Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my leg muscles ached. The group leader told us we only had one more hill to climb, but I was unconvinced. We had been climbing for hours—or perhaps just what seemed like hours—and every few minutes we would have to stop when someone reported a bird sighting.

    "It's a western tanager!" a member of my group cried. "Look up there, high in that tall oak tree!" Everyone stopped and lifted their binoculars. "I think I see it!" another group member said enthusiastically. "It's so rare to see one this far east, especially at this time of the year!"

    Peering through my own binoculars, I could not see the bird anywhere. Mrs. Maples saw my confusion and offered to help. "Look right up there," she pointed. "If you can see, it has beautiful yellow and red feathers." After about fifteen minutes of scouring every limb of the tree, I finally saw the small bird. Even when magnified many times, I could not see it well enough to tell what colors its feathers were.

    "Has everyone seen the western tanager?" the group leader asked. The group responded with a series of "yeses." "Alright, then, we will continue up the hill."

    I had always loved birds; when I was very little, I could spend all afternoon looking out my bedroom window at the bird feeder that hung from a nearby tree, taking note of every bird that made a visit. A bird guide from the library helped me identify the