Here, Now
Written on 5/12/2024
There are times when birding can be miserable. Early May in the desert is unpredictable. Heading into the middle of the month this year, we were still getting hard freezes overnight, and the first week of spring migration did not have high temperatures that were warmer than 55. As I began my outing on May 10th, it was a blustery 40 degrees, and a sharp rain was intermittently falling. “Migration is happening whether I like the weather or not,” I told myself, and I continued to go as hard as I could, pishing every ten feet in a stand of tamarisk that lined the Price River.
When I reached the end of the dense vegetation I was looking through, I was chilled, wet, and wanted to be back in the car sipping on my mug of hot coffee. I realized that all I had to show for an hour of birding was a few Black-billed Magpies, some White-crowned Sparrows, and a handful of Yellow-rumped Warblers. All of these are beautiful birds, but species that I have seen hundreds of times throughout the first five months of the year. I was looking for something new, and thought that the day was going to be a bust. It was still early, but I contemplated heading home instead of continuing to bird.
I turned to hike back, and thought of the reading I had done that morning before I left the house. I was working my way through you are here by Thich Nhat Hanh, a guide to living fully in the present moment. I lifted my eyes from the gravelly soil in front of my feet, and saw the flint-colored drapes of rain hanging over the Book Cliffs and Wasatch Mountains. I observed the deeper greens of the desert plants that were rejoicing in the rain. I took note of one of my favorite junipers that stands alone on a hilltop that overlooks the Price River Valley. I had the day off work, and I was partaking in a hobby that I find truly blissful. Breathe in, I am breathing in the beauty of what surrounds me. Breathe out, I am releasing my own beauty back into the world. On the return to the truck, I consciously worked to revel in the splendor of the present moment.
I had a big day of birding planned. I was driving around the desert and stopping at as many “migrant traps” as I could find. These are lush, green areas that draw in migrating birds, stately stands of cottonwoods that seem to be out of place in the middle of an unforgiving desert that stretches for hundreds of miles. I warmed up and drank coffee as I headed out onto a gravel road that bisects a mostly barren greasewood desert. As I traveled, the dark clouds were being pushed southeast towards Moab, and once the skies were nearly cleared, the wind slowed to a slight breeze as if it were resting after accomplishing a goal.
When I arrived to the first stand of cottonwoods, I wanted to get out into the sunshine, no matter the temperature. I figured out that I had run into the Price River again, and that is where the large trees were getting the water necessary to thrive. There was a lower line of tamarisk which I began to pish, and a MacGillivray’s Warbler skulked its way out of a tangle of branches. It looked at me with its eyes that are encased in a thick, white, broken eye rings, figured out my trick, and dove back into the bush. I had found one of my first migrating warblers of the year.
I walked towards the cottonwoods and heard that the crowns of the trees were reverberating with the distinctive “chip” calls of Yellow-rumped Warblers. The diminutive white, gray, and yellow birds sallied out from the exterior branches, flycatching, flashing their brilliant golden upper tail coverts for which they are named. A Nashville and a Black-throated Gray Warbler picked for insects along the interior branches. As I walked among the trees, I flushed a covey of California Quail, whose rapid wing beats sounded like a line of rolling snare drums.
I pressed on to the next trap. As I drove through the desert, I began to notice the sheer volume of birds that were migrating through. The few cottonwoods could not hold them all. Flocks of swallows that numbered in the hundreds, and were comprised of numerous species, flew in lines that pointed straight north. Huge groups of Chipping Sparrows flushed up from the roadside as I rolled past. Migrating warblers were even looking for food in the low-lying greasewood.
The next stand of cottonwoods I ran across was on the edge of a large farm field. Waves of alfalfa were undulating in the breeze. Large sprinklers sent jets of water into the air, and a heavy mist was picked up, then deposited on my windshield. Through the watery haze, I saw a bright orange bird in the tree, and based off its size and color, I could tell it was a male Bullock’s Oriole. I angled my car towards the shoulder of the gravel road so that I could watch the birds out of my driver’s-side window. The trees were again packed with Yellow-rumped Warblers, but the high activity had lured in a few other species. There were two Bullock’s Orioles, both males. I saw the powder-blue of a male Lazuli Bunting, and found its drab-brown mate following it through the lower branches. A male Black-headed Grosbeak added another shade of orange to the mix. I looked around, and these were the only trees that could be seen. To a hungry migrating bird, it must be a pretty tempting spot to touch down and refuel.
The second stand of cottonwoods was the last true migrant trap that I found for the day. On the drive out of the desert, I thought about how poorly my morning began, and how well it ended. Oftentimes, when birding, it is possible to find what one seeks. Sometimes the journey involves a shift in perspective, and a slowing down to nestle into a full presence.
I do not want to say that I willed a great day into existence, but there is some truth in the thought that I can see more when I am fully present, and enjoying the circumstances. It is likely that I missed a lot when I began the morning birding along the river, because I spent so much time with my chin tucked into my chest, and my hands deep in my jacket pockets. When I focused on my breath, and forced myself to be mindful of the beauty that surrounded me, the desert began to bloom with possibility, and I was there to witness it.
When I pulled into my driveway later in the afternoon, I thought of the transformative words of Thich Nhat Hanh. The book I am reading is titled you are here, but I re-formatted it to fit my day of birding. I said to myself: you were there.
That's a beautiful message very eloquently expressed. I so enjoyed reading this.
Beautiful writing Carl! I look forward to your column.