I like to think of it as a brush with eternal damnation that will drive me to the assiduous practice of repentance and virtue.
I'm speaking, of course, of birding in Phoenix in August. Airport trips took me there Monday and today, with some time to kill. Did I take in an air-conditioned matinee? Seek temporary work in a meat locker? No. I deliberately stomped around outside and squinted at vicious lakesurface glare as the temperature hovered around 112. Are our scientists working on a medication for this illness?
Getting a late start Monday, I only had time to chase one bird. It required a drive out to far NE PHX, to an area called Fountain Hills. It's great, my (climate-controlled office denizen) friends assured me. The man-made lake there has the tallest fountain in the world. 300 feet. Wowzers.
So I find the lake and a sign: fountain broken. Right. Probably melted in the sun. Anyway, no matter. I'm there to snag a good state bird: Brown Pelican. For some reason, AZ is hosting a bonanza of pelicans this year, with mixed results. Even the evening news did a story on pelicans mistaking asphalt heat shimmer for bodies of water and attempting graceful landings in the middle of the highway. Some are going to hit their wintering grounds with serious road rash and a rousing story.
Of course, I can't figure out which is the pumphouse by the bank where the pelis are supposed to hang and I get in and out of the car all around the lake. On my last sweat-sodden stop, cursing under my bins, thar she blows, a lovely specimen gliding with improbable grace tight to the surface only to suddenly bank up and plunge straight down. Apollo is instantly forgiven. Great bird. Actually, birds. There were three.
This morning the target was Burrowing Owl, a nemesis bird. Armed with vague directions, I visit the Gilbert wastewater ponds in SE PHX (only 105 today). A fenced-in viewing platform only permitted partial views of the whole complex. Good views, though. I estimate an astounding 150 Long-billed Dowitchers along with good numbers of Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs, Black-necked Stilts, peeps aplenty, ubiquitous Killdeer, and one lone American Avocet. But no owl.
I decided to hop a wall in. A thorough search revealed none of the directions' landmarks but did drain me of all internal moisture. And clambering back over a fence, I ripped my shorts so badly it looked like I was attacked by ferrets.
Nevermind. Off to the Chandler airport, where a guide to the county assured me the owls may be found happily cohabiting with the local ground squirrels. Ratty fields produce a couple of desultory squirrels, loath to scamper even slightly in such heat. They showed little interest in my gaze. The local constabulary, on the other hand, took an intense interest.
Frowning at my license, the cop said, "So. Mr. Fry. May I ask what you were doing just now, exactly?"
"Um, looking for a bird, officer. An owl, in fact. A Burrowing Owl, " said I, brightly, hoping it sounded more like "Just enjoying the morning sunshine, sir" than "Plotting the ultimate destruction of the infidel, if Allah wills it, white devil."
The folded arms and hard stare were not encouraging.
Tossing out a light laugh, I stammered, "Must seem kind of funny, ha ha, in these times, looking at airplanes through binoculars, doesn't it? Ha. Ha." He's not going to strip me naked and put a leash on me, is he? Oooh, I hope not. I do not photograph well these days.
The cop's voice sunk alarmingly low. "That's actually a military base. Where you were looking. Not so funny."
"But it says in this book owls would be here!"
"May I see that?"
And, thankfully, that is precisely what it said. He handed it back, fixed me with a "one false move and it's one way to Guantanamo" glare and sent me on my way. I decided to bird elsewhere.
A couple more stops turned up another Brown Pelican but little else of interest. A couple of wild goose chases perpetrated by a guidebook that in seven short years has become hopelessly obsolete (owl habitat seems to be getting torn up for Indian casinos. How's that for irony?) made me throw in the (soaking) towel and skedaddle back to Sedona, where it was a balmy 98.
Posted by MadMonk at August 12, 2004 06:05 AM