The Big Yard: Birdwatching in a Time of Quarantine

Or: The Evolution of a Pajama Lister

The Swainson’s Thrush is uncommon in September as it migrates (usually at night) from its breeding range in Canada and Alaska to winter in Central and South America.

Day 554 of the Pandemic (September 23, 2021) 

            The first Swainson’s thrush has arrived, skulking in the shrubbery.  Like the resident hermit thrushes, it is a citizen of shadow and undergrowth. 

A denizen of graves and graveyards. 

            This weekend, the wife and I drive north to eastern Arizona to camp on the East Fork of the Black River with the remnants of my dead friend’s life, if not Walker’s actual “unclaimed remains.”  We carry his photos, a few documents, letters from publishers and editors—the ones he kept that praised or criticized his writing.  One is from an agent who complained that Walker hadn’t followed through on his recommendations after reading and commenting on his manuscript a dozen times.  Another from a university press acquisitions editor saying that reviewers had recommended publication of his book.  (This one mystifies me—it’s dated 2002.  Why didn’t he pursue publication?)  All of this, along with his unpublished manuscript, we’ll burn and scatter as a last act of an unfinished life lived in obscurity.

            In the end, as he wanted, even his words will be ashes.

            On Sunday, after coming off the river for camping supplies, I get a text from the Middle Daughter at home in Mountainaire.  A rescue crew has found her in-laws in their vehicle at the side of a road in Colorado.  Her father-in-law is unresponsive.  Her mother-in-law is dead. 

Covid.  Both were conservative. Both were unvaccinated. 

My daughter’s husband is on his way to Colorado. 

We turn northwest for Flagstaff.