Birding's "Biggest Day" began at the stroke of midnight, May 13, deep in the Great Swamp of New Jersey. The Nature Company team, the only (and first ever) entrant from California, stood in water coursing over our ankles -- ears straining the darkness for verbal Vireos and gabby Gulls.

"IS THAT ONE!?" this over-eager neophyte shouted at 11:59pm.

"No -- my stomach rumbling," John Luther whispered.

At first, I wondered how anyone could find birds in a state with the densest population in the U.S., filled with expressways and toxic waste sites? Contrary to popular (but misinformed) opinion, I learned that New Jersey ("The Garden State") has many prime wildlife habitats and diverse breeding grounds for migratory birds. It's situated right at the intersection of two flyways -- the Atlantic coast and the Appalachian ridges. Any bird that wants to tour New England and the maritime provinces of Canada has to first cross New Jersey airspace.

We were not alone. The primordial swamp was invaded by an armada of Mercedes, BMWs, Saabs, and our streamlined station wagon -- and vehicles and entrants covered in mud, with the 24 hour Bird-a-thon only minutes old.

Our spirits were lifted by the Sora Rail, our first sounding. Then a flood of calls from the Swamp Sparrow, Solitary Sandpiper, Red-winged Blackbird, Common Moorhen. I "twitched" our list and we drove deeper into the ooze and mire; then stood still as herons -- listening to the plok plok plok of raindrops slipping through the ancient trees, striking the swamp. A half-moon was framed between tree roots in the black water.

"A place for owls?" I murmured. My inquiry was answered immediately by the forceful ululations of a Great Horned. For someone who couldn't tell a warbler from a widgeon, that direct response, welling-up from such a deep place made me want to be a serious birder on the spot.

The era of organized bird watching began a little over a century ago when a group of Boston Brahmins formed an ornithology club. Bird-watching remained a largely patrician pleasure until, fifty years ago, Roger Tory Peterson published his Field Guide To The Birds. It's now estimated that there are close to 60 million avid bird watchers in America.

The World Series of Birding is an annual "gathering of the tribe" -- showcasing the "chiefs" of the birding world. I saw that far from being old ladies in tennis shoes and feeble ornithology professors, birders are physical and mental athletes -- charging up hills full-tilt, with 12 pound spotting scopes and rushing through thick forests with all the coordination of slalom skiers. Serious birders, I learned, don't carry Field Guides. Their omnivorous passion for all things feathered placed the plates firmly in mind and they now flipped the pages rapid-fire.

Paul Lehman, who has listed over 12,000 species in North America, was our "ringer." Birding in the East is different than in comparatively open-range California. In dense cover, the birds are better heard than seen. Approaching a thicket of songbirds, Lehman cupped his ears in his hands -- creating radar dishes that scooped the sounds. Paul's associative cortex put together bird songs (however short) with a long list on names.

"Yellow-throated Warbler. . . Warbling Vireo. . . Summer Tanager. . . Brown Thrasher. . . Cedar Waxwing--"

"I missed the Waxwing," Susanne said.

"There!" Paul pointed, waving his forefinger like a conductor's baton.

"Got it!"

One by one, the songbirds were grabbed by all the team's ears -- each feeling like a small victory.

John Luther had flown in from California a week before to scout our route and he now drove like a man possessed: less aimless driving time meant more direct birding: what my four newfound friends lived for. Susanne Methvin was out counting shorebirds hours before giving birth to her son. When Shawneen Finnegan isn't outside watching birds, she's inside painting them. John Luther drives all night to Death Valley at the drop of an Upland Sandpiper. And Paul Lehman, well, like Dr. Doolittle, he makes you believe he can talk to the animals.

We drove and stopped; drove and stopped -- pouring out of the car at least 1,000 times -- slowly filling the holes in our list. Running an hour behind schedule, we decided to race past the Pine Barrens, the largest natural aquafier in the world. At 70mph, Paul's radar ears picked up the one note samba of the Barren's host bird. John slammed on the brakes; we sped backwards to ID the Pine Warbler -- a minuscule missile amidst a million acres of trees.

As the gray day brightened, we picked off the "must-sees" -- some in unexpected places: a Flycatcher hanging around the restroom at Brigantine Marsh; herons nesting like white parachutes in a 21-acre rookery, now surrounded by suburbia; a Rock Dove crossing Interstate 287. . . Our list showed we still needed a Redheaded Woodpecker. A quick stop at a nearby park and "Woody" was reeled-in. We were on a roll, the birds amazingly seemed to be coming to us, instead of having to grind our brains to the bone searching them out. We were in the sanctified "Zone" where even a birder's thoughts grow feathers. The culmination came when Paul said: "O.K., Kestrel -- where are you?" No sooner did the words leave his mouth when he pointed up, laughing like a wizard: the falcon was sitting, waiting for us atop a telephone pole!

At 6:30pm our tally stood at 174, with a little over an hour of daylight left. The sightings were now few and far between. In dying light, we head a Woodcock call while conversing with Pete Dunne, the founder of The World Series of Birding, and his Zeiss team.

"I think 208-9 will win it this year," Pete said. "The National Geographic team is loaded for bear."

Not to tip our hand, we walked nonchalantly back to the car, then continued racing around -- looking to boost our tally with a final flurry of sightings or soundings. Pressing too hard, we hit the doldrums. . . With 23 hours completed and one to go -- we joined an exhausted flock of birders at the edge of a salt marsh. It was a surreal scene: overcafeinated humans staggering around in a collective mental fog, ears cocked in the darkness for a single kiki-doo from the Black Rail -- a tiny, but important addition that, alas, remained mute past midnight.

Finally, after 404 miles and 181 species of birds, we sped across the Cape May finish line to hand in our tally sheet -- having checked everything from the Snowy Egret to the Red Knot, with all hues and shapes in-between.

We finished in 9th place out of 32 teams and earned a 3rd ranking for "Out-of-Region" -- outlasting (and listing) such heavies as The National Geographic and Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology teams, earning The Nature Company and California birders solid respect from the field-glass fraternity.

In the immortal words of birder Witmer Stone: "The ornithologist is almost always a good fellow; he can hardly be otherwise. The elusive grace and charm of the wild bird is not for the morose or mean man." Through team entry fees and outside pledges, this year's W.S.B. raised $200,000.00 (a new high) for various Conservation causes. There are very few events, both sporting and scientific, that impart as much fun and meaning as The World Series of Birding -- where airy creatures bring out the best from the depths of man.