“Hugo is at the vanguard of a fascinating new development in birding,” Ted told me, “namely, the emergence of outstanding local guides in great birding destinations in Latin America.”
That was enough for me. I got in touch right away.
We did the interview by email, and the final product ran several pages, presenting a personal account about bird conservation in Guatemala, from tourism to science and research, including the plight of the Resplendent Quetzal, which is threatened by habitat loss. Among Birding interviews, this one stood out. Because the magazine focuses on North America, only three out of more than fifty interviewees over the years have lived outside the United States and Canada. Hugo’s perspective, as a young and brilliant birder in a country where birding presented a relatively new pursuit, was different and fascinating.
I felt I knew Hugo, even though I had never met him in person. So when I planned a stop in Guatemala during my Big Year, four years later, he was first on my list.
“That would be great going out to the field with you!” he had replied immediately. “Let me know everything you need.”
In a few messages back and forth, Hugo had drafted a plan for us to fly to Tikal, spend a day birding there, and drive back to Guatemala City via some highland sites with several key endemics. We would stand a good chance of finding a Horned Guan, one of Central America’s most elusive and oddest-looking birds, and we’d see some amazing scenery. I inked him in, booked plane tickets into Guatemala, and moved on to other logistical hurdles. It would be a thrill for me to finally have the chance to meet Hugo after corresponding with him for several years. In birding, this sort of thing happens all the time—you can connect via the Internet with like-minded souls all over the world and then wait a long time for a face-to-face encounter.
Now the situation had become urgent. With our meeting just a few days away, I hadn’t heard from Hugo in months. I sent him a message: “Let me know how to meet you when I arrive. Will you pick me up at the airport?”
As I continued through my inbox, the lack of contact and my imminent arrival in Guatemala kept nagging at me, and I decided to try to find another way to reach Hugo. I opened a browser window and Googled his name.
It took a minute to process what appeared. The first result of my search was a recent post from the 10,000 Birds blog, which often covered news of interest to bird fanatics. The post was titled, “Requiem for a Bird Guide.”
“Oh my God,” I said, in a tone that made Roy and Johan look up sharply.
With a sense of unreality, I started reading.
“We’ve lost a truly great bird guide,” the post began. “Hugo Haroldo Enriquez Toledo has died, apparently as a result of injuries suffered in an automobile accident.”
The walls suddenly closed in. Everything within me and around me seemed to stop. The article offered few details except that Hugo was survived by his wife and six-month-old son, and that the accident had happened a few months ago. As the news sank in, chills ran through me. No wonder he hadn’t returned my recent emails. How could I have missed this?
“That’s the guy you were going birding with in Guatemala?” asked Johan, looking over my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said, blankly. “I sort of knew him, but we’d never met in person.”
Roy, Johan, and I stared at each other, unsure what to say. Neither of them had known Hugo. In a weird way, I felt embarrassed—realizing that the man I had been pestering about a birding trip next week had lost his life months ago. I’d been so caught up in South American birds that I hadn’t checked the news, and now I wasn’t sure if I would have found out anyway.
When people die unexpectedly, they can’t say goodbye to every friend and acquaintance. The family tells those who need to know, and from there the news goes out like a puddle on a hot day: it slowly seeps into deep cracks and then evaporates, leaving just the memory behind.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Hugo’s accident was terrible; learning about it after all this time only made it worse, and I felt bad worrying about my upcoming trip. What if I hadn’t Googled his name? I imagined landing in Guatemala City, expecting to see him there, only to find nobody waiting. And what else was I missing? This year I had consciously decided to put life on hold while I chased birds around the world, assuming that everything else could wait. As the clock ticked during my Big Year, was it right to ignore everything else?
For me, birding is part of life, not separate from it. I know Hugo felt that way, too, because when I interviewed him for the magazine, I asked him about the qualities of an ideal birder.
“The best local bird guide is a friend, fellow, and field partner,” he said. “A person with patience and joy.”
Those are words to live by. By all accounts, Hugo was a kind, generous, and passionate part of our planet. I regret that I missed my chance to meet him. His death reminded me of how quickly life can disappear, and how precious few are our days on Earth. If anything good can come from the passing of a friend, it is the renewed appreciation for those still with us—and the deeper resolve to live every day with purpose, patience, and joy. May Hugo Enríquez rest in peace.
✧-✧-✧
Roy woke me up early to see a unique bird spectacle.
“Let’s go,” he said, quietly. “Johan is sleeping in today, but you and I have an appointment to keep before breakfast.”
The three of us were staying at Rancho Naturalista, one of Costa Rica’s oldest and best-known birding lodges. We’d arrived late the previous evening after several hours of searching for nocturnal birds on the flanks of a nearby volcano. Johan scored lovely views of a Bare-shanked Screech-Owl with his spotlight, but by the time we reached the lodge, had a quick dinner, and sacked out, it was past 1 A.M. Now, feeling hung-over after a long night of owling, I struggled out of bed and followed Roy into the predawn darkness.
We didn’t go very far. A hundred yards from our room, Roy pointed at what looked like a billboard in the forest surrounded by benches. Closer inspection revealed a vertical white piece of cloth, several feet across, tacked to a wooden frame with a roof to keep it from getting wet. Floodlights on each side illuminated the cloth, which glared bright white in the dark forest.
“What is this, an interpretive sign?” I asked. “It’s totally blank.”
Roy smiled.
“It’s a moth trap.”
The cloth was liberally covered with insects: bees, wasps, flies, beetles, and other creatures of the night crept around its surface in a macabre horror show. Among them were moths of all sizes, shapes, textures, and colors, some as big as my hand. A few of the moths had gorgeous and intricate patterns, like fancy butterflies, and I spent a while snapping photos of the prettiest ones. The diversity was huge; some mimicked thorns and leaves, others were bright green and blue, and still others had huge, sweeping antennae like little aliens.
“They are drawn to the lights,” Roy explained.
“Like a moth to a flame,” I said, automatically.
Was it worth getting up early just to see some moths? Most of these were drab, brown, buggy-looking, perhaps scientifically undescribed. There are 10,365 species of birds in the world and nearly 20,000 butterflies, but moths are a black hole—scientists estimate 160,000 species worldwide, and many don’t have names yet. Moth identification often requires microscopic examination of their genitalia and barcoding their mitochondrial DNA, and even then it’s sometimes impossible to tell species apart. Moth experts are a different breed.
“Just wait,” Roy said, reading my thoughts. “The show hasn’t started yet.”
We settled on a bench to wait for dawn. Gradually, as the sky lightened from black to gray, birds began to stir and call from the surrounding forest; I heard the distant croaking of a Keel-billed Toucan, then the spaced-out notes of a Scaly-breasted Wren tuning up nearby. As soon as enough light penetrated the understory to see shapes and movement, I realized that birds were materializing all around us, and the whole setup suddenly made sense.
Roy grinned.
“It’s a different kind of bird feeder,” he said.
The party kicked off at sunrise: a pair of burly Red-throated Ant-Tanagers darted in low, their dark red feathers almost invisible in the undergrowth, and perched next to the illuminated cloth. Each one grabbed a fat moth, retreated a safe distance, and efficiently dismembered its breakfast. Then a White-breasted Wood-Wren, no bigger than a golf ball, moved in to snatch a brown moth, and a Canada Warbler appeared, its white eye-ring and flitty movements giving it a surprised, nervous air. The warbler delicately picked off an insect next to the lights and flew off with it.
When a Brown Jay showed up, the other birds scattered. The jay hardly hesitated as it confidently approached the cloth, scanned the menu, and chose the largest, most beautiful moth in sight.
“Not that one!” I cried—it was one of the pretty moths I’d photographed earlier—but the jay was hungry. It seized the fist-sized insect with one foot, pinned it to a branch, and used its beak to rip off the wings, which fluttered to the ground like colorful shrapnel. The moth’s body was too big to consume at once, so the jay ate it with fastidious bites.
I watched, spellbound, as birds lined up for their turns. A Bright-rumped Attila, streaky brown with a devilishly red eye and fearsomely hooked beak, snapped up a moth and flung it apart, sending scales flying in every direction. Then a Yellow-bellied Flycatcher seized an insect in midair, and I reflected that this bird, weighing less than half an ounce, would soon migrate several thousand miles to seek a mate and nest in the boreal forest of Canada. It needed all the fat it could store to make the journey.
Roy was scanning intently, and I asked if he was looking for anything in particular.
“Sí,” he replied slowly, but before he could elaborate, his eyes lit up. “There!” he said, pointing underneath the moth feeder. “You see that small flycatcher? Not the Yellow-bellied . . . Yes! It just hopped onto the branch. Do you see it?”
I focused my binoculars on a plump little bird with a gray head, stubby beak, and ochre-colored underparts.
“Yeah,” I said. “Got it.”
Roy looked extremely pleased.
“Tawny-chested Flycatcher,” he said. “That’s the bird I was most hoping to see here this morning. It’s a range-restricted species. Very nice!”
Like the other smaller birds, the Tawny-chested waited for larger patrons to eat before making its move. It perched quietly in the shadows, which afforded us great views. Then, in a flash, it swooped toward the white cloth, snatched a moth, and vanished into the forest.
“It comes most mornings,” Roy said, “but you never know. Some days, maybe it sleeps in, like Johan. I’m glad the flycatcher was hungry today—now we can go have our own breakfast.”
The action died out after the dawn rush, and Roy and I meandered over to the lodge’s open-air terrace to meet Johan. Breakfast was served on a colorfully striped tablecloth: fresh orange juice, pancakes with strawberry syrup, a variety of fruits, fried eggs, coffee, and bread. As we sat down, I kept my eye on several sugar-water feeders around the terrace that were thronged by hummingbirds—White-necked Jacobins, Green-breasted Mangos, and Rufous-tailed Hummingbirds. Whether you prefer insects, pancakes, or nectar, I thought, everyone must eat breakfast.
We were joined by Lisa Erb, the longtime manager of Rancho Naturalista, who knew all about my Big Year.
“Did you get the flycatcher?” she asked.
“Yes!” Roy and I said in unison.
Lisa beamed. “Good!” she said. “Maybe later we can go find a Sunbittern, but first enjoy the food. It’s all fresh and local.”
I was glad to meet Lisa, who has been a fixture of the Costa Rican birding community since her parents opened the lodge in the mid-1980s. At that time, specialized lodges hardly existed, but she had a vision for a birder-friendly accommodation in the Caribbean hills. Rancho Naturalista has flourished over the years and now includes more than a dozen cozy rooms, giving birders easy access to surrounding mid-elevation forest. Lisa, who wears long blonde hair and cowboy boots, is a perpetual bundle of energy; when not discussing birds, she’s apt to gush about horses, food, and local events with a sharp sense of humor.
“Did you see Roy’s paintings?” Lisa asked.
“No,” I said. “He didn’t mention them.”
I looked at Roy, who gave a self-conscious smile.
“Well, we have two,” said Lisa, who stood up and beckoned me to step inside the main room of the lodge.
“Here’s a King Vulture,” she said, proudly, “and over there is a pair of Scarlet Macaws.”
The framed paintings were luscious oils on canvas in a hyperrealistic style.
“Wow, I had no idea he was such a serious artist!” I said.
The King Vulture perched facing away, its wings spread to catch the sun, while the macaws were depicted in a misty forest. The details of each were executed almost photographically, with a naturalist’s attention to plumage and structure, but the compositions had a balanced, painterly feel.
“He paints a lot of birds, wildlife, and Costa Rican images,” Lisa explained. “We’re lucky to have these two pieces.”
With that, she excused herself and I returned to finish breakfast with Johan and Roy. We were in no rush to leave this relaxing spot. I felt a great sense of contentedness—Lisa and her friends had carved out a little slice of Eden here.
“Roy, when did you get so good at painting?” I asked. “Those pictures in there are incredible.”
“Gracias,” Roy said. “I’ve always liked to draw. Painting is part of my appreciation of the world, I guess.”
Johan caught my eye as if there was something more, but didn’t say anything. The three of us sat for a luxurious half-hour, mostly without speaking, drinking in the scene.
This year, I was learning to treasure these moments, when the world stopped turning for an ever-so-brief rest. My hectic birding pace meant that I rarely had time to take a deep breath. Somehow, the busier your calendar, the faster it goes; it seemed like only yesterday that I’d been sipping champagne on a ship in Antarctica, but the year was already almost a third over. Not for a moment could I forget the time—or the 13.7 new species I had to average each day to reach 5,000 by the end of the year. The harder I ran, the more time sped up, like living each day in fast-forward. But even on a Big Year, I had to hit pause once in a while.
“Hey, Noah, let’s walk down to the hummingbird baths,” Johan suggested, “before Lisa takes us to see the Sunbittern.”
“Hummingbird baths? Sure,” I said.
“It’s just a short trail,” he said. “We might find a few other birds on the way. Roy, are you coming?”
“I think I’ll stay and wait for you guys,” Roy said. “Go ahead—I’ll be here when you get back.”
Johan smiled, stood up, grabbed his binoculars, and led the way into the forest. I ate the last bite of pancake and followed along, curious what we might see. Past the moth trap, which was now picked clean, the trail switchbacked through dense forest before dropping into a steep, wet ravine.
“Sometimes hummingbirds like to bathe in the stream below us,” Johan said, “but this is a good area, close to the lodge, to see many different species.”
He walked slowly, listening for rustling sounds and vocalizations while we descended a steep section.
We stopped to watch an Orange-billed Sparrow, a surprisingly cryptic bird for its striking appearance: black head with a white eyebrow and throat, olive green back, bright yellow shoulders, gray underparts, and the namesake neon-orange beak. It scratched quietly in the leaf litter, so unobtrusive that, had it sat still, I never would have seen it.
“Hey, Johan, why does Roy often seem like he has trouble breathing?” I asked.
“You noticed that he’s very thin, too, right?” Johan asked. “Roy has had a difficult time in the past few years
.”
We watched the sparrow catch some type of small insect.
“Almost ten years ago,” Johan continued, “in 2005, Roy was diagnosed with cancer—a type of leukemia. He fought it, but it left him with about fifty percent of his natural lung capacity. That’s why he moves slowly now, and why he stayed back instead of walking on this steep trail.”
“That means he was, what, in his mid-twenties?” I asked.
“Yes,” Johan said. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Obviously, it changed things. When he was diagnosed, he was almost completely sedentary for about two years. That’s when Roy started painting a lot. Now he can be a guide, too, as long as he takes it steady.”
I wondered whether this might have kindled Roy’s all-encompassing interest in the natural world, and his fascination with the interconnectedness of various plants and animals of the forest. Many birders focus mostly on identifying species, but Roy took a grander view. His artwork depicted not only birds but also frogs, fish, ants, butterflies, snakes, caimans, sloths, monkeys, jaguars, flowers, trees, and landscapes. He painted people, too: kayaking, surfing, dancing, and playing musical instruments. His natural subjects were realistic, but Roy painted people in a looser, freer style, with bright colors flung across the canvas in energetic drips and spatters. All of the images were colorful and uplifting, capturing Costa Rican life in its full, vibrant pura vida.
The trail ended at a set of benches overlooking a shady stream, which had several shallow pools.
“These are the hummingbird baths,” Johan said. “The hummers usually come here in the afternoon, maybe to rinse off that sticky sugar water.”
We sat for a minute while nothing stirred. Then, like a tiny mirage, a Crowned Woodnymph appeared over one of the pools, hovering inches above the water. It was violet-blue and green, iridescent on its entire three-inch body. After a little hesitation, it dipped into the water once, twice, then zipped away again, having bathed entirely in midair.
Birding Without Borders Page 13