Stranger Places
It began like any normal pregame in the woods.
Naked, alone, hungover, a sweaty sleeping bag in the back of a dusty pickup truck, miles from civilization. Predawn in a narrow Utah river bottom, canyon country, early July. A Thermos of lukewarm coffee. Last night’s empties scattered below the exhaust. I lie awake beneath ancient cottonwoods and the hulking black shadows of canyon walls, listening for bird song while running through the morning’s survey variables in my head. Immediately identifiable ones—ravens, magpies, hawks, black bears, skunks, quicksand—and harder to predict ones. Whether the temperatures will reach 104 degrees Fahrenheit before 11 a.m. Whether the down-canyon winds will exceed Category 4 (11-16 mph) on the Beaufort scale. How many cubic feet per second the river jumped overnight and how many decibels the increased current noise will affect acoustic detection probabilities. I’m thinking contingencies. What to do if conditions become unsuitable. Where to go if I can’t cross the river. How to get out alive, without cell service, if something goes wrong.
By 5:15 a.m., I’m rereading the protocol by headlamp. A Natural History Summary and Survey Protocol for the Western Distinct Population Segment of the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. I’m going over lookalikes and soundalikes, other birds that might, for a freak instant, steal my attention, dupe me into believing. Ash-throated flycatcher: similar shape, coloration; gray flanks, white breast; the crown, however, too pointed, bill too straight. Yellow-breasted chat: the rattle call loops into a circus-track of whistles, cackles, squawks. Great-blue heron nestling: deceptive clattering. Eurasian collared-dove, northern flicker, greater roadrunner.
I drop the tailgate and crawl out. There are no people in this river bottom, just cottonwoods, a winding dirt-sand road, and a faded Porta-John. Civil twilight (dawn, “first birding light”) starts at 5:52 a.m., the 30 minutes preceding sunrise when the center of the sun reaches 6 degrees below the horizon, indirectly illuminating the eastern skyline. Ornithologists revolve around this crepuscular window during the migratory bird nesting season. The chorus of birdsong gets louder by the minute. You start to see the ground beneath your feet. I take a piss in the sand, cue Guns N’ Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” on the iPhone playlist—a tribute to a colleague who died in a flash flood—and suit up. Double-fronted Carhartt’s for the brush. A light wicking T-shirt for the sweat. A collared pearl-snap button-up long-sleeve for the sun, a Write-in-the-Rain notepad in the front pocket, and a loaded mechanical pencil in the sleeve next to it. A fleece for mosquitoes. Crusty socks. Wet hiking boots. A vintage brown felt cowboy hat with a wide, flat brim. Extra handkerchiefs for the blood.
Cuckoo country is, indeed, on many counts, a place for no one of sound mind.
By 5:30 a.m., I’m counting down the minutes. I’m subtracting hike time, inhaling a four-day old burrito, bathing myself in citronella oil and garlic (no girlfriend this trip). I’m musing, as always, about the ridiculous odds of it all, the chances, or lack thereof, that I might actually detect the bird: (Co·size·us) . The one sighting here, 10 years ago. That
