Just after midnight in northern New Jersey, a white SUV eases up to a dark park. Three teenage boys—Otys Train (16), Jack Trojan (17) and Zade Pacetti (16)—bolt from the vehicle, vault a fence and press binoculars to their eyes. They cross a field toward a pole topped with oversized nests, hoping for a flash of green: the monk parakeet they’ve been stalking for weeks.
Ten minutes of patient peering and hushed excitement later, Otys spots it. The bird becomes their first confirmed species in the 43rd annual World Series of Birding, the New Jersey Audubon fundraiser that challenges teams to identify as many species as they can within the state in 24 hours. The competition began at midnight and won’t end until the final seconds of the day.
The three teens travel with their fathers—Mark Trojan, Chris Pacetti and Jeff Train—who drive the van, supply snacks and try to keep the crew fed and hydrated. The team wears matching gray sweatshirts printed with their name, The Pete Dunnelins, a playful blend of dunlins (a shorebird) and Pete Dunne, the event’s founder in 1984.
The World Series pulls together birders of all ages. This year 87 teams entered divisions ranging from veteran competitors to elementary-school beginners. The Pete Dunnelins compete in the high-school division and have become one of its most formidable teams: they finished first the previous two years. Their prep is meticulous—months of practice, mentoring from older birders and a spreadsheeted itinerary that plans the day “down to the minute.” Their goal this year was 200 species; last year they reached 199 and tied for first with a rival high-school team, the Flying Penguins from southeast Pennsylvania.
Everything runs on strategy, but nature has its own timetable. “We accounted for every minute we spend driving,” Jack says, “but you can’t predict when a bird will appear.” Moving on from the parakeet, the team shifts into nocturnal mode: owls, bitterns and rails are next on the agenda.
In a pitch-black marsh at 3 a.m., the boys test months of ear training. Much of the work is listening: the whinny of a sora tucked in reeds, the cheep of a swamp sparrow, the nasal peent of an American woodcock. Otys memorized the possible calls so thoroughly he can pick them out instantly in the field, a skill Jeff Train, his father and mentor, attributes to hours of practice. Rules require unanimous agreement before they can add a species to the list, so the trio confers in whispers and makes group calls when they’re sure.
The dads have learned to curb laughter and unnecessary chatter; the teens demand quiet focus. Chris Pacetti, shivering in the dark, sums up the mood: he’s cold and ready for sunrise.
At first light the team is driving the winding roads of High Point State Park, trying to pick up warblers and thrushes from the moving van. They ride with heads and binoculars out of rolled‑down windows, a positioning trick they adopted after watching top college teams compete—something that once made their fathers “freak” but that now seems necessary to hear and see more. A sudden stop reveals a sharp-shinned hawk nest, a small victory that keeps momentum building.
Birding hasn’t always been socially glamorous for the teens. Some classmates used to poke fun, but confidence and obvious skill have changed opinions. The sport’s seriousness and the team’s dedication earn respect. Jeff Train says birding is where his son truly thrives.
By early afternoon the team is working coastal habitat. They pull over at a roadside to scope dunes for piping plovers—camouflaged shorebirds that can be maddeningly hard to separate from sand. They use a timer to limit how long they linger; Jack calls out strict countdowns so they don’t lose time chasing a single bird. At one tense moment, Train scopes a tiny pale dot among distant birds; his teammates confirm the sighting in the scope and they sprint back to the vehicle with another tick on the list.
As the sun begins to slide west, the group reaches Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge, a migration hotspot where the next two hours will be crucial. The fathers keep a watchful distance while the sons weave through the refuge, ears tuned to the evening chorus. The three move like brothers—teasing, rushing, hushing—because over many seasons and many mentors they’ve become tightly bonded. Birding camp, assistance from college teams, and guidance from experts at institutions like Cornell Lab of Ornithology all shaped their skills and deepened their interest in conservation.
At sunset the air fills with birds feeding before dark. They pick out a nighthawk and finally nail a yellow-breasted chat that had eluded them earlier. With a king rail secured in the final minutes of the day, they step away from the field exhausted and exhilarated.
At the awards ceremony the next morning, the numbers are posted. The Pete Dunnelins tallied 206 species—well above their 200‑species goal—but it wasn’t quite enough. The Flying Penguins edged them out with 209 species. Three birds made the difference.
The teens admit the loss stung—they found out just after midnight and were understandably upset—but by morning perspective returned. Rain and a migration that hadn’t peaked yet were factors beyond any team’s control, and luck inevitably plays a role. Tom Reed, migration count coordinator at the Cape May Bird Observatory and one of the team’s mentors, notes that being in the right place at the right time is part planning, part chance.
After congratulating their rivals, the teams exchanged route tips with the usual courtesy: share what you can, but keep your prized spots secret. The competition has no cash prize, but the rivalry is genuine and the stakes feel high.
Looking ahead, the team faces a transition: Jack will be heading to college this fall and will age out of the high-school division. He’s floated the idea of returning as a mentor so he can still participate in planning and verification, but his teammates aren’t sure they want their friend telling them what to do just yet. For now, the three are living the same truth Reed and their parents see: a new generation cares about birds, habitat and conservation, and they’re building the skills, friendships and competitive spirit to prove it—one 24‑hour blitz at a time.