The Gull Gospel: The Simple Act of Not Knowing

By: Jonah Eckels-Galbreath

“Whatcha looking at?” 

Eighteen birders—gathered together in a loose line under gray skies—all stopped their momentary reveling, turning their backs on a gull filled lake, to face two newcomers. This duo of twenty-somethings didn’t bear the vestments often associated with the birding clade. No binoculars hung from vulturine necks. No spotting scopes proudly planted in the ground like a cross at Easter; nor were they garbed in muted shades of khaki, the typical attire worn by those known as birders. No, they came in hoodies and sweatpants; young, optimistic, and wholly unprepared for an evening spent in the presence of gulls. 

A long silence hung in the air, as a general air of caution spread over the flock of birders, the question to the question lingering on everyone’s tongue—did these two newcomers really want to know what they stumbled upon? As the moment approached the threshold of being uncomfortable, the assembled group caught a glimpse in the eyes of the interlopers. A gleam of genuine curiosity. And really, that’s all they needed to see. 

Party members quickly jumped into action, directing the two to nearby scopes. Sunlight was fading fast, as it often does at an early December gull roost, but there was much to share with these curious visitors before a purple sandpiper sky turned to a great black-backed night. But with which gull to start their first gull communion. 

Blessedly, on that day, there was a veritable convocation of gulls from which to choose. And thus, scopes were duly pointed at a large bird—the color of a Starbucks latte with two pumps of creamer—in the middle of the flock. It was the perfect gull in which to start their immersion in the gospel of gull. Much larger than its nearby kin, it was easy enough for even the untrained eye to pick out; its creamy-white plumage lit like a beacon amongst a sea of stoney gray. And it was extraordinary, a bird unknown to the masses, and a gull that dedicated larophiles could wax poetic about for days. Yes, a glaucous gull seemed just right.

Glaucous Gull, the Starbucks latte-colored gull

Our two new friends appeared to concur. Quickly, they picked up on the gull’s salient features, all the while listening to the excited murmurings of four to five nearby birders, who couldn’t stop themselves from sharing various tidbits of gull lore, including, but not limited to, a glaucous gull’s key fieldmarks, the winter ramblings of white-winged gulls, and even, a detailed description of gull moult. These two potential gull converts were either extremely polite, or were truly interested, as they followed up each gull passage with a thoughtful question of their own. If there’s anything a gull disciple loves more than gulls, it's an engaged audience. 

So these two students got the full gull crash course. The hundreds of seagulls gathering on the lake took their names, two by two; starting first with the ring-billed gulls then moving on to the herring gulls and all their associated perplexities. Next came the diminutive Bonaparte’s gull and a quick aside into the history of Charles Lucien Bonaparte. All of this they took in without a hint of boredom or annoyance. Lesser black-backed gulls came next, a lone bird with a sooty cassock providing another easy to spot lesson in this impromptu gull workshop. But the group saved the pièce de résistance for last; the gull for whom this gathering of gull devotees came together to worship on this particular December evening under a purple sandpiper sky. 

It, like the lesser black-backed and glaucous gulls, stood out. A shade lighter than soot, the back of this bird drew the gaze of our curious students away from the steel gray of the ring-billed gulls and to a bird with no real business in west St. Louis county. These gull initiates may, or may not have, noted the gulls' rounded headed, long wing projection, and bold white scapulars. But they both immediately observed one key fieldmark—they were very quick learners after all—a bill so small that it appeared downright tiny at 40x zoom in the scope. 

“What’s so special about this one?” they asked.

So as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, leaving only the vestiges of a cloud-covered sunset, the two twenty-somethings, both who only thirty minutes prior knew nothing of gulls nor birders, listened to the tantalizing tale of Missouri’s fifth record of short-billed gull. Each prior record was recited like psalms on a Sunday, each story told with fervor and passion. They learned this bird belonged on the Pacific Coast, not in Missouri. The first record for the state, they heard, occurred in 2008, and that a small few gathered there that evening had witnessed the fourth record of this glorious gull only twenty-three months prior. By the time of this duo’s departure, many moments after the last light of the day, they knew much of short-billed gulls and their history in Missouri. But they left, as many of us did that evening, without knowing the full story of that small-billed gull with a smokey gray cloak. 

That lone gull, seen amongst a sea of a thousand others, remains a mystery as of this recounting. Those fieldmarks observed by the cadre of birders that evening were notable, but apparently not diagnostic. If they’d dug deeper, dreamed bigger, taken more photos, they may have noticed this bird didn’t quite fit the short-billed narrative they’d believed. That smokey back? A shade darker than one might expect for a short-billed. Its general shape and impression? Maybe a touch off. And its open-wing pattern, the key to clinching its identity, left truly unexamined in the moment. 

So today, there are some who maintain that the unknown bird was a short-billed gull, the true and rightful heir as the fifth record for the state. Others claim it to be Missouri's first record of common gull, a Russian bird never before seen in these parts, a December miracle that would go down in Missouri’s gull lore as one of the most improbable sightings ever. Photos of this gull, plus one—possibly the same one—from Riverlands two days prior, shed some light on the situation, but left much to be desired for the Creve Coeur individual. So here it remains—a mystery.

The two passerbys that evening knew none of debate to come, oblivious to a common theme in the gull gospel—the simple act of not knowing. This tenet is often the hardest for potential converts to grasp. “How can we not know,” they may ask, “all birds must have a name and place.” But with gulls, lines blur, identities remain hidden, and sometimes, all you’re left with is a mystery. As was the case for the small-billed gull on Creve Coeur Lake, who as of yet remains before the Missouri Birds Record Committee, the authority on such matters, its fate soon to be decided. 

But, I believe the duo who stopped by the gull roost that December day under a purple sandpiper sky, would have revelled in the unknownness of it all. Taking in each new detail, asking all sorts of questions, and enjoying time amongst a fellowship of passionate parishioners of gull. A moment of mystery in a sea of gray and white. And really, that’s the heart of the gull gospel.

Note: This story was first published in the Missouri Birding Society’s The Bluebird in the March 2026.

The mystery gull which was later determined to be Missouri’s first record of Common Gull.