Blake had a brother Scott. Their parents were Burck and Marlies. They lived in Oklahoma, growing up there in the 1960s and 1970s. They were upper middle class. The book is nonfiction and is mostly about Scott, the son who demanded attention his whole life, and often got it. But it is also the story, even though somewhat incidentally, of Blake and his parents.
How does a family deals with a child / brother who is mentally ill (or is he?), who abuses drugs and alcohol but who becomes a Marine, who wrecks numerous cars, who becomes an Evangelical (sort of), who loves but mocks his family every chance he gets, who is an unrepentant miscreant and worse, who is forgiven over and over and yet……
A poignant story, not that uncommon, told by Blake as remembered by Blake. Which of us hasn't asked why children from the same parents, raised in the same environment, make choices that ultimately lead to a failed life.
David Sedaris: "This fine and haunting memoir touches the spot where family, responsibility and helplessness converge."
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
Book: Surviving the Island of Grace by Leslie Leyland Fileds
A Memoir of Alaska
The island of grace is off Kodiak Island. Leslie marries Duncan whose family has fished for a living in these waters. They marry and she moves to Alaska, to the island. This is her story of that life.
On June 15 at 0800, fishing season began which actually was pulling nets and picking salmon from them.
"This is the only break we will have tonight. Duncan and I are sitting together as we eat, our rubberized and reptilian legs pressing against each other on the seat. Duncan leans over and gives me a kiss, leaving a wet spot on my face where his nose dripped. He's got a couple of scales on his cheek, and a smudge of fish blood on his forehead. I've got something dried on my jawline; my gloves are a blend of blood and hurry. I'm not feeling romantic. He's yelled at me three times already this put-out."
They lives are mingled with Duncan's parents and his brothers and their families. Leslie's own childhood was often sad and poignant. She grew up in the Northeast. Her father seldom lived with them, and her mother rehabbed houses to earn a living for Leslie and her five siblings: "Outside we wore the veneer of at the middle and upper class: my mother drive a black Mercedes; our dog was not a spaniel or a mutt but a Russian wolfhound; we lived in a gorgeous-appearing house. Yet, the reality: the Mercedes was six years old, haggled down to less than $3,000; we had only purebred dogs as pets in case we needed to sell them; our house was below freezing five months of the year; our food was painfully doled out; and we spent much of our time, when our friends were playing and going to movies, out in the fields and woods, in the house, working." Once a house was sold, they moved to another.
She and Duncan build a home on the island and stay through the winter instead of moving to Kodiak or Larsen Bay as her in-laws do. Leslie writes both of her external and internal worlds…of the ocean and tides, of the long days that were either full of light or full of darkness, of the onerous and endless task of hauling water, of salmon, nets and boats, of hazardous passages to the mainland and always of the wild beauty that is Alaska. And of her sometimes ambivalent feelings and traitorous thoughts, of her fatigue and resentment, of her joy and contentment, of her acceptance and gratefulness.
They eventually have five children and continue living and fishing in the summer on Bear Island.
While I did enjoy the book and Leslie writes well, for me there was something about the her that didn't set quite right. Perhaps because she respected the private lives of her husband's family, she seldom wrote much about them. The stories revolved around her, although how can I criticize her self-absorption in the unconventional life she choose….one that most of us would never ever consider…It isn't a gentle tale and because of that, the telling of it isn't either. The telling of it is like Alaska itself, an entity demanding notice and wonder and acceptance.
The island of grace is off Kodiak Island. Leslie marries Duncan whose family has fished for a living in these waters. They marry and she moves to Alaska, to the island. This is her story of that life.
On June 15 at 0800, fishing season began which actually was pulling nets and picking salmon from them.
"This is the only break we will have tonight. Duncan and I are sitting together as we eat, our rubberized and reptilian legs pressing against each other on the seat. Duncan leans over and gives me a kiss, leaving a wet spot on my face where his nose dripped. He's got a couple of scales on his cheek, and a smudge of fish blood on his forehead. I've got something dried on my jawline; my gloves are a blend of blood and hurry. I'm not feeling romantic. He's yelled at me three times already this put-out."
They lives are mingled with Duncan's parents and his brothers and their families. Leslie's own childhood was often sad and poignant. She grew up in the Northeast. Her father seldom lived with them, and her mother rehabbed houses to earn a living for Leslie and her five siblings: "Outside we wore the veneer of at the middle and upper class: my mother drive a black Mercedes; our dog was not a spaniel or a mutt but a Russian wolfhound; we lived in a gorgeous-appearing house. Yet, the reality: the Mercedes was six years old, haggled down to less than $3,000; we had only purebred dogs as pets in case we needed to sell them; our house was below freezing five months of the year; our food was painfully doled out; and we spent much of our time, when our friends were playing and going to movies, out in the fields and woods, in the house, working." Once a house was sold, they moved to another.
She and Duncan build a home on the island and stay through the winter instead of moving to Kodiak or Larsen Bay as her in-laws do. Leslie writes both of her external and internal worlds…of the ocean and tides, of the long days that were either full of light or full of darkness, of the onerous and endless task of hauling water, of salmon, nets and boats, of hazardous passages to the mainland and always of the wild beauty that is Alaska. And of her sometimes ambivalent feelings and traitorous thoughts, of her fatigue and resentment, of her joy and contentment, of her acceptance and gratefulness.
They eventually have five children and continue living and fishing in the summer on Bear Island.
While I did enjoy the book and Leslie writes well, for me there was something about the her that didn't set quite right. Perhaps because she respected the private lives of her husband's family, she seldom wrote much about them. The stories revolved around her, although how can I criticize her self-absorption in the unconventional life she choose….one that most of us would never ever consider…It isn't a gentle tale and because of that, the telling of it isn't either. The telling of it is like Alaska itself, an entity demanding notice and wonder and acceptance.
Books: Population: 485; Truck; and Coop by Michael Perry
These three books tell a chronologic story of Michael Perry's adult life.
He is single in the beginning, living, writing and working as a first responder / EMS / firefighter in a small Midwestern town (pop. 485). He writes with humor and a serious love for this place.
He also writes of his job: "I answered two consecutive pages, the first for a wounded cop, and the second for the man who shot him…The cop kept telling us how much it hurt, and when he couldn't talk, he squeezed my hand. We were deeply relieved when we delivered him alive…The ER doc stuck his head in, took one look [at the shooter who had tried to blow his brains out] and shook his head. Then he told us the cop had died…Ten years later, I called Phil, and he says the image he retains is the cop's gun belt on the bloody ambulance floor, the buckle open, the holster empty."
Michael is self-deprecating, ruminative and usually just very funny.
In Truck, he falls in love with Annelise and her small daughter, Amy; he restores a 1951 International Harvester pickup truck with a lot of help from his friends and continues his daily life: "Which is to say after all the conscientious nibbling, I would fling myself off the wagon. Follow the tofu nibbles with deep-fried cheese curds. Lay a foundation of fresh vegetable salad, then brick it over with half a tray of caramel bars. Skinless chicken followed by chocolate of any formation or quality. Carrots and half a bag of mini-doughnuts…."
But not all humor: "The radio show about Rwanda sets a sadness in me that will recur for days, compounded by my awareness that such moping is at best impotent and at worst cosmically insulting to those who suffer whether you mope or not…And yet it is the very voluminous evidence of the horrible things we willingly visit upon each other…that invests a willing act of kindness, the tiniest touch or gentle word to a friend or stranger, with energy powerful enough to reverberate around the universe. And so when I see acts rooted in gentleness and purity, the tears rise "
A lot of sweetness in his novels.
Coop: Marriage and the"full catastrophe" as Zorba says. Of course, not really for Michael as he assures us often how he loves his wife and Amy and their new baby Jane. But his life HAS changed. He settles into a home of his own with ideals of self-sufficiency, with plans and good intentions and hopeful hearts in which everyone who aspires to such has found despair and humor: "Not so long ago I stepped through the front door to find Amy in the middle of the kitchen unrolling a flag-sized poster of me. It was from a book tour stop somewhere back along the line. My visage was full-color and big as a cheese platter. Amy held the poster unfurled before her, and I admit I savored the moment right up until she turned and laid it face up on the bottom on the guinea pig cage."
Pigs, chickens, dogs, sheep, gardening, fencing, haying, writing….and the kids of course, with many remembrances of things past, of his childhood, his parents, their simple and complex lives: "'Let's go check and see if the hay is dry', Dad would say after he kissed Mom and thanked her for lunch…..When you pulled your gloves off after a long day of haying in hot weather…your hands were wet and moist, almost dishpanny and your wrists were matted with bracelets of sodden chaff where the cuffs had clung. It felt good, though, the cool air on your skin."
"When I am forced to cast my eyes beyond my own navel, I realize that a dip in sweet melancholy is every bit as indulgent as a bubble bath. Be joyful, says Wendell Berry, though you have considered all the facts."
Perry considers nearly everything in his life and then gives it to the reader.
He is single in the beginning, living, writing and working as a first responder / EMS / firefighter in a small Midwestern town (pop. 485). He writes with humor and a serious love for this place.
He also writes of his job: "I answered two consecutive pages, the first for a wounded cop, and the second for the man who shot him…The cop kept telling us how much it hurt, and when he couldn't talk, he squeezed my hand. We were deeply relieved when we delivered him alive…The ER doc stuck his head in, took one look [at the shooter who had tried to blow his brains out] and shook his head. Then he told us the cop had died…Ten years later, I called Phil, and he says the image he retains is the cop's gun belt on the bloody ambulance floor, the buckle open, the holster empty."
Michael is self-deprecating, ruminative and usually just very funny.
In Truck, he falls in love with Annelise and her small daughter, Amy; he restores a 1951 International Harvester pickup truck with a lot of help from his friends and continues his daily life: "Which is to say after all the conscientious nibbling, I would fling myself off the wagon. Follow the tofu nibbles with deep-fried cheese curds. Lay a foundation of fresh vegetable salad, then brick it over with half a tray of caramel bars. Skinless chicken followed by chocolate of any formation or quality. Carrots and half a bag of mini-doughnuts…."
But not all humor: "The radio show about Rwanda sets a sadness in me that will recur for days, compounded by my awareness that such moping is at best impotent and at worst cosmically insulting to those who suffer whether you mope or not…And yet it is the very voluminous evidence of the horrible things we willingly visit upon each other…that invests a willing act of kindness, the tiniest touch or gentle word to a friend or stranger, with energy powerful enough to reverberate around the universe. And so when I see acts rooted in gentleness and purity, the tears rise "
A lot of sweetness in his novels.
Coop: Marriage and the"full catastrophe" as Zorba says. Of course, not really for Michael as he assures us often how he loves his wife and Amy and their new baby Jane. But his life HAS changed. He settles into a home of his own with ideals of self-sufficiency, with plans and good intentions and hopeful hearts in which everyone who aspires to such has found despair and humor: "Not so long ago I stepped through the front door to find Amy in the middle of the kitchen unrolling a flag-sized poster of me. It was from a book tour stop somewhere back along the line. My visage was full-color and big as a cheese platter. Amy held the poster unfurled before her, and I admit I savored the moment right up until she turned and laid it face up on the bottom on the guinea pig cage."
Pigs, chickens, dogs, sheep, gardening, fencing, haying, writing….and the kids of course, with many remembrances of things past, of his childhood, his parents, their simple and complex lives: "'Let's go check and see if the hay is dry', Dad would say after he kissed Mom and thanked her for lunch…..When you pulled your gloves off after a long day of haying in hot weather…your hands were wet and moist, almost dishpanny and your wrists were matted with bracelets of sodden chaff where the cuffs had clung. It felt good, though, the cool air on your skin."
"When I am forced to cast my eyes beyond my own navel, I realize that a dip in sweet melancholy is every bit as indulgent as a bubble bath. Be joyful, says Wendell Berry, though you have considered all the facts."
Perry considers nearly everything in his life and then gives it to the reader.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Book: Bertie Plays the Blues by Alexander McCall Smith
I am a fan of Mr. Smith and this is the first of the 44 Scotland Street novels I've read. It's one more tale about a group of people / neighbors / acquaintances living in Edinburgh.
Bertie is a precocious young lad with a Tiger Mom mother which is why Bertie can play the saxophone….the blues… "In the background, drifting through from Bertie's room, they heard the sound of the saxophone. The blues, sad, haunting music - even when played by a small boy; but this was no average small boy, this was Bertie, who had had so much to worry about in his short life; who wanted only to have fun, to explore the world, to do the things he had seen other boys do; who wanted to wear jeans rather than pink dungarees; who wanted a a dog; who wanted to play rugby and cricket and have a bicycle with racing handlebars; who did not want to talk Italian and have psychotherapy; who waned to drink Irn-Bru and go fishing in he Pentlands; who wanted so much and had, it seemed to him, so little."
Angus and Domenica live in the same building and are having a dinner party. "Halfway through, Angus slipped out to check up on Cyril, who was waiting outside on the landing. Cyril's personal hygiene issues made it impossible for him to attend dinner parties in person, but he had been given a bone, and was happy with that, as most dogs are - and people, too, when the bone is metaphorical. Angus discovered that Bertie had heard Cyril barking and was sitting on the steps beside him, in his pajamas and dressing gown." To me, this is so sweet...
Mr. Smith must write as easily as he breathes. He is prolific and in addition to the 44 Scotland Street Series, he writes The Corduroy Mansion series; The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency Series (set in Botswana); The Isabel Dalhousie Novels; The Portuguese Irregular Verb Series plus a few other titles.
Just the thing when the mind is tired and in need of gentling…his writing is soothing, funny, smart and affirmative.
Bertie is a precocious young lad with a Tiger Mom mother which is why Bertie can play the saxophone….the blues… "In the background, drifting through from Bertie's room, they heard the sound of the saxophone. The blues, sad, haunting music - even when played by a small boy; but this was no average small boy, this was Bertie, who had had so much to worry about in his short life; who wanted only to have fun, to explore the world, to do the things he had seen other boys do; who wanted to wear jeans rather than pink dungarees; who wanted a a dog; who wanted to play rugby and cricket and have a bicycle with racing handlebars; who did not want to talk Italian and have psychotherapy; who waned to drink Irn-Bru and go fishing in he Pentlands; who wanted so much and had, it seemed to him, so little."
Angus and Domenica live in the same building and are having a dinner party. "Halfway through, Angus slipped out to check up on Cyril, who was waiting outside on the landing. Cyril's personal hygiene issues made it impossible for him to attend dinner parties in person, but he had been given a bone, and was happy with that, as most dogs are - and people, too, when the bone is metaphorical. Angus discovered that Bertie had heard Cyril barking and was sitting on the steps beside him, in his pajamas and dressing gown." To me, this is so sweet...
Mr. Smith must write as easily as he breathes. He is prolific and in addition to the 44 Scotland Street Series, he writes The Corduroy Mansion series; The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency Series (set in Botswana); The Isabel Dalhousie Novels; The Portuguese Irregular Verb Series plus a few other titles.
Just the thing when the mind is tired and in need of gentling…his writing is soothing, funny, smart and affirmative.
Book: The Pure Gold Baby by Margaret Drabble
Margaret Drabble is such a good writer that whatever subject she writes about is interesting. Here, it is the story of Jess, a modern young British woman who gets pregnant by a married professor. She has the baby…the pure gold baby… and names her Anna. The professor had "wanted her to have an abortion, he'd set it all up, with a recuperative week in an expensive, discreet clinic in Hampshire thown in, but she had refused. And their sexual relationship had lingered on, had been picked up after Anna's birth had renewed itself, and then had worn itself out slowly. It had come to an end before Jess learnt of Anna's condition, the the early days when all with Anna was still golden."
The pure gold baby just doesn't grow up normally. She is sweet but slow and eventually Jess sends her to a special school. All through this novel, there are allusions to children who fail to achieve a normal independent adult life. They are not always definitively diagnosed, and they are often easy children with pleasant bland personalities, capable of small worries and easy pleasures.
Jess reads of Pearl Buck's only child, a daughter named Carol and how as Pearl "grew richer and more and more famous, she adopted other daughters in an effort to heal the material wound, and founded homes and institutions…to care for children marginalized by property or hereditary abnormality."
Wonderful sentences on every page:
"English people reading Proust often manifest a degree of self-consciousness, and Jess was no exception. She left a sense of sold and almost visible virtue as she lay in the staler royal-blue bathing suit on her yellow towel on the grass, making her way through the Jeunes Filles en flours….."
Jess lives on with her daughter. She marries and leaves one man but remains friends with him and even remains married to him. She has women friends and men friends and has adequate social connections. Somehow, Drabble makes dailiness and a rather ordinary life into an engaging tale. It is told by an unknown narrator who at the end says: "I haven't invented much. I've speculated, here and there, I've made up bits of dialogue, but you can tell when I've been dong that, because it shows. I've known Jess a long time, and I've know Anna all her life, but there will be things I have got wrong….."
Jess dreams of Africa her whole life and she finally makes a trip there with Anna near the end of the book: "Anna is here, and safe, and with her mother, and she is enjoining the ride. Anna learns to duck when branches hang low over the track, and sips her bottled tepid water and gazes around at this new but ancient world. She likes the sausage trees, and she even likes the circling vultures. As Jess has hoped, she seems to have forgotten about her illness. She does not have a brooding memory…It is all a success, so far, the expedition."
Why read this? For the beauty of the words and how they fit together...
The pure gold baby just doesn't grow up normally. She is sweet but slow and eventually Jess sends her to a special school. All through this novel, there are allusions to children who fail to achieve a normal independent adult life. They are not always definitively diagnosed, and they are often easy children with pleasant bland personalities, capable of small worries and easy pleasures.
Jess reads of Pearl Buck's only child, a daughter named Carol and how as Pearl "grew richer and more and more famous, she adopted other daughters in an effort to heal the material wound, and founded homes and institutions…to care for children marginalized by property or hereditary abnormality."
Wonderful sentences on every page:
"English people reading Proust often manifest a degree of self-consciousness, and Jess was no exception. She left a sense of sold and almost visible virtue as she lay in the staler royal-blue bathing suit on her yellow towel on the grass, making her way through the Jeunes Filles en flours….."
Jess lives on with her daughter. She marries and leaves one man but remains friends with him and even remains married to him. She has women friends and men friends and has adequate social connections. Somehow, Drabble makes dailiness and a rather ordinary life into an engaging tale. It is told by an unknown narrator who at the end says: "I haven't invented much. I've speculated, here and there, I've made up bits of dialogue, but you can tell when I've been dong that, because it shows. I've known Jess a long time, and I've know Anna all her life, but there will be things I have got wrong….."
Jess dreams of Africa her whole life and she finally makes a trip there with Anna near the end of the book: "Anna is here, and safe, and with her mother, and she is enjoining the ride. Anna learns to duck when branches hang low over the track, and sips her bottled tepid water and gazes around at this new but ancient world. She likes the sausage trees, and she even likes the circling vultures. As Jess has hoped, she seems to have forgotten about her illness. She does not have a brooding memory…It is all a success, so far, the expedition."
Why read this? For the beauty of the words and how they fit together...
Book: The Book of Matt by Stephen Jimenez
Hidden Truths About the Murder of Matthew Shepard
Matthew Shepard died in Laramie, Wyoming in 2000, and after his death he became the symbol of the prejudice and anti-gay hatred in this country. Which is how I remembered his murder.
But Matt was more than an innocent gay college student and the author tells his story. There were a lot of drugs (especially methaphetamine) in Laramie…and in the west generally at that time. Stephen Jimenez carefully teases the threads of dozens of stories out of the social network of Matt's acquaintances and concludes that his death was more drug-related than an antigay killing, more of a robbery that went wrong, and that Matt was killed by a drug-fueled meth addict. So much of what the he uncovers was never brought out at the trials of Russell Henderson and Aaron McKinney. Not that were innocent but Russell's participation was passive; Aaron on the other hand was the perpetrator and executioner and deserved his punishment. Aaron led and Russell followed on the night Matt, but probably neither were homophobic.
It was a sad, intriguing, provocative story of small town America in the age of meth and how pernicious the drug is and was and it affects those who use. Matt and his killer(s) used drugs; there were trips to Denver in a limo owned by a slippery character named Doc O'Connor, trips with partying in the limo and gay bars Denver, other trips to Denver for purchasing drugs for sale in Laramie. Matt was involved in this and almost assuredly died because of it, not because he was gay.
The judge told the courtroom at the end of Russell's trial:
"Many people have called this a hate crime. Quite frankly, the Court does not find this matter to be so simplistic, for it is quite clear that a number of motives and emotions were involved here. The end result, whatever the motivation, was the brutal murder of a young man who was beaten to death with a three-pound revolver, perhaps in part because of his lifestyle, and perhaps because of a $20 [sic] robbery."
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Birding: To Texas with DHC ~ Spring of 2014
We left Indianapolis mid morning, made an obligatory Starbucks stop and then travelled west to Bloomington-Normal, Illinois, to catch the train. We had decided this would work better than starting in Chicago which was the another option. The morning was damp and chill but we had the trip anticipation thing going. We constantly used our phones for navigation, for hotel reservations, for birding information and for weather updates (mostly me for the weather as I had a new app - Dark Skies).
We had each packed too much but still were able to walk with it all for a block or two, which we had to do a couple of times on the trip. There was free parking for Amtrak customers near the station. We unloaded the car, walked through a windy drizzle to the neat and clean and uncrowded station where we waited a couple of hours for the train, which (at this point and so close to its origin in Chicago) was still on time. Ate from a Subway in the station and generally chilled with devices and books.
For me, an expectant train and the act of boarding is highly pleasurable, offset only a bit by having to maneuver various pieces of luggage and carry-ons. Amtrak allows two large pieces of luggage and seems not to have a limit on smaller stuff. In each coach, there are two storage shelves on the lower level but they fill up, and there is always the concern that any smaller bags may "walk off the train" as a conductor announced at one point, cautioning passengers to know where they stored their personal belongings. The other option is to schlepp everything up the narrow turning stairs, which we did. I had two large bags, one with my spotting scope, and both were heavy. DHC had smaller but more items. Of course we managed and got settled. It soon became apparent that the train was not full, and I moved back one row and across the aisle; thus, we each had a wee "roomette" to ourselves - two seats instead of one.
Near dusk we passed through St. Louis, Missouri, and saw the arch at last light. We opted not to eat dinner in the dining car and instead got a microwaved pasta dish from the smaller snack bar. It was tolerable. The meals in the diner range from $20 to $30 per entree and vary considerably in taste. We did eat in there for a couple of breakfasts and dinners on two occasions.
What continues to amaze me is how the nights pass so quietly - a relative quiet as trains are inherently noisy, but even a full coach (although ours was probably half full) is remarkably peaceful in terms of people. Most of the more social and wide-awake folks probably go to the observation car. The rest are either watching movies on computers or tablets or reading or dozing / sleeping. The motion and ambience of the train is definitely conducive to relaxation, or it is for me. One is a prisoner in a good sense, and it is even better if one's arrival time at a destination is flexible, as was ours. Sleeping is not too bad, especially if one is lucky enough to have two seats in which to sprawl. I had told DHC to bring a pillow and a wrap / throw of some kind. It makes a huge difference in comfort. Sometimes the train temperatures are a bit cool, although mostly in my experience, it has been comfortable enough.
Friday ~ March 28
We were on the train all day and were about two hours behind schedule at one point, but made up time and arrived in San Antonio at 10 p.m.
Slowly watched the flora turn green. The day was cloudy, and we went through a stretch of very dark sky with thunder and lightning, but then in late afternoon, the sky totally cleared on one side (west ) of the train and was still an ominous dark grey to the east. We were, however, travelling south and west into the clearing weather. We went to the dining car and had a long leisurely dinner as a brilliant sun lay over the land. It doesn't get much better than this…..
Sometimes passengers begin chatting, but more often, everyone is content to read, sleep, watch screens, or stare at the landscape. Occasionally, there is a child or baby who cries but most parents are conscientious about taking care of them, especially after the conductor announces early in a trip that kids may not be allowed to roam free, that the smaller ones may not go to the bathrooms on the lower level unattended and they may not move through the train without adult supervision. The coach staff is pretty much on top of their passengers, take their measure, and are brisk and efficient when needed. Not exactly warm and soothing, but they get it done.
An African-American guy was sitting in front of me. At one point it became apparent that most of the passengers were going to have to detrain and take a bus as some tracks in Texas were under repair. It was our good fortune that we were not among those, and after they all got off in Taylor, Texas, DHC counted and said there were only 20 people left on the whole train. Anyway, Wayne was the man in front of me and, when he heard about the forced bus detour, he was crabby, muttering and swearing and generally unhappy. But, after we started talking, his story was interesting. From Michigan, with five or six kids ("only one is my biologic child"), he was headed to Dallas and then to the Houston area for a job in the oil industry. His new job will be on-shore fitting or dismantling pipes. He will be paid $37 per hour and was planning to move his fiancee and their kids down to Texas after a few months. He said one of his sons was a graduate of University of Michigan and was working on an AIDs project in Africa. His lady was a nurse, as was a daughter. He showed me a photo on his phone of a sweet little 3-year-old granddaughter. When he took off his hat, he had a bald head and looked older than I first thought. He was worried about the delay and concerned about the oil people who were to meet him at the Dallas station. Except for his one angry outburst, he was fine. He told me a lot about the oil industry, or at least his experiences, as he had done this work before. They will "chase you down the streets in Texas" to try to get workers. According to Wayne, there is only one drug test at the beginning ("dropped my pants") but very little regulation once someone is hired. And it seemed, a person has leeway in his/her schedule. Wayne wanted to work right on through, but some do three weeks on and a week off, or two weeks on and two weeks off. He did not have a high regard for many of his fellow workers, but he saw this as a chance to better his status and provide for his family. He kept insisting how the oil industry was begging for workers.
As his departure station approached, he got up and the train lurched and he fell into DHC's private space where he kind of landed on a suitcase, a bit chagrined and apologetic. We all laughed and off he went to HIS new adventure. DHC and I called it "a Wayne on the train" which happens often to some degree (the lurching and grabbing for support) as one is moving through the coaches.
There are sleepers but they are expensive at about three times the coach seats.
Ah, San Antonio on a balmy festive Friday night. We got all our stuff unloaded, readjusted as best we could and walked two blocks to the motel. The streets were full of happy people; the trees were wrapped with tiny white lights; the air was incredibly soothing. It was busy but not crazy frenetic busy. Bars and restaurants all around (or so it seemed) although later on our return, we had trouble finding an open place in this area, even on a Friday late afternoon. More on that later.
I was carrying DHC's pillow and stopped at a bench to either tie a shoe or readjust my belongings as the duffel with my scope kept sliding off the roller suitcase. Just outside our motel, DHC asked where her pillow was, and I told her it must be on the bench back a block, where apparently I had left it. She retrieved it while I stayed with our stuff, and we checked into a Best Western with a room on the 3rd floor. So far, so good…in fact, it was great.
Saturday - March 29
Woke to a dove calling, but not a Mourning Dove. This one has a muffled vocalization that sounds like "whoo cooks for you? whooo cooks for you" much like Barred Owl. They were all over and it was DHC's first life bird in Texas! We had the complementary breakfast and walked a few blocks to Avis where she had reserved a car. There was a bit of a snafu as the independent owner did not want to release the car as it had been reserved under Jack's "Wizard number," but he finally relented and called his boss. We heard only his side of the conversation and at one point he said, "Yeah, she's a nice lady…" and we were on our way. The car was a little Kia Rio and got fantastic gas mileage. We saw another ubiquitous bird in the city: Great-tailed Grackles which are all over and very noisy. They are similar but larger than the Common Grackles in Michigan. Also saw a Blue Jay which is not that common in Texas and, in fact, it was the only one we saw. And we did NOT see one Robin. Different places; different habitat; different birds. Which is what this trip was all about.
We started south to Laredo, a name that has a romantic connotation from old western tales and books and movies. It was a morning to soothe our northern souls and bodies with baby blue sky, warm sunshine and new greenery. The art of birding from the car is to do it carefully. It's best done on secondary roads with generous shoulders and little traffic. This does not describe the road to Laredo but we managed. At one point, DHC whipped off the expressway onto a service road for our first looks at the elegant Scissor-tailed Flycatcher. We were ecstatic and open-mouthed with awe which is often a birder's reaction to a particularly lovely, previously never-seen bird.
Except the truckers who also left the expressway weren't as enchanted and probably were cursing us as we were stopped but not COMPLETELY off the road. We tried to be more considerate after that.I had a tentative itinerary worked out which we generally followed but also changed it often as we discussed options. There are about 100 possible good birding venues in this area which is known as the LRGV (Lower Rio Grande Valley) and obviously we had to choose and discard as we went along. It all worked out and we were very compatible in this.
There is a large lake on the NE border of Laredo called Lake Casa Blanca, and we headed in that direction but never did see it. Instead we found Ranchito Road Ponds which were sufficient and very near the bigger lake. It was pretty hot by now, but there was a little park with Hispanic families picnicking and cooking up the most wonderfully fragrant delicious food. We almost sidled up to the grills and thought about trying to pass as relatives, but we were white girls here. God, it was so tempting and they probably would have gladly shared. We found (without exception) the Hispanics kind and friendly and helpful and good-natured. And we were certainly a minority. Often there was a bit of a communication issue, but it all worked. Just before the Ranchito Road, we were on another little dead end and saw a Pyrrhuloxia, which looks very much like a Cardinal but is more grey. A life bird for DHC!
So we poked around the ponds and saw pelicans, cormorants, herons, coots and a Black-necked Stilt which was my totem bird for a long while until Maria and I birded Bowdoin NWR in eastern Montana and she showed them to me. Not that one would have trouble identifying them. Here is a photo from another trip somewhere, sometime - they have bubblegum-pink, long long legs. We saw them several times on this trip.On to a Priceline motel in Laredo and then dinner in a large noisy restaurant. It had a mostly seafood-Mexican menu which was common along the Rio Grande, so near the Gulf. Mine was good; DHC's not so. Also, of course, margaritas.
W then decided to scout out a trail we planned to do early the next morning, the Las Palmas Trail, pretty much along the Rio Grande, although the dense tangled flora understory often obscured views of the river itself. As we got close, using our phones to navigate, we got to the river and watched people walking back and forth across an international bridge. Under the bridge were lots of Saturday night frolickers, cooking, playing ball, hanging out, cruising in cars…all Hispanic, AND the Border Patrol which had our backs as we said throughout this whole trip. They are always in white SUVs with green lettering. We found our trail area and there was a wide gravel road alongside so we headed away from the crowds into the "brush" and immediately were closely followed by the BP. I knew this from my previous Texas trip two years ago and knew they were just keeping watch, figuring out if we were drug smugglers or aiding humans escaping illegally from Mexico, or just sizing us up. At some point, we talked with one of them. There were several BP vehicles in the area. It was nearing dusk and no one else was in the brush or on the gravel road…just me, DHC and the guys in white trucks. One of them gently suggested we NOT get out of our cars anymore tonight, but tomorrow morning would be fine. "There will be more people out here in the morning." It was a beautiful early evening with no insects and that perfect temperature.
I wanted to find a bird called a White-collared Seedeater and this was their habitat. But they are tiny, sparrow-ish and secretive with a large grosbeak-like bill. They nest in the "canebrakes" which we figured must be the tall reeds which are all over. I kept peering into thickets but would have been very lucky to actually see one in this haphazard searching. They are hard to find, and we never did on this trip. It would take patience and possibly a local person to guide us or give us very specific directions. We did see several Great Kiskadees flying back and forth across the road - handsome, robin-sized birds with brown backs, yellow bellies and wide black and white head stripes.
We turned around at a dead-end and soon came on a BP guy standing in the road outside of his vehicle. He looked tense and his eyes were darting about. He had a short blond crew-cut. I asked him about directions or something, but he quickly said, "Ma'am, I'm working traffic…" and motioned us on, all the while keeping sharp eyes on the brush. So on we went, but then poked around a modest crowded neighborhood with unpaved streets on the high ground above the river before going back to the motel. Lots of cars and color which pretty much defined much of what we saw in this part of Texas in the residential areas. And then we spotted another life bird for DHC on Zaragosa Street where we stopped for a couple of minutes as there was little traffic. It was an Inca Dove which is smaller than the Mourning Dove and has a scaled or scalloped plumage. It was poking and pecking along the ground in this little poor neighborhood. Which is partly what is fun about birding. It isn't all about the birds. Tonight it was about the historic river, families hanging out, the Border Patrol, small neighborhoods with cars on lawns, the unfamiliar flora, houses painted colors other than white or grey or tan…beautiful dark-haired smiling kids….
Sunday ~ March 30
We were on the road early. I discovered I left my iPhone charger in the room in San Antonio. (I called and actually went back to the motel at the end of our week before getting back on Amtrak but never got it back, although a Hispanic security person was genuinely apologetic after he checked the Lost and Found and didn't find it).
So I bought a car charger at a convenience store / gas station while DHC got gas and we headed mostly east and south. It was overcast but the sky was clearing as we drove. We stopped at a rest stop near Zapata which has the reputation for birds but it was cold, windy and trashy. Texans obviously need some education about littering. We were high above the Rio Grande, took a photo or two, didn't linger, mostly due to the chilly wind, and stopped next in the tiny town of San Ygnacio, by which time the sun was out.
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| Bill Sweetman of Bsweet Birding Tours and Calvin College |
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| This is typical of signage in the smaller places… unpretentious comes to mind, but just right also. |
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| the street by the access to the river in San Ygnacio |
We both kept wondering and discussing how easy it seemed for humans to cross. The river isn't wide in most places and is shallow. There are miles and miles and miles of river between towns, sometimes with "stepping stones" like Eunice's Lake Superior property at Grindstone. But then we also always saw the BP whenever WE accessed the river. DHC said that we were probably in their system after that first encounter in Laredo and I'm sure she was right. WhateVer, as I said, we felt they had our backs.
We did sort of watch for ticks and chiggers and were aware of snakes but never saw one, although many places had signs warning to "Watch for Snakes." One does look down more often and is careful not to get too far into the brush without snake-proof, chigger-proof foot gear.
Then we left 83 and headed to Chapeno but DHC suddenly had some sort of epiphany, got the car safely off the road onto a shoulder, announced she had to investigate something, purposefully marched across the road and spent 15 minutes observing a small undistinguished sparrow. I stayed in the car for a few minutes but then wondered what the hell she was doing. It was rather unlike her but her instincts were right-on. The cooperative bird was a life bird for both of us, a Cassin's Sparrow, singing loudly, showing itself easily. I got the scope set up and we had good looks. DHC is very aurally capable and can hear and remember bird vocalizations which helps with the ID. And I have a couple of apps on my phone that we would judiciously play for confirmation. I am careful not to use this as some birders do more frequently. I am an elitist about trying not to unduly disturb the natural behavior of birds. This is a debatable and controversial topic in the birding world and playback is forbidden in most Texas state parks and NWRs. Deborah still was wearing flip flops, and there were always prickly plants and spiky sticky weeds. Still, she was called by a lovely sparrow song.
It was absolutely gorgeous perfect weather by mid morning…soft blue sky and delicate fresh spring greenery.
On to Chapeno and the El Rio RV park with its old hippie/druggy feel or if not drugs, at least a few beers every hour or so. We paid $3 each and drove down a rutted steep road to a nice mowed grassy area which appeared to be a camping venue, although no one was there. We did see a few birders in the distance downriver. A large mud-covered turtle was sunning on river rocks. It was getting warmer. We meandered awhile and tried to ID swallows nesting in the cliffs and chased another oriole that I don't think we ever saw well enough to positively identify. Again, we knew we were too late in the day for good birding, but now we know Chapeno. I always wonder about the back stories in a place like this. The whole area was ramshackly with a meager feeding station…nothing like my all-time most wonderful spot along the river in 2012, which was Salineno with at least 20 well-stocked feeders and comfortable chairs in the shade and about as perfect a birding experience as I've ever had. We headed there next.
But first we stopped at the library pond in Zapata, another favorite place for Texas birding. We walked around the pond as I peered hopefully into the 20 foot high rushes and "brakes" bordering the pond for White-collared Seedeaters as this is also a good spot for them. No luck and no Vermilion Flycatcher which is the bird I saw here two years ago and which DHC wanted badly to see. There was an Osprey though working the pond. We stayed about 30 minutes and moved on. I think it was in Zapata that she took some photos of a good-sized cemetery where each grave was loaded with bright plastic flowers. Again, all was quiet here. Sunday morning quiet. An occasional benign dog wandered about, or an older person walking slowly. A bit zen-like. Birding is another way to be a tourist…. with benefits such as poking around old small villages on the Rio Grande with adobe homes, palms, cacti, flowers, sunshine…
So on to Salineno which was no longer set up for birding, and which I knew but still hoped would have SOMETHING. It didn't, although it did have a field of poppies and a life bird for DHC: a Ladder-backed Woodpecker on a telephone pole as were leaving.
Now, ostensibly because of the "dangers" associated with being so close to the river, the place has been closed although there is some talk about it being renewed in some way by local conservation groups. And there is the Salineno NWR refuge right here with a trail leading east along the river, although we did not explore it. Those who do, undoubtedly find some of the birds that used to come to the feeders. It is all a bit mysterious and sad for anyone who visited Salineno in its prime. But c'est la vie….
One more quick stop before McAllen was Roma Bluffs which is also a World Birding Center site, one of nine along or near the river. Roma is another old town, high on a bluff overlooking the river, with trails going down to the riparian woodlands. Although we didn't linger here, we did walk a couple of blocks and watched the Sunday afternoon activity on the Mexican side in the town of Miguel Aleman, which included cars and trucks cruising a loop adjacent to the river and many families out picnicking and enjoying the weekend in a park-like open area. DHC talked to a female BP agent who told her that their presence and visible white vehicles dampen the enthusiasm of illegal river crossers. So that's a job: standing and sitting and watching and waiting in a white van / truck for hours like an almighty parental. There are old sun-baked buildings, some half in ruins, some restored, all made of stone and adobe. I sensed the historical significance of the town and found more information and photos by googling www.nps.gov/history and Roma Bluffs, one site with an especially gorgeous picture of the sun setting on the river to the west.
Back on the road to Bentsen-Rio Grande State Park, really a major stop for birders, as it is a huge park with trams and trails, gift shops, a Visitor Center, feeding stations, ponds, the river, a hawk platform…. Even though I had been here before, I couldn't exactly find the Visitor Center from the parking lot. And while we were fussing with directions, DHC spotted two Northern Bobwhite walking into the brush. Bobwhite are classified as quail and are plump, brownish birds one usually sees on the ground with a wee bit of a crest and white throats. Of course we eventually found the VC which turned out to be pretty much across the street, but the only parking there was for the maintenance crew. However it was late in the afternoon, those employees were soon to leave and there were plenty of empty spots, although DHC later moved the car to avoid getting locked in or ticketed or whatever they might do to people who disobey signs.
At the small pond alongside the Visitor Center, and we immediately saw a Black Phoebe and a Long-billed Thrasher. The phoebe was a new bird for Deborah. We hung around an hour or so; it was peaceful since most visitors had left for the day. There are always a few local Hispanic families with mom, dad and a couple of kids enjoying the outside in these lovely parks, along with visitors from all over the world. We walked a short distance to where I remembered feeding stations. A man with an Australian accent was the only other person. He was photographing with a long lens covered in camouflage material. As it was the end of a long day, we appreciated a feature that had not been there two years ago, namely several sets of those outdoor double-chair swings - a unit that stands alone and not something one would expect in a state park, out in the elements. We watched a lone Green Jay (one of the most beautiful birds hereabouts…blue head, green back, yellow belly, black throat) and another life bird for DHC, along with many Plain Chachalacas grubbing about and White-tipped Doves. The Chachalacas (a name that seems appropriate in this Hispanic-speaking area) are large brown birds with long tails…looking vaguely like a Wild Turkey but smaller and not as colorful and not as ugly. There are 22 inches, which is what I mean as large. The only other birds of that size were the hawks, vultures and waterfowl, birds of the sky and water, but Chachalacas are found along with sparrows, jays, orioles, etc., at feeding stations all over the LRGV, and which is the only place they are found in the US. Also near the Visitor Center pond, Deborah saw a Buff-bellied Hummingbird, a lovely hummer (not that there are unlovely hummingbirds) with its distinctive ruby red bill.
(Earlier this morning I read a post from another blogger who stated that of the two weeks she was in the Rio Grande Valley recently, only "four days were not Stormy, Windy, Rainy and Cold," so we were very lucky to be sitting in a porch swing, in a lovely state park, with no insects, few people, warmed by the afternoon sun and not blowing away, watching birds very close to us.)
I had been reading birding posts from Texas for months and DHC had written a gentleman from New Jersey who had asked for help for his week of Texas birding on one of the lists. He sent her what she called "the motherlode" of information that he had received in response to his queries, all from local birders. There were also a few recommendations for places to stay and to eat, so that night we tried the recommended Motel 6 in McAllen and a nearby restaurant; the food was OK…but again not exceptional, and the motel was, well, bleak. Not dirty; but with zero aesthetic appeal. The first room smelled of cigarettes even before we actually stepped over the threshold, so we changed rooms. The stairs were concrete with chips missing. One bed was smack against the wall, and so on…. We stayed in a few other places for the nearly the same price that were fine. Still, if one were birding on a strict budget, I suppose this would suffice. I think I would rather be in a tent than a dismal depressing motel room.
McAllen is a good-sized, busy city and what we saw of it was pleasant. Esther, you told me that one of your employees lives here? It was a gorgeous evening and we scouted the roosting bird scene. Literally 1000s of birds come from wherever they have been flocking around during the day to roost on the wires in fairly specific areas, in this case, the highly-trafficked, commercial north 10th street. It's like 28th street in Grand Rapids. Why do birds (mostly very noisy Great-tailed Grackles) do this? We had no idea but were sure there is a birdy reason. We, however, were not looking for the grackles but rather Green Parakeets. Only a few of these bright parakeets, parrots, parrotlets or macaws are accepted by the American Birding Association as "listable" birds, meaning that they are now considered wild enough or native enough or whatever their strict rules demand. There are other parrot-type birds to be found here and there which are escapees - pets that have escaped or been released, but are not recognized yet by the ABA. So in this part of Texas, there are only two: the Green Parakeet and the Red-crowned Parrot that are "legal" for birders. The GP is easier to find as it apparently roosts by the dozens to hundreds in quite specific places like the "Lowe's parking lot on 10th street." However, by the time we finished dinner, it was too dark to see what was happening on the wires, and we went to our Bleak House.
Oh, one other bird note: All along the Valley are two Kingbirds that look identical, and it is advised that one can only identify them by hearing their very different songs. As one knowledgeable local birder said, the Tropical KB trills; the Couch's KB is sitting on the couch crying "beeer, beeer." The Couch's are most common, and we saw them nearly every day, usually perched on telephone wires. They are handsome with a soft grey head and breast, white throats and yellow bellies. We made the assumption, due to habitat and the fact that they are so common, that we were seeing mostly Couch's.
Monday ~ March 31
The best thing as we got up early to be at Santa Ana NWR when it opened was the proximity of a Starbucks to our motel. We both have a mild addiction to good coffee and Starbucks seldom fails to deliver. I also bought a green drink that tasted like grass which I probably won't buy again. Sometimes the most nutritious foods are inversely proportional to the taste, as was this. The sun was rising as we drove the Santa Ana.
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| Golden-fronted Woodpecker at Santa Ana |
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| DHC at Santa Ana NWR |
A pair of kiskadees moved on the trail keeping just ahead of us. DHC was photographing one of them and never saw the other until she looked at her photos at the motel that evening. We also climbed a steep spiral stairs to a tower with a swaying canopy bridge, but neither of our vestibular systems is all that competent, so we didn't hang out long, AND there were few birds at that time of day.
We talked with a couple who had just come from Estero Llano Grande SP, our next spot, and who told us very specifically where to find the Common Pauraque, so off we went, although this is not the easiest park to find We stopped at a little general store and laughed when Deborah asked and was told it was basically 1/4 mile away. Signage is not always a priority and a couple of times on US 83, we would look behind us at signs to see if we were where we wanted to be, like at San Ygnacio. Of course, we were doing this trip "backwards" as most people bird from east to west.
By now, it was hot and windy but off we went to Alligator Lake, where we met a Hispanic family with a young girl who was so excited about the huge alligator basking on the far side of the lake. Her eyes were alight with eagerness to pass this information on to DHC and me. There were, in fact, at least two of them and they really were big!
So, the pauraque….We found the spot on the trail where the nest was supposed to be. The woman at Santa Ana said it was "right on the path…like you almost could step on it and it's right near a bunch of twigs and branches which have been placed at that point….can't miss it…" But we found no pauraque and no nest. The deal is that this bird is absolutely perfectly camouflaged and what is does most of the day is sit on the forest floor not moving a muscle. It looks exactly like the leaves and dirt and small twigs and tree debris that is always in woods. It's only found (in the US) in southern Texas. It is about a foot long with a tiny bill and long tail, so it's not exactly a tiny bird. It is the nightjar family, is nocturnal and is sometimes found by birders at dawn or dusk using flashlights as the light reflects from the eyes. This method, along with playbacks, is a controversial way of birding.
We peered and hoped and were about to give up when a middle-aged couple came along, obviously birders, and we starting talking. They were just out for "the next bird" with no targets, so we asked them about the pauraque. Yes, they had seen them before in this park, and yes, we were in the right habitat. We explained how the Santa Ana lady had been so definitive about their whereabouts. At that point, we were walking around a small loop with this couple. Both DHC and I were getting de-energized with that mid-day slump feeling, along with the sun and wind, so were resigned to "no pauraque" when the woman says, "I've got it…" and she did! Amazing example of a good birder's abilities...knowing how to look and what to look for. There it was, about 12 feet off the trail and so camouflaged that her husband just could not see it for about five minutes even though all three of us women were each pointing out landmarks…"see that tree that forks near the ground…see that clump of leaves next to the little spot of greenery….see about 3 o'clock just after that tree with whitish bark….etc.," and he was getting a bit testy but then laughed at himself too. On a couple of occasions while birding with lots of people, someone has had a laser pointer which was extremely helpful as it can pinpoint a bird's whereabouts, although it needs to be used judiciously and never directly on the bird. At any rate, we were immensely grateful and thrilled. And impressed as this Canadian couple only counted birds they have photographed, with a life list now at 300.
Yeah, I know….thrilled is a response most of you would find hard to apply to a mottled brown immobile bird on the ground in the brush in Texas....
We then returned to the VC but somehow missed a turn and found ourselves on a levee above the Rio Grande and were almost blown into the river. We saw elegant American Avocets through the sun, wind and water shimmer with our binoculars, trying to hold them steady in the wind. DHC took a shorter route, and I wandered a bit further, catching a glimpse of what was probably a Sedge Wren and getting within touching distance of coots. At the VC, there was a covered deck overlooking a watery, marshy habitat and one can sit in ease and watch the ponds and generally cool down while eating ice-cream or drinking a cold Coke. DHC saw a Cinnamon Teal; there were Purple Martins, a Common Gallinule, a cormorant which was either a Great-crested or Neotropic (several people with scopes trying to figure this one out) among other waterfowl. This place yields 60-90 bird species a day in prime time.
Deborah went back to the car and I walked through the Tropical Area which was much like Michigan with tall trees and open understory. I did not get a "tropical" sense in this habitat. It was more like a lightly used and slightly overgrown suburban park. I didn't see many birds, but it was pleasant, and I passed the trailer where Benton Basham lives/lived. He is a legend in the birding world. Google if you are interested. It is said he has a large indigo snake living under his trailer and an ABA life list in the 800s. He was mentioned in The Big Year.
We drove back to a motel in north McAllen which was actually in the city of Edinburg since we were planning on going to the Edinburg Wetlands in the morning. There was a lot of rush hour traffic with detours, our little Kia Rio was low on gas and it was hot and noisy.
We revived with a good dinner at an Olive Garden. Our waiter was a handsome young Hispanic guy who had grown up in Michigan, in Ferry near Camp Tall Turf. I ordered wine and he asked if I wanted the "6 ounce or the 9 ounce?" When he brought the bottle, he squatted down to eye level as he poured it very carefully up to some precise line in the glass. We took the leftovers with us and they were delicious, even cold, in the parking lot of Quinta Mazatlan at mid-morning the next day.
This was our Green Parakeet night. We figured out where we would have the best chance of spotting them and pulled into a mall parking lot, near a lovely water fountain, about 6:30 pm and settled down to wait. It was a sunny warm evening with a cool breeze. Perfect weather for hanging out waiting for parakeets. We decided we would give them one hour. However, seriously, within one minute, four birds flew in from the west, and these were our first Green Parakeets, a life bird for both of us. We could not believe the timing, the serendipity, our good fortune or whatever it was. I got the scope out and we watched them (and at least 100 more) for an hour. Their color exactly matched Deborah's green jacket. The western sun highlighted that lovely lime-green tropical color brilliantly as they turned and moved through the sky.
Tuesday ~ April 1
We changed our plans frequently as we did often on this trip…not the general itinerary but only the specifics, and today we went to Quinta Mazatlan instead of Edinburg Scenic Wetlands, partly because QM seemed like an artistic urban birding place and partly because there was a guided hike early in the morning. We picked up coffee at Starbucks and there just as the hike was beginning. In fact, we left the parking lot and immediately saw a group peering intently and taking turns with the guide who was pointing out…ta da! a Common Pauraque! And again, this bird was not moving, was completely still in the deep gloom in an area of dense trees and brush. Once found, I could find it two hours later as we left QM, but would have been just darn lucky to spot it in the first place. That nice little vignette was the beginning of a pleasurable amble through the trails surrounding Quinta Mazatlan, originally a country estate, now an urban park, and a truly lovely venue with sculptures and ponds and trails, abundant flora…very conducive to birds and people wanting a respite from the city.
Our guide was another handsome young guy named John Brush. He had just graduated from college with a degree in Biology. His father is Dr. Timothy Brush, a well-known ornithologist in Texas. His long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail; he was soft-spoken, knew birds and informally led our group for an hour or so. We soon saw a Curve-billed Trasher (life bird for both of us) and later saw Broad-winged Hawks kettling (kettles being large groups of migrating hawks that get together when they migrate), a Lesser Goldfinch, Tropical Kingbirds which John identified easily by their trilling as they flew over the adjacent golf course, a Lincoln's Sparrow, a Blue-eyed Vireo, a Black-throated Green Warbler…. If my camera had been charged, I would have taken a photo of a large tree limb which curved down to near the ground and then up again and which was lined with orange halves, at least 20 or more, or photos of the ocelot or javelina sculptures. John pointed out Palo Verde trees with their greenish bark and told us that the common tree we were seeing all over were mesquites. These hikes never cost anything and are an efficient productive way to find local birds in specific habitats. The dynamics are interesting in that there are usually participants (just one or two) who want to be more knowledgeable and better birders than anyone else. The leaders in our experience have been superior birders and deal with these type A people with gentleness and grace, all the while keeping the upper hand, as they should, and move the group along, listening with amazing ears for birds that they then almost always find and point out, helping everyone to see them. And it is true that several pairs of eyes helps the final count. As always, there are the modest folks and the show-offs. It is difficult to not constantly reply with one's own accounts of birding though in these casual conversations. So, I am continually learning to listen, both to birds and people.
We usually checked out the modest gift shops in these venues and bought a few things. I got a book on the Texas brushlands here at QM, and Deborah got a photo of the pauraque. There are always tempting field guides or books on local flora and fauna, along with T-shirts, binoculars, beautiful cards, pins, kids' stuff (in the bigger places) and small food items and drinks with coolers for ice cream products. Always lots of water fountains and water for sale. It's easy to get dehydrated in Texas.
We ate Olive Garden leftovers in the little parking area while DHC also earnestly looked and listened for a Vermilion Flycatcher but, alas, without success.
Off the Anzalduas County Park which is right on the river and thus full of border patrolling but also local fishermen seated on the banks. It is a more open park-like venue with not as much dense obscuring foliage. We poked along at river's edge a bit, wanting to see kingfishers but didn't. There were small sandbars where we saw a Spotted Sandpiper, still without its spots. As we drove off the main road into the park, DHC noted a bird on a wire (story of our life) which I quickly dismissed as one more Northern Mockingbird, of which we had seen about 1000. But, we then looked closer and it was a Loggerhead Shrike, bringing back memories of when Maria and I had the same encounter with a first impression and initial mistaken identity with these two birds in the Panama City area last year. And how we laughed about it later as the shrike was the only bird of note we saw on that little outing, our "$5 bird" since we had paid an entrance fee to the park where we saw it. This time, it was a life bird for Deborah, and she was definitely adding to her list. It was nearly as much fun locating and positively identifying birds I had seen before when they were new ones for her. And often one learns just a bit more about field marks, habitat, songs, behavior…all adding pieces to the gigantic puzzle that is birding knowledge.
And, while she was watching the shrike, I scanned the plowed fields next to us and, amazingly, realized there were about 50+ Swainson's hawks (DHC counted them) sitting in the field, apparently resting after a night of migration and/or waiting for the grubs turned up by the farmer who was plowing on a huge tractor nearby. This was surely something we had never seen before….
(Interestingly, a few days after I got back home, there was a front page photo and story in the NYTimes from Anzalduas.)
From here, we went to two other small urban birding venues:
The first was the Valley Nature Center which is right smack in the city, but with several small birdy/ butterfly habitats out the back door. It's adjacent to a little park with basketball courts and kids ramming around. The current building / visitor center is modest but a new one is being built. The surprising thing about the VNC was that this tiny pocket park was currently hosting four pair of nesting Yellow-crowned Night-Herons, which are large herons at 24 inches with wingspans of 42 inches. They had made their nests here in the tops of dead trees using very loosely put-together twigs and small branches which looked precarious and barely sufficient for brooding and raising babies, but that's their way and it works. We saw all eight of the birds. Since they usually nest on islands or near water, this was fun, albeit strange. DHC also had a brief glimpse of a Green Heron which flushed from a wee pond.
The best bird for me was a robin-sized Clay-colored Thrush. I thought I had seen this bird two years ago at this very same place but wasn't positive so never counted it. This time, I saw it and it perched in the shadowy undergrowth but remained perfectly exposed and very still until I got Deborah to see it also. It was one of my target birds making me happy and DHC felt "moved" by this unobtrusive, quiet, sweet and cooperative robin (robins are thrushes). I suppose a golfer with a hole-in-one or a player hitting an unexpected home-run feels the same way…or a lottery winner, etc. Or Esther finally figuring out a difficult geocache.
Our last place for the day was the Frontera Audubon Thicket. These urban places are truly delightful in that one is soon removed from cars, stores, traffic and city streets. Another great old home here houses the local Audubon Society. There was a small creek with benches right outside the door. I chatted with a delightful 91-year-old gentleman who sat there taking photos and videos of whatever showed, and I watched a 20-second movie of a bathing, splashing dove on his digital camera. He told me about his life, his eyes bright, his mind clear…how he flew planes in WWII, now he had been married for 71 years..how he and his wife sailed to the Bahamas in the winters and camped/backpacked in the Rockies in the summer. And he thanked me "for the visit" as I left.
The most impressive thing we saw along the trail here for me was an grand old Sabal palm which had dried fronds hanging down creating a shelter around the base of the trunk. These palms are indigenous in south Texas. We heard a persistently calling bird but never did locate it. We looked out of a photo blind / deck over a secluded pond but saw nothing there either; however, it was well into the afternoon and birds are often quiet at that time.
We were tired of birding and it was overcast with intermittent drizzle, so we got a Priceline motel on South Padre Island (SPI) and headed that way, driving through traffic nearly the whole way, about an hour. Our room was perfect, on the 3rd floor with a balcony from which we could see the Gulf. We ended up staying here two nights. Priceline sometimes worked for us and sometimes didn't, but is definitely worth trying. This was one of the good times. I do think we waited until too late in the day on a couple of occasions. Of course, we were off-season on SPI which a prime spring break location for college students.
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| beach at South Padre Island |
Even though it was late afternoon, we went to the beach next to the World Birding Center / Convention Center. It was hard-packed sand and we could drive out onto it. And were astounded at the birds! For about the next 24 hours we were perplexed by certain gulls with a very noticeable pink tinge on their breasts. I was thrown off by National Geographic which did not show Franklin's Gulls migrating through Texas, and I kept saying they were only "out west" but in fact they were Franklin's. And the fine print does describe the pink as in "often with pink tint to underparts" which I finally read. They look very much like the very common but slightly bigger Laughing Gulls here in abundance also. We even asked a few people about the pink and no one seemed to have any idea. We only saw them in the evenings. Another piece of the puzzle. There were Black Skimmers (a brazenly handsome bird), Willets, Marbled Godwits, four to five tern species, plovers, sandpipers, herons….a bonanza, and we were the only ones out there. However, we knew we could come back so we left, scouted out restaurants and found Señor Donkey. This was a lively colorful place with good food, very good and cheap Happy Hour margaritas, personable wait staff and a manager who spent about five minutes telling us that if were "ever on the causeway/bridge, and it was nearing the Happy Hour cutoff time, just call ahead and let them know and they would cut us some slack on the time…" meaning, I guess, we could still get Happy Hour drinks at 6:20. Our dinners were fine….I think it was Tex-Mex-seafood again.
We slept with the balcony door wide open…
Wednesday - April 2
Picked up coffee at a Starbucks in the hotel and were off to the beach. We met a traveling man in a truck with a very mellow yellow lab who was also birding early that morning. He had a scope mounted on his window and pointed out a possible Black-bellied Plover and Least Terns. We talked a bit and as he was about to leave, he asked whether we had seen the Aplomado Falcon which definitely caught MY attention. He then drew a precise map of the location of a nest. It was a wonderful island morning. The fog lifted and the sun came out. The breeze kept the bugs at bay.
The impressive World Birding Center is just to the south of the beach and we spent the morning there, walking the boardwalk, hanging out on the deck, checking the mud flats and marshes and looking over Laguna Madre which is the water between SPI and Brownsville. The island is long and narrow. I think Deborah discovered it is the longest barrier island in the world. Vignettes of a Northern Parula perched on the edge of a large broadleaf with its tiny toes on each side, of Hooded Warblers, easily seen and stunning with black hoods and yellow cheeks, of a Louisiana Waterthrush, of Soras in and out of the reeds, of a Large-billed Curlew which is really worth googling as its bill is not only "large" and very very long but also decurved. I was so glad Deborah got to see this as I had seen them often in the west and they are just so damn cool. We saw egrets and heron and teals and stilts and avocets and grebes, a Common Gallinule and Black-bellied Whistling Ducks….Met a woman who was clapping her hands in hopes of attracting a Clapper Rail or one of the other rails seen here, but rails are secretive. We never did see any although they are certainly here.
One of DHC's target birds was a Roseate Spoonbill and saw them here. You non-birders, look this bird up, please. Or if DHC EVER sends me her photos, I will insert a photo here. Gorgeous, large pink and white birds with spoon bills.
It was hot and windy and Deborah had a plan. We would go scout out the Aplomado's nest and then come back to the island, do another beach run and eat back at Señor Donkey's. Which is what we did. The drive to the A. nest was only about 30 minutes. I had scouted out lots of information before our trip about this falcon. It is "rare and local" according to Sibley and is now "being introduced in southern Texas." I wanted to see one and finally DHC got on board with this (sort of). It was a bit of an adventure.
We had to drive off island and through Port Isabel where we saw Brown Pelicans from a marina parking lot, and then west on Hwy 100 to the junction with Buena Vista Road. We easily found the nest which had, of all things, prickly pear cacti sticking out of it. How would you like to be born into that environment? Perhaps these falcons are reluctant mothers. The nest did not have visible birds. We pulled off the busy road onto the trashy shoulder and watched and watched and watched for an hour…every second. If I was fussing with the scope or iPhone or bird books, I made Deborah do it. Cars were whizzing by; the wind was blowing hard; the sun was hot. At one point, I saw "movement" or thought I did, but as time went by I had to let that go as we saw nothing further. Still, I had researched this habitat, and we decided to try "Old Port Isabel Road" which was truly marginal. DHC has a photo of me throwing boards with nails out of our path.
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| Old Port Isabel Road |
It is a caliche road, deeply rutted, though with hardened and not slippery mud (which it becomes after rain). And the little Kia, with a fairly low clearance, did fine. We saw Northern Harriers flying low over the fields as they do. Heard Cassin's Sparrows, or actually DHC did, and noted their songs. We stopped on a bridge and tried to identify a bird that perched on a post for a long time, probably just waiting out the wind. It was a Willet but seemed about half the size which fooled us, even though we got very close. When Willets fly, their coloration is boldly black and white and unmistakable, but this bird was hunkered down. In the 90 minutes we were on this road, we never saw another vehicle, which made perfect sense as it was impassable soon after the bridge. We turned around, a slightly tricky maneuver even for a small car what with the significant ruts. No Aplomado and it was definitely margarita time back at Señor Donkey's.
After dinner, we returned to the beach with more lovely pink-tinged Franklin's Gulls and Sanderlings….and hundreds of other birds. With more time and inclination, we could have spent hours picking through other sandpipers, gulls, terns and plovers, but we were leaving the next morning and wanted to check out both the Laguna Madre Trail and the Convention Center grounds.
The LM Trail is just like the WBC boardwalk although no longer directly connected as it was two years ago when I was there. The habitats overlap, however. The birds were settling into roosting mode, the spoonbills particularly lovely in the late sun…Soras and a Common Yellowthroat in the reeds.
The area adjacent to the Convention Center is small but productive with a lawn, trees and brush, a small water feature, and feeders, including oranges. Some visiting birders even come with a supply of oranges; we watched a gentleman cutting them up and putting them out. This habitat was more like the Midwest. We saw Yellow-rumped, Black and White, Hooded and Tennessee Warblers, a Northern Parula, a White-eyed Vireo, an Orchard Oriole….It was near and then past sunset and only a few diehard birders were still out and about, but the evening air was blissful after the sun and wind, and we lingered before going back to La Copa. At the end of these days, we would recap what we had seen, check Deborah's photos, do a little research for the following day, clarify certain questionable IDs….and generally get a good night's sleep.
Thursday - April 3
So sad…we had to leave SPI but checked out the beach first and got a Black-bellied Plover, new for both of us. It flew and we confirmed the ID by the large black underwing patch. We also saw a Reddish Egret but didn't linger here. As we drove back across the causeway and into Port Isabel, we impulsively turned down a side street along a canal/waterway, past working fishing (shrimping?) boats, past a gentleman cleaning (shrimp?) while gulls perched patiently nearby waiting for whatever scraps they could scrounge. It was another beautiful sunny morning, and this was not a tourist scene but rather a workplace with a mix of hard-used boats, docks, nets and cormorants, pelicans and noisy gulls.
We headed to Laguna Atascosa and fortunately the route was into Aplomado territory. By now, we knew Buena Vista Road, a gravel road near the nests (yes, plural, as sharp-eyed DNC had spotted another on a nearby support structure) which was a better stopping spot than the busy highway, so we pulled off there and within just a minute or so, she saw a raptor moving in from the north which then (fortuitously for us) perched on a pole for about 20 minutes. Even through our binocs, we could easily see it was the bird of my recent dreams…an Aplomado Falcon! We had wonderful looks through the scope. It is similar to a Kestrel but bigger. Since my camera was dead we figured out how to take photos with our phones and were very pleased with the good results Deborah got when we looked at them later that night. It took some fussing but is an alternative to a zoom lens in a situation like this. According to eBird, the Aplomado has been seen by many people this winter but pretty much only in relatively small defined areas and only with persistence. However, with the birding network, both in person as it was for us, and the Internet, oftentimes it all comes together in the form of an early spring sunny morning in Texas, on a gravel road, on a pole in a brushy prickly field…
We moved slowly north on the gravel no-traffic road stopping occasionally, at one point watching a Golden-fronted Woodpecker drill madly into a utility pole that already had about 100 holes. Here's a roadside attraction:
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| Buena Vista Road |
Laguna Atascosa NWR is known for its ocelot population along with its birds. There is a 15-mile auto route but it was closed. Upon querying the gentleman at the Visitor Center, we learned that it was first thought that ocelots only move around nocturnally, but after two were hit and killed by cars during the day, the road was closed and probably will be permanently. Perhaps a different route will be built someday. An alternative (other than walking the trails which we were too wimpy to do at this point) was a tram ride we opted not to do. The whole birdwatching frenzy of the winter months hereabouts had subsided. The feeders were empty; the trees were leafing out; it was getting hotter every day; the birds were settling into nesting mode and were not as vocal or visible.
We were now on our way back to San Antonio and headed mostly north. We had two more stops before this year's grand adventure would be over.
We got to Hwy 281, a major north-south road, and soon went through a Border Patrol checkpoint with signs (as we approached the BP agent and his drug dog) announcing the numbers for drugs and illegals for that year, both significant. We were mildly disappointed that they waved us through with barely a glance but then we were sure they "knew" us already…we had been profiled, our license plate recorded.
Our first stop was the Falfurrias Rest Stop along this highway in Brooks County where the bird of note for several weeks (but earlier in the year which we learned when we searched eBird and texbirds reports) had been a Painted Redstart. No luck for us on this one. It was an oasis, however, with a pond and many huge trees and snake warning signs. There had also been a Horned Owl nesting here recently, but DHC asked around and was told they were gone. Boohoo, as that would have been a life bird for her, not to mention the delight in seeing owlets.
We stayed an hour or two in this pleasant place, wandering about under the trees and on paths, scanning the branches and pond, and were rewarded by several very colorful birds: Lesser Goldfinch (yellow and black), Summer Tanager (red), Green Jay (green, blue, yellow and black), Killdeer (brown and white), Black-crested Titmice (black), Eastern Bluebird perched on a branch with its mouth open which birds do in the heat (blue), Golden-fronted Woodpecker (gold, red, black, white and tan) and a Hooded Oriole (orange and black)…really, a rainbow of birds.
We called around for motels and found those near Choke Canyon (between Falfurrias and San Antonio) were close to $200 a night so just started driving north toward Alice, Texas, and almost immediately whipped past a country Best Western, which is to say, the motel was pretty much surrounded by fields and open sky so we turned around and checked in. It was an utterly peaceful place, and the layout was U-shaped like the old 60's motels with a landscaped area in the center. I have occasionally stayed in these newer edge-of-town / out in the country motels in other places, and they are perfect after a long hot day. Barn swallows were flying about. It was restful and the sky to the west was full of color as the sun set.
We ate just down the road where English was definitely ESL. The smiling waitress, when we asked if we could get a glass of wine, told us in reply, "Just sit wherever you want…" motioning us into the dining area.
There were three Texas State Troopers at a table next to us, handsome and sexy in their tan uniforms, oozing testosterone and professionalism. Juke box music, decent enough food…..we were both wishing the trip wasn't ending.
Friday ~ April 4
We woke up in a thunderstorm but it blew east rather quickly and the sky cleared as drove to San Antonio. On the way, we stopped under a highway bridge and watched Cave Swallows fly and out of their mud nests and both counted another life bird.
Stopped for gas in a country store with pickled quail eggs and habanero peppers and various local salsas for sale.
We figured out one last birding place before we had to return the rental car: Lake Mitchell Audubon Center on the south side of SA. We had to buzz at a main gate and explain what we wanted, but were then welcomed and given a quick description of the property. The headquarters were in yet another older home surrounded by gardens and feeders and an outdoor amphitheater. We were told Verdins had a nest on either side of the amphitheater but were hardly ever seen, just heard, making their tick-tocky metronome sound. Deborah of course heard one almost immediately outside but we didn't see this tiny nondescript bird. What we did see though was her last life bird for this trip. There were cacti blooming in several places near the Visitor Center, and I spotted a Black-chinned Hummingbird on one, but Deborah didn't see it, although we hung around for awhile wishing it to return. It didn't so we then we drove an auto route around and between what were described as polders (low-lying land reclaimed from the sea or river and protected by dikes) and which usually have the more mundane names of impoundment or pond. For two Dutch girls, polders were perfect for our final venue.
We added a few species to our Texas list (not life list) as we drove around, including a Wild Turkey and Great-crested Flycatcher that we tried very hard to make into a Brown-crested Flycatcher. Back near the entrance, DHC decided to try one last time at the cactus flower for the hummer. I told her to "give it 10 minutes." She watched from across the road in a shady place and voila! within a minute, the sweet little thing flew in and she got it!
(Are we gaining any birding converts yet??? It's an excuse to be outdoors, to get exercise, to treasure hunt, to meet people from all over, to feel geeky but in a cool way, to share stories, to keep learning about bird behavior and how to find and identify the 700+ species in the continental United States and therefore to take trips all over, to be competitive about it, or not, and to see trees, flowers, lakes, beaches, weedy pastures, plowed fields, creeks and ponds and polders as habitats; it really can be done nearly anywhere. For instance, there is currently an osprey trying to build a nest on top of a crane near the River Street Bridge in Holland.)
We got a hotel across the street from the Amtrak station, checked in, returned the rental car and walked to The Alamo. Except the building we thought was The Alamo was the gift shop, filled with people frantically buying anything, everything, bumping into each other with cashiers and managers moving the lines efficiently to take our money faster….It was cacophonous and insane, but we also moved on through, each buying a couple of souvenirs, just not the high-priced Bowie knives or leather goods or rifles. There had to be tens of thousands of items, along with the ubiquitous T-shirts. Right in the middle of the store, however, was a well-done diorama of the battleground with soldiers and horses and guns, the river and bridges and fencing and the original buildings that helped inform me of the scope of the battle much more than photos just of The Alamo. Of course, we then saw that too as it was adjacent to the gift shop. The Mexican general's name is wonderful: General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.
Remembering how Maria went to San Antonio several times and would then tell us about the River Walk, we next wandered there, but it was crammed with people and we didn't linger. It was Friday night and everyone was strolling, eating, drinking, having a good time in the warm sunshine…. We ambled through an old adjacent neighborhood, got a bit turned around and found ourselves in the Alamodome, or very nearly, but were pointed in the right direction by a policeman on a bicycle.
So were to eat on our final night? As we no longer had the car, we wanted something near the motel and were surprised to find only three restaurant/bars and two were closed. The only one open didn't look promising. We were about to leave when we discovered the outdoor cooking guy. The deal was, he sets up outside the bar under a covered but open-air patio and basically grills pork and chicken and veggies and makes $3 tacos. He was cutting up chicken breasts as we wandered over and had the pulled pork seasoned and nearly ready to go. Other folks came by with some lamb chops they had just bought, and he grilled them too. So, we ate there. It was fun and the tacos delicious. There also happened to be a patron, a music man they said, picking songs on the juke box, good songs, so I Shazaamed them: Thin Lizzy, the Scorpions, ZZ Top, Gary Moore, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Pink Floyd… It was all kind of funky and loose.
Saturday ~ April 5
Got up early and walked to the Amtrak station. The train left on time and we spent the next 30 hours moving north again, already planning a trip to SE Arizona next year. Surprisingly, we discovered that we could take Amtrak to Tucson in less time than it took us to get to San Antonio and that clinched it for DHC.
She ended up with 51 lifers; me with 15.
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