Gone Birding (and Camping and Hiking and Swimming and...)

The Narrows by _desertsky.

It'���s 11:37 Sunday, cool, cloudy. The birds outside my window are singing all at once. It���'s like backstage at the opera, ���where each soloist warms his voice, filling the air with a cacophony of gorgheggio, falsetto, and vibrato. In the bird backyard, however, the trills and warbles are a relaxation soundtrack. Occasionally, they will all stop and take notice of a cardinal, its incessant "���birdie, birdie, birdie, birdie, birdie, birdie, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet"��� either an annoyance to them or a sublime pleasure. It���'s all a wonder and a joy to me.

Even during my worst bouts of sleeplessness, I never resented the bird or its song. Until you see a frantic finch mother directing its chick out of the sight of the neighbor'���s cat or a Carolina wren mourning his mate'���s loss to that same cat, crying in the pine by the back porch, all week long, feeding the babies by himself, singing them forlorn lullabies, it may be hard to think of them as more than reasons to pay the car wash.

BRD SHT

My car is parked under an overgrown privet and a telephone pole. When I am too embarrassed to be seen around town in it, I will take it over to Washworks, where I am shamed. Over the loudspeaker echoes the announcement: ���Pathfinder covered with bird—���may need two rounds.��� The owner looks at me sideways, as if I���'m stealing his profits. But I am proud that my home is a safe haven to birds, that my trees are festooned with nests, that pieces of egg litter my lawn. I am saving up for vanity tags: BRD SHT.

I love my birds: crows and herons and goldfinches, owls and hawks, jays and cardinals and wrens and house martins. I note the return of the bluebird and the oriole to our park. I watch the night heron and the great egret fish for supper. When I see an indigo bunting or a scarlet tanager, I know it���'s a lucky day. I have written poems for my birds. One of them, called, ���Place Bird Here,��� is about how you can enliven even the dullest piece of prose with the mention of a bird or a call. Every book should have a bird in it somewhere. I work a bird into the conversation whenever I can.

The last time I saw a hummingbird up close was also the first. I was at the Thunderbird Restaurant, just outside Zion Canyon, Utah. You have to stop at a place that calls itself, ���"Home of the Ho-Made Pie."��� (That ho makes a great apple pie.) In just a few days, I will be in Zion. After eight hours of planes and buses, my daughter and I, weary of coloring and Harry Potter and engine noise, will go, by pickup truck (driven by husband), to a secret seventy-degree spot that overlooks the 100-degree park. (This is not a secret we share.) We'���ll hike The Narrows and climb Angel���'s Landing and walk up The Watchman and listen to the birds hail the sunrise. We'll cook on the camp stove, eat trail mix, sing with my husband's guitar, and shower under a bag of water warmed by the sun.

"Lone Rock," by David B.

While out in Mormon country, we will swim in Lake Powell, (who could pass up a trip to this place?) and scramble around the slickrock in Canyonlands. The brochures don'���t lie when they call them ���the most beautiful landscapes on earth.��� Last time I visited, a tufted titmouse ate pistachios from my hand for an entire afternoon. I'���m hoping to feed one of his offspring this trip. Afterward we'���ll hop over to Moab and Arches National Park, where the sun feels like fire, and everything is red except the sky. This is the hell where good people go. We'���ll take a family-style white-water rafting trip and drink beer with new friends on their way to Hawaii.

I don'���t vacation so easy anymore. I am often so driven that I spend my holidays with colds—���what happens when you stop resisting and relax. I am energized by many of my daily routines—���my morning run, my quiet time at the iMac, my bedtime book���—so I���'m often like a fish out of water when I go visiting for too long. I can pack the running shoes and Rio, the books I have to read for school (John McPhee���'s Encounters with the Archdruid, ���whose last chapter is about Lake Powell, ���and Tracy Kidder���'s Mountains Beyond Mountains). But I cannot take you.

"Goldfinch tanking up," by Max xx

While I���'m gone, I hope you will take care of the birds. They like to frolic in water���—especially with a fountain, especially when it'���s hot. And they like to sing and chirp and shit on my car. And that's OK.

A Doggy'���s Life will return on or about 8 July 2005. Please come back.


For further reading on birds and their sounds, try Dawn Chorus, where you can learn how to write down bird sounds, and eNature, where you can identify what you hear in your backyard.