us that adaptation is not always about surviving in spite of a landscape. Sometimes it is about discovering opportunities that others overlook.

In the Sonoran Desert where many visitors see only heat, rocks, and cactus, this remarkable woodpecker reveals a different story—one of creativity, resilience, and finding a place to belong.

An Acorn Woodpecker pauses among the trees, one of nature’s remarkable collectors and a master of storing food for later. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Acorn Woodpecker: The forest’s great collector

The bird that turns trees into treasure chests

The first time I encountered an Acorn Woodpecker, I had to stop and wonder what I was seeing.

While camping in the Sierra Nevada, not far from Yosemite, I came across a bird unlike any woodpecker I had known. It was not simply searching for food—it was storing it.

The more I learned about the Acorn Woodpecker, the more fascinating it became.

This is a bird with a remarkable strategy for survival.

Each year, Acorn Woodpeckers collect thousands of acorns and carefully store them in specially created holes drilled into trees, fence posts, wooden structures, and almost any other suitable surface. These storage sites, known as granary trees, can contain thousands of individual holes and may be used by generations of woodpeckers.

At first glance, their behavior can almost seem like hoarding. But what appears unusual is actually a carefully planned system for surviving times when food is less available.

Years later, I encountered Acorn Woodpeckers again near Ramsey Canyon in southern Arizona, an area better known for its remarkable diversity of hummingbirds. Once again, these fascinating birds reminded me that every habitat has stories beyond the ones we expect to find.

Acorn Woodpeckers are also unusual because they live in family groups. Several adults may work together to raise young, sharing responsibilities that many birds handle alone.

Perhaps that is what makes this woodpecker so memorable. It teaches us that survival is not always about independence. Sometimes it is about preparation, cooperation, and understanding the value of working together.

The Acorn Woodpecker does not simply live in the forest—it transforms the forest around it, leaving behind a story written in thousands of tiny holes.

A Ladder-backed Woodpecker searches for food among the trees and thornscrub of South Texas. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

What woodpeckers teach us

Listening for the lessons hidden in the trees

The more time we spend watching woodpeckers, the more we realize they are much more than birds that tap on trees.

The Red-headed Woodpecker reminds us to notice what stands out. Its brilliant colors may capture our attention, but a closer look reveals a bird that is resourceful, adaptable, and constantly working to survive.

The Ladder-backed Woodpecker shows us that life can thrive in challenging places. Among the thornscrub of south Texas, this small woodpecker has found opportunities where others might see only a harsh landscape.

The Golden-fronted Woodpecker demonstrates the value of flexibility, making use of whatever the seasons provide.

The Gilded Flicker challenges our assumptions, proving that even a woodpecker can find a home in the unlikely setting of a giant saguaro.

And the Acorn Woodpecker may offer the greatest lesson of all. Its granary trees and cooperative family groups remind us that preparation and community have always been powerful tools for survival.

Perhaps that is why woodpeckers are such remarkable teachers. They do not rush. They know their purpose. They use the abilities they have been given and adapt to the world around them.

Learning to speak bird is not about memorizing every species or recognizing every sound. It is about becoming more aware of the stories unfolding around us.

The next time you hear a woodpecker drumming in the distance, take a moment to listen. That tapping is not just a sound. It is a conversation—a reminder that the natural world is always teaching us if we slow down enough to pay attention.

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Editor’s note

This article was originally published in August 2026. Information reflects what was accurate at the time of writing. Conditions, access, and amenities may change over time, so please verify current details before planning your trip.

Birds That Define the Rio Grande Valley

The Rio Grande Valley is home to some of the most distinctive birds in the United States. Discover Green Jays, Altamira Orioles, Great Kiskadees, and Plain Chachalacas in this subtropical corner of Texas.

At the southern tip of Texas where the Rio Grande winds toward the Gulf, the landscape transforms into a vibrant meeting point of temperate and tropical worlds. Here, thorny brush and groves, freshwater ponds, and quiet ranch lands host a birdlife that seems almost exotic compared to the familiar species further north.

From the brilliant green of a Green Jay darting through the underbrush to the fiery flash of an Altamira Oriole in the trees, the Rio Grande Valley offers a palette of color, sound, and motion unlike anywhere else in the continental United States.

Unlike the common backyard visitors that fill our northern skies, these birds are bold, tropical, and unmistakably tied to this region. Their calls echo across dawn-lit fields, their movements bring the landscape to life, and their presence defines what it feels like to bird in the Valley.

In Learning to Speak Bird: An Introduction, I began exploring the delicate art of noticing birds—their movements, their calls, and the subtle ways they shape the world around us.

Learning to Speak Bird: Common North American Birds widened the lens considering the broad categories of birds that inhabit our landscapes and how slowing down along a trail, a roadside, or in a quiet park transforms birdwatching into a practice of mindfulness and curiosity.

That exploration then narrowed to a single, deeply rooted species in A Bird of Place: The Cactus Wren where bird and place became inseparable.

From there, the series turned to a species less defined by a single place yet deeply woven into landscapes we share: the mourning dove. In Soft Coos Across the Fields: Discovering the Mourning Dove, its presence was revealed not through bright colors or dramatic displays but through sound, repetition, and quiet familiarity. By slowing down and listening—really listening—that chapter invited a closer look at a bird so common it is often overlooked, and in doing so returned us to the practice of noticing that lies at the heart of learning to speak bird.

Now, this series turns southward to a landscape where color, sound, and exotic presence are unmistakable—the Rio Grande Valley. Here, the birds are bold, tropical, and singular to this region, offering a new chapter in noticing, wonder, and discovery.

Green jay

The green jay bursts onto the scene like a tropical jewel, its brilliant green back, cobalt-blue face, and vibrant yellow underparts instantly catching the eye. Long-tailed and elegant in flight, it is a bird that seems almost painted into the thorny brush of the Rio Grande Valley.

These jays are social and often noisy moving in small flocks through dense ranch lands, river edges, and thick brush. Their calls—a series of sharp, rolling notes—announce their presence before you even glimpse their bright plumage. Watching a green jay is an exercise in attentiveness: noting the flick of a tail, the sudden coordination of a flock, or the way one bird pauses, cocking its head as if listening for your next move.

What makes the green jay truly iconic is its rarity elsewhere in the continental United States. Its tropical colors and bold behavior are almost foreign to northern birders, yet here it is, a defining resident of the Valley’s subtropical landscape. To spot one is to experience a sense of place unlike any other, a flash of color that announces: this is the Rio Grande Valley.

What is most remarkable about the Green Jay is how its radiant, tropical palette makes the familiar suddenly feel foreign, reminding us that we are standing at the very edge of another biological world.

This quality reveals itself in several ways:

A visual ambassador of place: Its colors embody the Rio Grande Valley’s subtropical identity better than almost any other species.
A joyful, social presence: Unlike many brilliantly colored birds that are secretive, green jays are bold, curious, and communal, often moving in animated groups.
A sensory surprise: They engage you not just visually but aurally—their rolling, playful calls pull you into the act of noticing.

Altamira Oriole

The Altamira oriole is a blaze of color in the Valley’s thorny groves—fiery orange contrasted sharply with glossy black wings and back. Large and striking, it moves with purpose often flitting from branch to branch, tail fanning briefly before settling again. Even at a distance, its vivid colors make it unmistakable, a signal that the tropics have crossed into Texas.

Altamira Orioles favor low trees and dense shrubs particularly in ranchlands and riparian areas. Their woven, hanging nests dangle like ornaments often swaying gently in the breeze. Observing one is a lesson in patience and attentiveness: noting its deliberate movements, listening to its harsh but melodic calls, and watching the way it interacts with both its environment and other birds.

What makes the Altamira Oriole iconic in the Rio Grande Valley is its boldness and singularity. Unlike many birds that blend into the landscape, it demands attention. Its presence is a reminder that this region is a unique crossroads of North American and tropical species—a place where color and song define the wild character of the land.

What is most remarkable about the Altamira oriole is how its fiery colors and bold presence make the Valley itself feel more vivid, as if the landscape has been painted with tropical light and song.

This quality reveals itself in several ways:

A visual ambassador of place: Its bright orange and black plumage stands out against thorny groves, signaling the subtropical character of the Rio Grande Valley.
A joyful, social presence: Unlike many secretive birds, Altamira orioles move with confidence and purpose drawing attention to themselves as they flit between branches and groves.
A sensory surprise: Its melodic, often harsh calls punctuate the Valley’s soundscape pulling the observer into the rhythm of the landscape.

Great kiskadee

The great kiskadee is impossible to ignore. With its bright yellow belly, bold black-and-white striped head, and broad, expressive wings, it announces itself not just with color but with voice. Its loud, insistent “kis-ka-dee!” call punctuates the Valley’s mornings, echoing over ponds, canals, and ranchland alike.

This bird is as confident as it is conspicuous. Often perched on low branches or fenceposts, it surveys the surroundings with sharp, alert eyes, ready to swoop down for insects or small fish. Watching a great kiskadee is an exercise in noticing both energy and intent: the sudden darting motion, the flare of its wings, the rhythm of its call repeated across the landscape.

What makes it iconic to the Rio Grande Valley is its ubiquity paired with its tropical flair. While many species shy away from human presence, the Great Kiskadee seems to embrace it, making the Valley feel alive with movement, sound, and the confidence of a species at home. Its call becomes part of the soundtrack of place—unmistakable, constant, and unmistakably tropical in a North American landscape.

What is most remarkable about the great kiskadee is how its bold voice and confident presence make the Valley itself feel alive, turning even familiar landscapes into a stage for tropical drama.

This quality reveals itself in several ways:

A visual ambassador of place: Its bright yellow belly and striking head pattern make it instantly recognizable marking the subtropical Rio Grande Valley as home.
A joyful, social presence: Confident and unhesitant around humans, it moves boldly across open branches and fenceposts asserting its place in the landscape.
A sensory surprise: Its iconic “kis-ka-dee!” call echoes across the Valley, transforming ordinary mornings into an immersive aural experience.

Plain chachalaca

The plain chachalaca is the Valley’s hidden thunder—large, brown, and often unseen yet impossible to ignore once it calls. Its raucous, rolling chorus erupts at dawn, echoing across brushlands and ranches signaling that this is a landscape alive with tropical energy. Unlike the flash of a green jay or the bold colors of an Altamira oriole, the chachalaca reveals itself through sound first, often only glimpsed as it moves with careful stealth through dense thickets.

Chachalacas prefer thorny brush and dense groves staying low and moving deliberately. Observing one requires patience and attentiveness: listening for the rhythm of its calls, noting the flick of a tail, or catching a flash of brown feathers as it slips from branch to branch. In many ways, the plain chachalaca reminds us that the Rio Grande Valley is not just a place of visual spectacle but also of soundscapes that shape the way we experience it.

Its iconic status comes from both its presence and its voice. In a region defined by bold color and tropical flair, the Chachalaca adds depth, a reminder that noticing birds is as much about listening as it is about seeing. Its rolling calls are as emblematic of the Valley as any flash of green, yellow, or orange—a living chorus of place that defines the sound of this subtropical landscape.

What is most remarkable about the plain chachalaca is how its rolling, thunderous calls make the Valley come alive, reminding us that noticing a landscape is as much about listening as it is about seeing.

This quality reveals itself in several ways:

A vocal ambassador of place: Its raucous, repeated calls define the soundscape of the Rio Grande Valley, signaling tropical energy at dawn and dusk.
A careful, social presence: Though often hidden in dense brush, chachalacas move deliberately, revealing themselves only to attentive observers.
A sensory anchor: Its sound transforms ordinary moments into immersive experiences, reminding us that the Valley’s character is as much heard as it is seen.

A Green Jay pauses in the water, fluffing and shaking its feathers as it bathes in the Rio Grande Valley. © Rex Vogel, all rights reserved

Celebrating the birds of the Rio Grande Valley

The Rio Grande Valley is a landscape defined as much by its birds as by its brush and rivers. From the brilliant flash of a green jay to the fiery presence of an Altamira oriole, from the loud, insistent call of a great kiskadee to the rolling chorus of the plain chachalaca, these species create a vivid tapestry of color, sound, and movement. Each bird invites us to slow down, observe closely, and listen carefully—returning us to the practice of noticing that lies at the heart of learning to speak bird.

In this subtropical corner of North America, birds are not merely inhabitants; they are defining features of place. They remind us that the act of birding is more than a checklist of sightings—it is an immersion in landscape, a dialogue with the wild, and a way to experience a region with attention and curiosity.

Just as Soft Coos Across the Fields: Discovering the Mourning Dove encouraged us to find wonder in the familiar, the birds of the Rio Grande Valley invite us to discover the extraordinary in a landscape that is both close to home and wonderfully different—a place where North America meets the tropics, and where every call, flash of color, and subtle movement is an invitation to notice, learn, and celebrate.

In every call, every flash of color, and every subtle movement, the Valley teaches us again how to notice—and how to celebrate—the wild world around us.

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Editor’s note