Drip. Drip. Drip.
Scrub shook. Binoculars rose.
Orange-crowned warbler. Ho-hum.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
For ninety minutes this continued. The only change: there now were three seconds between drips.
Komito realized he had no clue what this bird looked like; it wasn’t even pictured in his trusty National Geographic. Luckily, someone had carted along a Mexican field guide—this bird was supposed to live in tropical Mexican mountains—so Komito studied it. Frankly, the white-throated robin looked so much like a clay-colored robin that some wondered if the bird had actually been here for weeks, but misidentified. The key field mark was a narrow white collar band. Forget about its rare status; this bird was a dullard. Show it to a nonchaser and the reaction would be, So what?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“I’ve got the robin!”
A few hundred feet south on the trailer loop bend, someone called. A wise man does not stand between Komito and a lifer. He ran—fast.
At Trailer Spot No. 61, an arsenal of optics trained on a bush. Komito’s heart pounded so rapidly that it was hard to focus. But there, thirty yards away, something darted forward to snare a berry.
It was the white-throated robin. Eighteen hundred miles with a prayer for this wing and it worked. He wanted to dance a jig, but first whipped out his Nikon and peeled off five shots. The bird vanished back into the underbrush.
Komito backed out and found the nearest pay phone.
“Long. Eared. Owl.”
About an hour north of Bentsen, on U.S. Route 77, NARBA reported a ferruginous pygmy-owl, a spunky predator that weighed less than a pack of cigarettes but still struck fear in the hearts of smaller songbirds. It made Komito’s heart warble, too.
He met an owner of the El Canelo Ranch, Monica Burdett, just outside her house. A few months earlier, this ranch was swarming with $750-a-day hunters and lots of nervous quail and deer. Right now, though, Komito only needed $25 to see a pygmy-owl. He paid without negotiating.
He needed only one lap around the lawn to find the famed yard-bird of the El Canelo Ranch. It was so easy that the Texas rancher offered him something more for his money. She pointed him to a stepladder next to a palm tree. Atop the palm was wired a portable dog kennel.
A few weeks ago, three baby barn owls had fallen from a nest in this tree. The ranchers had rescued them, but then worried about the owls falling again. They stuck the birds in the dog kennel, hoisted it eight feet up the palm, and covered the whole shebang with fronds. Mama owl kept feeding her babies as if nothing had changed.
Komito climbed the ladder and poked his camera into the kennel. There they were, three downy owlets. One hissed at Komito, making it wild enough to count. Bird No. 360—in a doghouse.
On the walk back to the rental car, the rancher passed along another great tip. In a pond behind a Wal-Mart in the town of Ray-mondville was a Central American rarity. Komito raced the sunset to the loading dock and landed a ruddy bird with blue bill and black face. Watch out for falling waterfowl: it was a masked duck.
From Virginia to Texas for a one-day sweep of a white-throated robin at a leaky trailer spigot, a ferruginous pygmy-owl in a rancher’s front yard, three barn owls in a dog kennel, and a masked duck behind a Wal-Mart—Komito wasn’t exactly seeing Wild America. But he was here, and Levantin wasn’t. (Levantin would come a week later.) To Komito, the only scenery that mattered was the kind that served up birds.
February 8. McAllen, Texas. $242
This trip was a grudge match. During his 1987 Big Year, Komito had looked for longspurs on their great migration through the eastern plains of Colorado. It didn’t take much to find McCown’s and chestnut-collareds and Laplands. But he never spotted the cagiest longspur of all, the Smith’s, a thin-billed bird with pale eye ring, two white outer tail feathers, and an infuriating knack for taking wing just beyond the 10× range of a birder’s binoculars.
By the end of that spring migration, he finally admitted that he had missed the bird. He was left with only one choice—find them where they breed. That meant Alaska. So he spent a small fortune on a special trip to Denali National Park in June for a bird he should have seen near a major airport on the Great Plains in February.
On his Alaska trip, he endured rain, sleet, and ice-water swamps, but he did not quite endure the mosquitoes. No mortal could. Early summer in the marshes of Denali: eleven years later, the mere thought still made Komito break out in shivers and scratches. He had to find those bastard Smith’s in the Lower 48 before they up and left for their bug-infested sex hovels to the north.
Komito was desperate and determined, but mostly desperate. He called a politician and pleaded for help.
Meet me tomorrow in Oklahoma City, the politician told Komito, and we’ll see what we can do.
February 9. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. 1,500 miles. $70
Bob Funston knew how to make promises. A man can’t work all those years as an Oklahoma state senator, a state Democratic Party chairman, and even a Democratic candidate for governor without knowing something about how to appeal to hopes and dreams. But were these promises that Komito could trust?
Komito and Funston sat across the table at a local Denny’s—the restaurant was Komito’s idea—and spread out their paperwork. Funston pointed Komito to Aristida grass. The Smith’s really liked the Aristida grass.
It was a Monday morning, and Funston wore a coat and tie. On anyone else, the work clothes might lend an air of credibility. On a politician, though, those same clothes made Komito wonder.
Whenever Komito met a nonbirder, the question was always the same: How do you know that somebody actually sees a bird? Why do you believe them? Can you really just take it all on faith? Invariably, Komito would answer the question the same way: the only way to get a reputation in birding is to earn it. In a way, birders were like golfers: everyone in country club locker rooms always knew whose golf handicaps were real and whose weren’t. After decades of experience in both sports, Komito had learned to trust more birders than golfers.
Still, a trustworthy politician?
Komito had known Funston from only a few chance encounters in the field. But now he was entrusting the politician with a full day of his time, precious Big Year time, to find a Smith’s longspur. Funston was matter-of-fact about it all. Komito had to find open fields that weren’t fenced in, Funston told him. The birds would be moving in flocks. If he moved deliberately through the short, tan grass, he should find them.
The politician poked at his refolded map: There, southeast of Norman, the fields and the fences should be just right. It’s about an hour away. Go try there.
Shortly after slamming the door on his rental car, Komito heard trilling overhead. Five birds dropped from the sky into the short grass at his feet. Smith’s longspurs—every single one. Damned if the politician wasn’t right.
Somewhere in Denali, mosquitoes wept.
Komito, however, had no time to celebrate. He hustled back into his car and beelined one hundred miles for the Wichita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge, which had bison, elk, and prairie dogs. Four-legged creatures were fine, but he struck out on the real stars of that plains state—the greater prairie chickens.
He could stay there and feel sorry for himself, or he could keep driving. If he couldn’t find greater prairie chickens in southwest Oklahoma, then maybe he could find lesser prairie chickens, a smaller but distinct breed, in northwest Oklahoma.
Eight hours and three hundred miles later, Komito finally slowed down. There were fields with no cattle, towns with no stoplights, streets with no people. The sun had set hours ago. He was hungry, but couldn’t find a restaurant. He was tired, but couldn’t find a motel. His chin bobbed to his chest. Whoa! He really was tired. It was 10 P.M. He pulled to the side of the road and parked.
February 10. Somewhere, Oklahoma. 320 miles. $276
He shuddered awake at 5 A.M. His car was still running.
What had happened? W
here was he?
Oh, yeah, right—driving last night and got tired. Fell asleep in the front seat. Good thing he left the heater on—cold outside. Oh, his back hurt. The SKUA had room for resting, but not a rental Taurus. The sun rose behind him. That meant go forward—the lesser prairie chickens were west of here, wherever here was.
Road sign … Road sign … Finally! Highway 95. Elkhart, Kansas, was north. Lessers were north.
At Pawnee National Grassland, Komito tried to remember: Where were the lessers’ leks? Funny thing about the lessers was that they always met at the same place every spring for mates. A lek is where the boys strutted and the girls cooed and somehow all these chickens got together and did it, though not often enough ever to become a common bird. If Komito could only find the lek, he was sure to list the lesser. He had been here years ago with Larry Smith, but Larry was dead now and Komito hoped he could still remember the directions.
Wrong turn. Back up. Wrong turn again. Where was he?
Just in front of his car hood something moved.
Three lessers flushed.
Was this the lek? Were the lessers mating?
Komito had no clue. He was relieved to finally get an easy bird. He drove back to Oklahoma City to catch a flight East.
February 11. Norfolk, Virginia. 1,900 miles. $30
At the Norfolk airport he picked up the SKUA and drove north until he stopped for lunch in Delaware, where he was served by a toothless waitress with an open lip sore. Komito considered ordering something in a can, but then thought better of it. She did have a nice smile.
February 12. Fair Lawn, New Jersey
Home. Paid bills. Checked rare-bird alerts. Got ready for the road.
February 13. Hammonasset Beach State Park,
Connecticut. 325 miles. $27
It was cloudy and thirty-seven degrees and the National Weather Service reported wind gusts of thirty-five miles per hour, so Komito decided to go to the beach, where there was a report, appropriately enough, of an Iceland gull.
One thing about Hammonasset Beach in winter: birders were never alone there. When Komito drove up in his Town Car, he saw a man pointing a massive 800mm telephoto lens up a pine tree. Experience taught Komito that the easiest way to spot a good bird was to spot the birders first. He walked up and asked what was happening.
Look there, Komito was told.
Up the pines was a tight flock of red crossbills, wandering Canadians with freakish crisscrossed beaks that gave them leverage to snap down and pop open pinecones, their favorite food. Crossbills were tough to find in the Lower 48. The drive here had been worth it.
The photographer worked closer and closer to the trees. Komito cringed. This guy may have had a big lens, he thought, but he is still making a very amateur mistake.
A few years back, Komito had edged underneath a similar tree that was quaking with four hundred starlings. If there were four hundred birds in a tree, he figured, they couldn’t all be commoners. So he had moved even closer for a better look.
Just then a powerful predator, the peregrine falcon, had shot by. Four hundred scared starlings took flight—and simultaneously crapped on Komito. His coat coated with gooey, globby, and greenish bird poop, Komito made one unbreakable vow that day: never, ever stand beneath flocks in trees.
February 14, Brigantine National Wildlife Refuge,
New Jersey. 140 miles. $125
Komito birded en route to Cape May, where a pelagic trip was scheduled for the next day. He didn’t get much besides an early bed.
February 15. Cape May, New Jersey. 225 miles. $27
He rose at 3:30 A.M. and was so excited at the prospect of Eastern seabirds that he arrived at the dock at 4:30 A.M. He was first in line. A half hour later came the announcement: no pelagic trip today. The boat had mechanical trouble and couldn’t go out.
Komito was crestfallen. This was his third canceled offshore trip this year. From Cape May, the drive home on the Garden State Parkway was seldom enjoyable, but it was even worse when the SKUA had missed its prey.
February 16. Plum Island National Wildlife Refuge,
Massachusetts. 650 miles. $41
Thick-billed murres were supposed to be here. Was that them?
Komito jogged fifty yards up the shore. The birds took off across the water. They looked like they had fat bills. Maybe they were the thick-billed murre. Problem was, maybe they weren’t.
He hustled up another fifty yards. The birds went two hundred. He jogged. The birds paddled and were gone again. This was getting tiring.
Still, he knew it could be worse. The murre was called the “penguin of the North” for a reason. It wore the same tuxedo and its plumage was waterproof, but it also swam underwater faster than a man could walk on shore. With flipperlike wings for propulsion, murres could dive three hundred feet for baitfish. One plunge like that and Komito would be hopelessly out of range.
He needed this bird. There just weren’t many chances to catch it. The thick-billed murre spent almost all its life far offshore in the High Arctic. But in spring, it always returned to rocky cliffs and islands to breed. (It required the least privacy of any breeding bird, with as many as forty murres nesting on every square meter of flat sea rocks.) These breeding grounds, alas, were distant and inaccessible.
If Komito could ID a thick-billed murre today, he’d save himself an offshore boat trip later. So the I-Go-You-Go game continued up the seashore.
Finally, after a mile, Komito drew close enough to positively note the shorter bill, dark cheeks, and dark nape. Komito’s heart pounded, but he had to admit, it was the chase, not the bird, that made his chest throb.
February 17. Fair Lawn, New Jersey
Home with Bobbye. He set up another trip to Texas.
February 18. Austin, Texas. 1,800 miles. $412
A double rainbow split the sky. Somewhere out there was the bird Komito wanted. Did the double rainbow signal good luck? He would find out tomorrow morning.
February 19. Amistad Reservoir, Texas. 300 miles. $88
Miles from the nearest road, stranded after dark on a boat with a crippled engine, Komito was trying to shut up. His friends in the bow were banging around in the night. His first instinct, as usual, was to give some direction or make some wisecrack, but he knew that would only make this mess worse. So he summoned all his willpower and zipped his lips.
Oh, it wasn’t easy.
He had come here with dreams of another big score. His quarry was the rufous-capped warbler, a Costa Rican native that, according to the Internet rare-bird alerts, had wandered to this vast reservoir just below the Big Bend of the Rio Grande. The south shoreline of the border lake belonged to Mexico; the north was in Texas. Luckily—or so Komito thought at the time—the bird had decided to spend the winter on the Big Year side of the line, up a dry wash called Pink Cave Canyon.
The only way to get to Pink Cave Canyon was by boat. The only way for Komito to get a boat was to call for help.
His first call went to his longtime Texas birding friends Barbara and John Ribble of Austin, who in turn called two of their friends, Sue and Egon Wiedenfeld of Comfort. The Wiedenfelds had a boat. When they’d motored out from Del Rio that morning, the boat had seemed just large enough for four Texans, Komito, and some of his stories.
Just offshore, however, gales blew. When whitecaps lashed the bow, Barbara and Sue joined the skipper, Egon, in the cockpit, safe from the spray. Komito was stuck in the unprotected stern.
When the first wave crashed over him, he yelped. The second soaked him. The next sent him scrambling for a flotation seat cover, which he held up as a water shield. It was no use. The 35 mph winds kept slamming in water, and Komito kept getting drenched.
“I expect the black swifts to start nesting on us!” Komito shouted, referring to the peculiar species that lays eggs behind waterfalls. His fellow birders got the joke, but didn’t laugh too hard.
The mood turned more tense fifteen miles into the trip, when the boat motor conked
out. Running at one-third throttle, the boat crawled. What was supposed to be a half-day jaunt had turned into a marathon. This did offer one advantage, though. Against the slow pace of a sputtering boat, the two-foot waves of Amistad Reservoir finally stayed below the gunwales.
More than three hours after leaving the dock, the waterborne birders finally spotted Pink Cave Canyon. The boat turned for a shore landing. The engine sputtered again. This time, it was out of gas.
There was a spare tank, but Komito and the others were too antsy to fiddle with the connections. They paddled ashore.
Pink Cave Canyon was 100 feet high and 180 feet deep. The walls were limestone and steep, and the canyon floor was thick with mesquite. If there truly was a pink canyon here, Komito couldn’t see it. There was, however, a refrigerator stuck in the muck near the mouth of the canyon. Thirty-five miles into the backcountry on a boat and somebody had dumped a large kitchen appliance. What a place.
Onshore, Komito worried about his legs, which still wobbled. It was the first time he had gotten sea legs from a reservoir ride.
The five birders quickly organized a bushwhacking party, each person standing twenty feet apart and striding carefully, purposefully, into the canyon.
“I’ve got the bird!” Barbara soon called, and indeed she did. Long-tailed, with a yellow breast, rusty hat, and white eyebrow, the rufous-capped warbler carried more color than most rarities. But it was hard to ignore that Komito had traveled 1,800 miles by jet, 240 miles by car, and 30 miles by boat for a bird that would fit inside that refrigerator’s butter tray.
It was 4:30 P.M. The winter sun was sinking fast. They were thirty miles from the dock with a misfiring boat that would go no faster than 7 mph. Could they get back before dark? Komito started to say something, then looked at his companions’ faces. For once, he stayed silent. He didn’t want to be left behind.
The Big Year: A Tale of Man, Nature, and Fowl Obsession Page 12