Just after midnight in northern New Jersey, a white SUV eases up to a darkened park. Three teenage boys jump out, race across a field, clamber over a fence and lift binoculars toward a pole topped with massive nests — hunting for the flash of a sleeping parrot’s tail. After a tense ten-minute wait, 16-year-old Otys Train quietly signals success: they’ve found the monk parakeet, their first tick of the 43rd annual World Series of Birding.
Otys is teamed with 17-year-old Jack Trojan and 16-year-old Zade Pacetti. Their fathers — Mark Trojan, Chris Pacetti and Jeff Train — drive, keep the snacks coming and try to enforce occasional naps or water breaks amid a day that runs from midnight to the final seconds of Saturday night. The teens wear matching gray sweatshirts printed with their team name, The Pete Dunnelins — a nod to the shorebird dunlin and Pete Dunne, the noted birder who founded the event in 1984. Organized by New Jersey Audubon, the World Series is part competition and part fundraiser; teams range from kindergarteners to seasoned veterans.
The Pete Dunnelins are serious competitors. They’ve won their division twice and spent months preparing this year, even building a minute-by-minute schedule in a spreadsheet to maximize opportunities across the state’s varied habitats. Their stated goal: reach 200 species. Last year they came within one bird, tying at 199 with another high-school team, the Flying Penguins from Pennsylvania.
Preparation is only half the battle. The teens know you can’t order birds to appear on cue. ‘‘Every minute’s accounted for,’’ Jack says, but he adds that weather and migration patterns can still upend the plan.
The team’s night is full of listening and stealth. Around 3 a.m. they stand on a marsh trail in nearly pitch-black conditions, straining to separate the calls of bitterns, rails and other secretive marsh birds. The elusive sora — whose whinnying note hides deep in the reeds — is a prized target. Otys, who memorized the day’s possible species and their songs, excels at picking out faint calls. The three whisper and confer; competition rules require unanimous agreement before they can add a species to their list. The dads, who once laughed too loudly and spoiled quiet moments, now keep almost silent in deference to the team’s focus.
At first light the crew pushes uphill to High Point State Park to chase warblers. To cover miles quickly, they cruise slowly with windows down, heads and binoculars sometimes sticking out of the car to scan the treetops — a risky-looking but effective technique they adopted after watching top teams. When one of them freezes the car with an excited shout, teammates ‘‘pish’’ — a soft, repetitive hiss designed to coax small birds into view. Success follows with a sharp-shinned hawk nest sighting and other warbler detections.
Between habitats the boys rely on a strict timing routine. They use a countdown to limit how long they linger at any stop: a minute and forty seconds, then back on the road. That discipline pays off along the southern Jersey shore, where they scope dunes and mudflats for piping plovers and other shorebirds. Near the coastline, Train spots a distant pale dot through his scope; his teammates verify the sighting and sprint back to the vehicle to log it.
Their afternoon and evening route focuses on Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge, a migration hotspot. As the sun sinks, they walk the refuge listening to the evening rush of birds feeding on last-minute insects. The three move with the easy familiarity of longtime friends; the fathers hang back, joking and watching how birding has knit the group together. Over the years mentors from birding camp, college teams and institutions like Cornell Lab of Ornithology have helped the teens sharpen field craft and conservation knowledge.
With daylight dwindling, the trio scrambles to find a handful of species that will determine whether they crack 200. They pick up a nighthawk and eventually rally around the unmistakable call of a yellow-breasted chat — a moment of elation that underscores how small, distinct sounds can swing the day’s total.
They stay out to the very end and even secure a king rail as one of the final additions. At the awards ceremony the next morning, The Pete Dunnelins learn they tallied 206 species — well past their goal but still not enough to win. The Flying Penguins finish at 209; three extra birds made the difference.
The loss stings at first. The team blames a few scheduling delays, a rainy stretch that quieted some birds and the fact that peak migration hadn’t peaked in some spots. Tom Reed, migration count coordinator at the Cape May Bird Observatory and a mentor to the teens, notes that luck plays a big role: ‘‘You can be in the right place at the right time, but these are wild animals with lives of their own.’’
Sportsmanship follows. The teens congratulate the Flying Penguins, trading route tips but politely protecting the locations of their prized spots. The rivalry is friendly but fierce — there’s no cash prize, but bragging rights and the satisfaction of hard-earned fieldwork matter.
Looking ahead, the team faces a practical challenge: Jack will go to college in the fall and age out of the high-school division. He suggests he could return as a mentor, verifying sightings and strategy, but his teammates laugh at the idea of being bossed by a friend. Still, the larger picture is clear to their parents and mentors: birding has given these teens a community, expertise and a sense of stewardship. As Jeff Train puts it, birding is where he’s seen his son thrive.
In the end, the World Series of Birding yields more than trophies. For high-schoolers who once felt pigeonholed by their hobby, it offers confidence, friendships and proof that the next generation cares about nature — and will spend 24 intense hours chasing it.