Time and time again, I have observed bird photographers behaving badly. In a group, we are all looking at a preening bird in a nearby tree, variously through binoculars, fieldscope and camera lens. It is seemingly unaware of our presence. Everyone is standing still, getting stellar looks. But the photographers are not satisfied. They seem not to have conquered the urge to get closer to the subject, even with telephoto lenses and high-resolution images at their disposal. They edge in, one by one. The bird flees.

Or, we are out night-spotting and come across a Quail in the headlights at the edge of the road. The bird crouches, transfixed. We gather round – close enough, surely? No. A photographer gets down, crawls on his belly, tugs at the grass stems in front of his long lens, pokes it closer … and closer….

These days, bird photographers are ever-present in many places where people look for birds. In Hong Kong, I was a regular visitor to Long Valley, a freshwater wetland and agricultural enclave in the city’s landscape of logistics parks and skyscrapers. Preserved as a result of a major conservation battle that would have driven a rail line through its heart, Long Valley is now managed by the Conservancy Association. Local villagers farm vegetables for the market and the conservation managers plant a few rice paddies to attract the birds. Fields and paddies are regularly flooded, attracting waders and ducks. Migrating Buntings, Pipits and Wagtails, among others, arrive in their hundreds every year. Raptors patrol the skies.

Long Valley is listed internationally as an Important Bird Area. Notable bird sightings occur regularly and are widely advertised. On most of my visits, there was a ‘stake-out’ somewhere, a gaggle of photographers sitting on canvas stools, clutching a thermos in one hand and a camera in the other. Lenses were at the ready, all pointing in one general direction, ready to capture an image of a rarity. These stake-outs were often handy clues to the location of a good bird. If the passing birder looked as if they knew what they were about, a photographer might show them an image and ask for an ID. Mostly, these photographers did know their stuff – but not always, both with regard to the birds and also to birding etiquette.

One episode of photographers-behaving-badly at Long Valley sticks in my mind. In this case, the problem was not disturbance for the bird, but collateral damage. A large group of photographers had staked out a regular perch of a visiting Crested Serpent Eagle – a telegraph pole set in the middle of a field of lettuces. As I passed, the bird flew in and the photographers charged. Lettuces were trampled and tripods were set up as close as possible to the perch. The bird tolerated this behaviour with some equanimity; the lettuce farmer, no doubt, less so.

Elsewhere in Hong Kong, I often came across groups of photographers who had set up a feeding station for a target bird on a log or a branch. Sometimes, the stage-set would be embellished with a flower or two to decorate the image. Sitting quietly, or hiding, they would wait patiently. A visiting flycatcher is in the vicinity and it has been habituated to take the handouts. It darts in and poses; the shutters click and the flashes explode. I also heard of nests with young being similarly staked out, sometimes with dismal results due to the disturbance, although I never encountered this.

My worst (or best?) experience of this kind of thing was on a trip to Thailand over a New Year weekend. Near the summit of Doi Lang, on the Burmese border in northern Thailand, a crowd of visiting bird photographers had parked their vehicles along the road. Some had set up their tents. On the fringes of the nearby forest were at least half a dozen hides. In front of each the vegetation was cleared and on the resulting stage was a feeding station, crafted to offer the best view. Several sought-after species were hanging around waiting for someone to stock the feeders. Down the road, another set of feeders by an army patrol camp attracted a Large Niltava, Himalayan Bluetail and Dark-backed Sibia, all of them habituated.

Some birders and ornithologists frown on such practices. Habituation at a regular location both breeds over-confidence and may also attract predators. And in this part of the world, the predators are sometimes humans, in the shape of trappers in the caged bird trade.

To be fair, birders as well as photographers sometimes resort to hand-feeding and other artifices to attract birds into view. And twitchers are also notorious for trampling on lettuce beds. But my experience has been that photographers tend to go to greater extremes than do most birders. It is necessary for their art that they have long, preferably close-up views of birds in places where the conditions for photography are favourable. Rarely does nature on its own offer such opportunities, consistently and reliably. Only the most dedicated, with all the time in the world, can wait long enough for these occasions to present themselves. Hence, the charge across the lettuces, the disruptive intrusions and the resort to artifice.

As bird photographers grew in number, the Hong Kong Birdwatching Society was at pains to try to ‘educate’ them, drawing up a code to sit alongside the one they already had for the birdwatching members. Photographers who were not first and foremost birders were being welcomed into their ranks, while simultaneously an increasing numbers of existing birders were also taking up photography.

In Hong Kong and elsewhere in Asia, many bird enthusiasts are into it for the photographs as much as the birds. Birdwatching as a leisure activity emerged in the early- and mid-20^th Century in Europe and North America, coinciding with the advent of high quality ‘field glasses’. Without them, we would just be nature lovers out and about (or maybe egg collectors, or perhaps connoisseurs of birdsong).

In Asia, the recreational enjoyment of birds emerged much later. The technologies that enabled it now included the digital camera (the first came onto the market in 1990). Bird photography emerged as its own leisure pastime, not just as an adjunct to an existing birding scene.

A recent survey of clients by the birding tour company Tropical Birding reported that, compared with the results from earlier surveys, a significantly larger proportion of birders (40%) were responding that photography was a ‘vital’ part of their birding. When I answered their survey, I ticked that box. Not only bins but also a good camera have become indispensable in the field for many birders. A small but increasing number of birders take this to its logical endpoint: they dispense with binoculars altogether and rely on a combination of their ears and skilful camera work to find and ‘see’ the birds.

I am now a fully fledged birder-photographer, but I still distinguish myself from the photographer-birder, even if the distinction is becoming less clear-cut. They have much bigger and more advanced cameras than I do and they constantly strive to get ‘the perfect shot’. For my part, I’m happy with a decent record shot. And I have found that having a camera with me and using it to record the moment can enhance my birding enjoyment.

Often, on my local patch, having fleetingly spotted a Treecreeper or a Pardalote, in order to confirm an ID (is it a Red-browed or White-throated? A Spotted or a Striated?) I try to capture an image. And in following the bird with my bins and my camera in turn, from branch to branch, tree to tree, I get a closer look. I observe it more keenly, linger longer; I may try to ‘pish’ it to come closer; I wait until the bird shows well enough for a photograph, as distinct from just a tick.

This very often ends in frustration, because my camera lens is not as good as my binoculars for tracking a bird through the foliage. This, in itself, poses a new challenge. And sometimes, the end result is a closer acquaintance, a more enriching encounter, with the bird in question – plus an image to provide a record of the moment. Occasionally, the image is a good one, and that’s nice too.

The view through the lens can also be a freshly revealing one for reasons to do with the art of photography – the appreciation of light, of colour and of composition. It can make the sheer beauty of birds in their natural setting more compelling and immediate. One of my most memorable birding episodes in this vein was an encounter with a pair of Harlequin Ducks in Vancouver on the Tsawwassen Pier. It was late afternoon on a clear, sunny day. I was with a bird photographer friend, who fired my enthusiasm for the occasion. The clarity and angles of the darkening afternoon light, the shimmer of the ripples and the hues and contrasting patterns of the ducks’ plumage created a visual feast as the birds swam by, or stood in the shallows and preened. I took umpteen shots.

This encounter would also have been memorable without a camera – Harlequin Ducks are among the smartest of their kind, and they came very close. But the effort of capturing the images both enhanced the viewing and also left a lasting record for the memory.

Gradually, bird photographers and birders have, for the most part, learned to live together – or, at least, they are trying. And, to be clear, my purpose here has not been to knock the photographers – just so long as they behave themselves.