A few weeks ago I had a birthday. Nevermind which one, I'm past the sexy ones. At my age, you don't get magical gifts like voting rights or drinking rights as a reward for staying alive. If you want a good birthday, you better make it one.
My wife was out of town, and there wasn't much to do at home. So I said to myself, "Fuck it, self." My self was scandalized, but intrigued. "Self," I said, "I'm giving you a gift. We're going birding."
Full of passion but lacking direction, I appealed to the great birding sage Seagull Steve for advice. He said many edifying things, and this one stuck: "I would highly recommend southeast Arizona. It's so close to California, and the birding is fucking brilliant."
Of course. It was so obvious, so elegant in its simplicity. I was a little concerned that it might be miserably hot, but, well... YOLO, self.
YOLO.
Two days later I touched down at the Tucson airport.
My wife was out of town, and there wasn't much to do at home. So I said to myself, "Fuck it, self." My self was scandalized, but intrigued. "Self," I said, "I'm giving you a gift. We're going birding."
Full of passion but lacking direction, I appealed to the great birding sage Seagull Steve for advice. He said many edifying things, and this one stuck: "I would highly recommend southeast Arizona. It's so close to California, and the birding is fucking brilliant."
Of course. It was so obvious, so elegant in its simplicity. I was a little concerned that it might be miserably hot, but, well... YOLO, self.
YOLO.
Two days later I touched down at the Tucson airport.
Birders who are more comfortable in their own skins may bristle at this, but here it is: birding is shameful. Shameful in the sense that it arouses feelings of shame. I mean that's been my experience, off and on, meandering through life as a self-conscious introvert. Being alone in the wilderness is one thing, but in populated areas, with binoculars around your neck, staring in directions where there's nothing obvious to see, you look weird. The pursuit of birds often brings us into such places, where misunderstandings could be unflattering, or worse. How am I to feel while birding around, say, an airport, where I might be mistaken for a terrorist on a scouting mission? Or in a residential area, where I could be a peeping tom or a burglar? Similarly fraught are playgrounds (pedophile), beaches (lecher), office buildings (corporate spy)... basically ALL THE PLACES.
Hence the magic of Southeast Arizona, where birding is almost normal. So many birders descend on the place, and so many non-birders don't because why the fuck would you, that you almost expect everyone you meet to be a member of the tribe.
Hence the magic of Southeast Arizona, where birding is almost normal. So many birders descend on the place, and so many non-birders don't because why the fuck would you, that you almost expect everyone you meet to be a member of the tribe.
Real photo I took of a real thing.
Sure enough, about an hour after leaving the airport, I was among my people, watching a staked-out Plain-capped Starthroat at the Santa Rita Lodge in Madera Canyon. LIFER.
Rarely seen in the U.S., this bird is the early-90s Shaquille O'Neal of hummingbirds. Other hummingbirds don't even try to stop it when it dunks, lest they be shredded by broken backboard glass.
Among those in attendance were a couple friendly dudes from Colorado who'd just rolled into town. We scanned the feeders together, the excitement palpable - everyone birding there is a little more alive than usual.
Bridled Titmouse - way cooler than your average titmouse.
We wished each other well and I drove back to my hotel in the fading light, Lesser Nighthawks sweeping through the big sky all around, and dreamt of the magic to come.
The next day was Independence Day and I observed it independently. I went back to Madera Canyon, lifered again (Whiskered Screech-Owl), hiked a bit, talked to some birders, and saw a bunch of these dudes:
Varied Bunting. Gotta confess they all looked the same to me. Still awesome though.
Eventually I made my way over the hill to Sierra Vista, where the hotel clerk reminded me that I'd booked the "birdwatching package." I chuckled at the memory - have you ever heard of such a thing? How could I pass that up?
The birdwatching package: not super useful, but cute.
She seemed to take my levity as an invitation. "You know I've lived here six years, and I've never once gone birdwatching. What do you see out there, anyway?" Neither of us was prepared for the true profundity of that question. I muttered something lame about birds you can't see anywhere else in the U.S., and we completed the check-in process. I felt inadequate.
For dinner I decided to treat myself to a small feast at the Mexican restaurant nextdoor. I was sitting at the bar, ruminating on my existence and a gristly fajita platter, when an utterly surreal thing happened: someone said my name.
"Josh?"
Well, you coulda knocked me off my barstool with a feather. I turned and saw a familiar face, though it took me a moment to place it. It was one of the birders from Colorado. It was a long day later and a 90-minute drive away, but we'd both wound up in the same Mexican joint and he'd come up to say hi. Not only that, but they were planning to bird some cool spots the next day and invited me to join.
Sounds good, says I. The tribe doth provide.
For dinner I decided to treat myself to a small feast at the Mexican restaurant nextdoor. I was sitting at the bar, ruminating on my existence and a gristly fajita platter, when an utterly surreal thing happened: someone said my name.
"Josh?"
Well, you coulda knocked me off my barstool with a feather. I turned and saw a familiar face, though it took me a moment to place it. It was one of the birders from Colorado. It was a long day later and a 90-minute drive away, but we'd both wound up in the same Mexican joint and he'd come up to say hi. Not only that, but they were planning to bird some cool spots the next day and invited me to join.
Sounds good, says I. The tribe doth provide.
In the morning we took the long-steep-narrow-rocky-winding road up Carr Canyon. I had some white-knuckle moments in my flimsy rental car, but we made it. And when we made it, oh, how the birds greeted us. Some of them I'd only ever seen once, like Buff-breasted Flycatcher.
Like every other bird there was a Buff-breasted Flycatcher.
These guys were sharp, and by 7am, they'd found me two lifers (Olive Warbler and Greater Pewee). After a nice half-morning atop the canyon, we again parted ways. I found another lifer on my way out, Botteri's Sparrow. It was a hell of a start to my birthday.
The middle of the day was hot and contemplative. I birded an Army base, ate a Blizzard, and headed to Patagonia, the tiny mountain town where I would spend the night. There I visited the legendary Paton house, where strangers are invited to sit in the backyard at any time and watch the dizzying action at the hummingbird feeders.
The middle of the day was hot and contemplative. I birded an Army base, ate a Blizzard, and headed to Patagonia, the tiny mountain town where I would spend the night. There I visited the legendary Paton house, where strangers are invited to sit in the backyard at any time and watch the dizzying action at the hummingbird feeders.
This was down the road from the Patons but you get the idea.
Finally, I wound up at the Wagon Wheel Saloon.
Tucson Blonde.
I figured I'd have a burger and a beer and call it a night, but the universe had other plans. As I was wrapping up, a group of rowdy fifty-somethings came in and started ordering two rounds at a time. Pretty soon they were ordering for me too, over my objections, which soon melted away anyhow. At one point I actually got up and danced. (*Cringe.*) At another point, they put "Play That Funky Music" on the jukebox. I'm white, and they were not, and they got a big kick out of pointing and singing at me when the chorus came around. It was a good time, and it ended late, with handshakes and hugs and a jog through the dark to my hotel, where I quickly fell into the sleep of the just.
In summary, a birding adventure was a fine and thoughtful gift for me to give myself. Southeast Arizona was spectacular, and I heartily recommend it to birders and anyone who enjoys driving through eerie, Breaking Bad-esque landscapes. But more importantly, in the process of doing all that, I gave myself the greatest gift of all:
A Blizzard.
Also, acceptance. That was also nice.
Also, acceptance. That was also nice.
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