Rufous-capped Warbler

Florida CanyonOn my first day in Arizona, my friend Deb and I went in search of a Rufous-capped Warbler, a bird that lives in Mexico but from time to time pops over the border. This bird had flown north, to Florida Canyon, a small canyon just north of Madera Canyon, one of Southern Arizona’s birding hotspots. The Arizona birding community was in motion to see this special yellow bird with its rufous cap.

That day, we had had no luck finding the bird. No one that day found it, not even the friendly couple who had driven down from Tempe. They helped us identify the Hammond’s flycatcher, and when I pointed toward the sky he was the first to call it: Golden Eagle. Later, we joined this couple sitting on a bench and watching one of the famous feeders in Madera Canyon as Lesser Goldfinch and Bridled Titmouse came and went. Everyone but me drove home disappointed. I hardly cared about finding such a special bird—I was still intent on orienting myself in this new birding landscape, on finding the usual birds. I was happy—no, thrilled--with my Black-throated Sparrow (not to be confused with the Black-chinned Sparrow) and with the Lesser Goldfinch, and the Bridled Titmouse birds I had never seen before.

Two days later, Deb and I left for Bisbee stopping at Patagonia Lake on the way there. As we left Tucson, a flock of Gambel’s Quail crossed the road. I had Deb pull over as I admired the plump birds that disappeared amidst prickly pear, and palo verde.

“It’s hard to get excited about them,” Deb said as I delighted in seeing the birds and mentally checked them off of my imaginary life list.  “There were half a dozen in my backyard this morning.”

Coot on Patagonia LakeI thought of the birds I saw every day in my tiny back yard in Tivoli. There were too many house sparrows at the feeder these days. They were joined by house finches. Yes, I was tired of both of these birds, and yearned for something a bit more special. But these brown little birds were not as cute as a Gambel’s Quail. How could anyone tire of them with their plumy bonnets? The Quail is named for William Gambel, a little known 19^th century ornithologist who explored the West. When he found the birds he wrote: “We met with small flocks of this handsome species…inhabiting the most barren brushy plains…where a person would suppose it to be impossible for any animal to subsist.” But here it was and here it has remained, flourishing in a hard place.

I wondered at how spoiled Arizona birders are. There are wonderful birds year round—they hardly knew the poverty of an east coast winter where we are left with silence and stillness and hope. And they have the luxury of becoming bored with an adorable bird. I was painfully jealous and spent the rest of my trip fantasizing moving to Patagonia, a sleepy, quaint town near the Mexico border with  a restaurant that sells great BLTs and amazing birding areas from people’s backyard feeders to Patagonia Lake. This is also the location of the famous “Patagonia Picnic Table.”

Deb and I spent a lot of time hopping across the maze of small streams that leak into the Lake, which is filled with Common Mergansers, Pied-billed Grebes and Coots.  Great blue herons poke the edges and somewhere in the sycamore trees lurked a Trogon. A man with a large camera ran up to us, his breath short, his heart racing. “Today I am the luckiest man in the world.” And he showed us a photo of the Trogon. I did not see the Trogon but everything from the Gambel’s Quail to all of the birds at Patagonia made me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Those Arizona sunsets!Deb and I spent several days driving through grasslands, hiking up canyons, tromping through high desert and swooning over sunsets. We saw 115 species of birds (not that I’m counting). Of these, 36 were new birds or me. I was now back in Tucson, tired and satisfied. That’s when Deb called to ask if I wanted one last shot at the Rufous-capped warbler.  This was purely a generous offer as she had seen the bird on a day I had visited Catalina State Park alone.

“I’d be up for it,” she said in her off hand manner.

“Really? You’d go down there again?” I smiled into my cell phone.

Deb was indefatigable. So off we drove on my last day in Arizona to find the warbler. We arrived at the lonely canyon around 9 in the morning, not exactly prime birding time. But the sun was just beginning to touch down in the desert canyon. We walked by a dry streambed where sycamore trees grew strong. We passed through a gate, and started up the dusty, rocky trail.

Coming out of the canyon was a trio of birders. They all looked glum, shaking their heads. “No warbler.”

This didn’t dull my enthusiasm, somehow I sensed that Deb and I were a golden duo. After all, we’d seen the black-chinned sparrow, hadn’t we?

We crossed over a dam, water trickling over the edge, green algae lacing the edge of the spill. Then we tromped by a narrow stream, thick with brush. Above us white-throated swifts soared. A photographer passed us, also looking discouraged. “It’s not here,” he declared.

“OK,” I said, remaining confident.

He headed downstream, while Deb and I climbed a bit higher.

Deb on a warbler huntDeb perched on a rock, small binoculars to her eyes.  “Got it,” she said, all confidence and some glee in her voice.

I snapped my binoculars to my eyes and there it was, the yellow warbler with a striking brown cap. I motioned to the photographer, and he ran back, camera at the ready. The bird flit from one bush to the next, escaping any but the briefest looks. But this small chase delighted me. Deb and I hopped along rocks by the streambed, emerging scratched and my pants ripped.

We returned to Deb’s car, the trip ending on a high note, thanks to Deb’s persistence and generosity. 116 birds, 37 of them new for me.  But everyone one of them a special bird.

Black-chinned Sparrow

Sandhill CranesI like a bird that announces itself: the Vermilion Flycatcher that I saw on my last morning in Tucson or the Acorn Woodpecker with its familiar cackle and flaming red head. The more subtle birds become, but are not as immediately loveable. I learned on this trip to Arizona that the flycatchers that don’t vocalize are maddening—did the tail flick up or down? It matters. Sparrows also fall into this category of work to love. You have to pay attention to the details. The mustard eye line. The streaking on the chest—is it fine or splotchy? The rufous patch on the wing.  On this trip, I was ready to give sparrows all of my attention.

Learning my ducksJanuary 18, 2012, my friend Deb and I drove from her place in Bisbee, north to Whitewater, a series of ponds and grasses, an oasis in the desert. The Sandhill Cranes were landing at Whitewater. This is an event. A large bus was parked in the lot as people walked out to peer at the mass of elegant, tall gray birds with their red crowns. Watching Sandhill Cranes land and take off is a dizzying experience. They flail toward the earth, all legs and wings; at times they seem to stall mid-flight, plummeting to earth. At the same time, others launch toward the air, two birds on a near-collision course. But here’s the thing: you never see two birds collide.

We walked out a breakwater and saw the silhouettes of two roosting Great Horned Owls (satisfying an unending need for owls). A Greater Yellowlegs waded in the water and a Killdeer called as it flew by. There were lots of ducks to enjoy in the impoundments around the cranes. We ate lunch and perfected our duck identifications: there was a Cinnamon Teal with its elegant cinnamon colored head, there were Gadwall, with their black butts, and Pintails with long necks, a white stripe snaking up from the chest. There were rumors of a Sora, which a small army of cheerful photographers waited to document.  

The sun beat down on us in the exposed grasslands. Mid-afternoon I was tired so we headed toward home. I was dreaming of a nap.

“Want to go look for the Black-chinned Sparrow?” Deb asked.

I felt my heart flutter.

“We could walk up M Canyon and look for one,” she said, her eye trained on the road.

I pointed to a red-tailed hawk on a pole, peering out at the vast desert, raw with overgrazing.

M Canyon isn’t really M Canyon, but I don’t want to tell anyone where this is. It’s a secret spot, the sort of place locals keep to themselves.

“Of course,” I said.

We drove to the end of the Canyon and set out, passing a range of make shift homes. A copper-colored dog joined us on our walk, cheerfully bounding ahead, then rejoining us as if we had always belonged to each other. There were stone walls flanking the trail and amidst the grasses mesquite trees. We saw a few Vesper Sparrows in the bushes, but not much else. We pushed on into the Canyon, where it became fantastically quiet. Not a bird in sight. We enjoyed the sense of calm, the shifting, dropping light, the cooler temperatures after a hot day in the sun. But I was starting to feel discouraged.

We headed back downhill to the point we had last seen a bird. We stood. We pished. We gazed into desert brush, at rocky small cliffs.

“There it is,” Deb said with confidence.

I put my bins to my eyes. And there perched the elegant compact gray bird, with a faint black splotch on its chin, announcing itself to the world: Black-chinned Sparrow.