A Well-Rounded Naturalist

The beginning of my hike into Price Canyon Recreation Area. I had the road all to myself.

Written on 12/15/23

What does it take to intimately know a place? This is the question I asked myself as I began my hike up Price Canyon Recreation Area. I had it all to myself. The road had been closed for a few weeks, and my truck was the only vehicle parked outside of the padlocked gate.

I hiked a few miles in. I wanted to get past the scrubby Gambel oak hillside at the beginning of the road, and into ponderosa forest. I knew I had arrived at my destination when I heard the growl of Clark’s Nutcrackers, and the yips of Red Crossbills. These bird calls are common in coniferous forests across the West, but for me, they characterize the soundscape of Price Canyon.

I was loosely looking for two species: Brown Creeper and Golden-crowned Kinglet. Both have been documented in Price Canyon. Both have eluded me since I moved to Carbon County last year. Despite taking many trips where these are my “targets,” I’ve missed them for a year and seven months. I go to spots where they have been seen, I scour the correct habitats, and I have nothing to show for it. When I finally see them in the county, the buildup should make it all worth it. Maybe they’ll come in an unexpected place, when I’m not trying so hard.

It doesn’t matter, because lately, I’ve been focusing more on being a well-rounded naturalist versus a bird chaser. The world has too few naturalists these days. Deeply observing and enjoying the whole of nature, and extracting meaning through direct observation, hasn’t been as en vogue since the days of Henry David Thoreau and Aldo Leopold (these two were a generation apart). We have all benefitted from contemporary naturalists like David Attenborough, Jane Goodall, and Ellen Meloy (ok, if you don’t know her, do yourself a favor…), but a wholistic reverence for the natural world seems to be treated like an idyllic throwaway from centuries past. A modern love for nature is defined more by adventure and conquest.

I still list, sure, but I do so because I think it’s important to document what we have left. Billions of birds have vanished during my lifetime. They disappear and are forgotten like puffs of breath on a winter morning. I know birds better than other life forms, so that is my major contribution to citizen science. I look, and I record. As we lose more and more birds, we start to see things from a shifting baseline, and species can decline without anyone noticing. A particular forest used to have 10 Clark’s Nutcrackers per square mile, the next year it had nine, the following year eight, and so on. Loss is only apparent if it is either dramatic, or documented.

Being a more well-rounded naturalist gives me something to do when I can’t find the species I’m looking for, or when there aren’t a lot of birds out on a particular day. Everything is interconnected. Climate and soil determine what plants grow where, and plants make up a habitat that determine what birds will be there. When I understand the landscape, I better understand the birds. When humans make even subtle habitat changes, the species that rely on a location can disappear.

There wasn’t a lot flying around today. Instead, I was looking at desiccated leaves of Gambel oak that had curled around their stems and still clung to the mostly bare branches. I noticed the extensively fire-charred bark of many of the ponderosas, and was impressed by how many of the trees had survived the flames that coursed through here just a few years ago. I made the observation that curl-leaf mountain mahogany don’t drop their leaves seasonally. I saw the difference in plant composition on shaded slopes versus those that get longer periods of direct sunlight. I looked at the various tracks in the snow, finding some that I believe were left behind by Rocky Mountain elk.

These tracks likely grew as the snow melted, and they spread out, but they were much larger than what I would expect from mule deer.

There’s no cell service in Price Canyon, and I was the only one there. I felt like I was truly myself, and I could study without worrying about any judgment from other visitors. I have been here during each of the four seasons, and have observed the changes throughout the year. I was warmed by an overwhelming feeling of intimacy, and that was best enjoyed while hiking alone.

The birds I did see were the ones that I see every time I go up there: Clark’s Nutcrackers, Mountain Chickadees, Red-breasted and White-breasted Nuthatch, Steller’s Jays, Cassin’s Finches, and Red Crossbills. I spent a little bit longer with each one, since they are the common species that inhabit a place that is special to me. I also had a newfound appreciation for them as I watched through the lens of my new camera.

The first two photos are White-breasted Nuthatch, then two Mountain Chickadee, then two Clark’s Nutcracker, then a male Cassin’s Finch.

After I looked around, and photographed birds for three hours, I hiked back down to my truck. Only then, did I think about the fact that I missed the two species that I had come looking for. I realized that to see these birds in Carbon County, it’s going to take commitment. I thought of the word commitment, and realized that it was also the answer to the question that I started out with. To intimately know a place, you must show commitment. In Price Canyon, I am working on seeing everything by foot, learning more about the entire ecosystem, and gaining a deep respect and understanding of the birds that share this place with me.