Sneed B. Collard III - Warblers & Woodpeckers: A Father-Son Big Year of Birding

SNEED B. COLLARD III

For Braden

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Copyright 2018 by Sneed B. Collard III

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Design and layout: Kate Basart/Union Pageworks

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Collard, Sneed B., author.

Title: Warblers and woodpeckers : a father-son big year of birding / Sneed B. Collard III.

Description: Seattle, WA : Mountaineers Books, [2018]

Identifiers: LCCN 2018020636| ISBN 9781680511369 (paperback) | ISBN 9781680511376 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Bird watchingUnited StatesAnecdotes. | Bird watchersUnited StatesAnecdotes. | Collard, Sneed B. | Fathers and sonsAnecdotes.

Classification: LCC QL677.5 .C62 2018 | DDC 598.072/3473dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018020636

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Printed on recycled paper

ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68051-136-9

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-68051-137-6

contents

Braden and I pulled into a gas station at the western edge of Douglas, Arizona. Across the street stood the county jail, surrounded by fifteen-foot fencing and spools of razor wire that glinted menacingly in the desert sun.

It was only noon, but my son and I had already driven 150 miles and spent two hours at one of the meccas of American birding, Ramsey Canyon, on the flanks of the Huachuca Mountains. Now we prepared to veer off the beaten path to a destination less known and perhaps considerably more dangerous. To ensure success we needed what every explorer since John Wesley Powell had requireda full tank of gas and a family-size bag of Doritos.

After gassing up and settling with the cashier, I consulted my iPhone for directions to the San Bernardino National Wildlife Refuge. The Google Maps app had improved considerably since the era of Powell, but as we wended our way through quiet neighborhoods, down Fifteenth Street, and east onto a road that abruptly shed its pavement outside of town, I couldnt help but wonder if it might be leading us astray. I grew even more anxious when I realized that our moth- and fly-spattered rental car was the only civilian vehicle on the road. The vehicles we did see? Green-and-white SUVs emblazoned with Homeland Security logos and the words Border Patrol in block green letters.

What are all these Border Patrol people doing here? Braden asked as yet another agent roared past us.

Living in Montana as we did, the political and social realities of the USMexico border rarely entered dinner conversation, and I debated how much to say about them.

Well, I hedged, theyre here to stop people from sneaking across the border, either to work or bring drugs over.

Bradens brow furrowed. Is it dangerous here?

Uh, not really. There are some problems, but they are mostly on the other side of the border. Not my best effort at reassuranceand a little fast and loose with the factsbut I quickly added, With these Border Patrol agents, well be safe.

Why do they stare at us whenever we pass?

Just looking to see if we might be mules or coyotes, I said.

Huh?

Never mind. Ill tell you later.

We followed the winding dirt road for fifteen miles, often within a couple hundred yards of the low fence that marked the boundary between nations. At a Y in the road we angled left, and our anticipation began to build at what we might see.

Our destination, the San Bernardino National Wildlife Refuge, had been established to protect critically endangered freshwater fish species such as the Yaqui Topminnow and Yaqui Chub. Braden and I, though, had come in the hope that we might score some migrating waterfowl and one particular bird species that could only be found here and one or two other places in the Lower 48the Green Kingfisher. With their stylish looks, giant bills, and dynamic personalities, kingfishers are some of our favorite birds, and the Green Kingfishers rarity would make it an especially vaunted addition to a Big Year list we hoped would top 250 species by December 31.

The entrance should be right up here, Braden said, studying the map on my phone.

Look, there it is! I exclaimed, preparing to swing right, into the refuge.

I braked and turnedonly to narrowly avoid crashing into two locked gates brandishing a sign: Road Closed.

What? Braden shouted, outraged.

Youve got to be kidding, I said, slamming my hand on the steering wheel. This is public land! This is a public refuge!

I looked over at Braden, Is it a holiday today?

He shook his head. I dont think so.

Well, crap.

Look, it says the refuge is open to foot traffic, Braden said, reading further. We can walk in.

After backing away from the gate, I parked the car in an adjacent, empty parking area, and we tumbled out. Although a nearby sign and map indicated a hike of only a mile or so to the ponds and riverbed that might hold the Green Kingfisher, my enthusiasm for such a trek dipped firmly into the reluctant category. Staring across the flat, dry landscape bristling with cholla cactus and mesquite, I could feel serious heat building on the giant frying pan of a desert surrounding us, and I knew it would only grow more intense as the afternoon progressed.

What do you think? I asked Braden.

His slack body language reflected my own ambivalence, but he said, Were here. We might as well try it.

I sighed but nodded. Braden didnt always push himself in situations like this one, and, although I didnt look forward to the hike, I appreciated that he was willing to go for it.

Lets bring water, I told him.