The Big Yard: Birdwatching in a Time of Quarantine

Or: The Evolution of a Guilt-ridden Lister

A male Eared Quetzal in the Chiricahua Mountains, a hundred miles from my home in Bisbee.

Day 199 of the Quarantine (September 29, 2020)

            “I’m in Globe,” Chuck LaRue said when I answered my phone, “headed for the Chiricahuas and the eared quetzal.”

            “Then I’ll see you there tomorrow,” I told him, not needing any more encouragement.

            This evening, I’ve just returned from Cave Creek after rising at 3:30 am. I met Chuck on “the bridge” at 5:30 am and he told me he had seen the pair last evening and that they were roosting nearby. Within ten minutes we heard the unmistakable kweee-chuck squealing of the quetzal. When I turned toward the sound, I spotted a flash of white tail and red belly as a large dark bird whirled among the tall oaks.

            Eight people gathered and we all donned masks and followed the bird down the road along the canyon bottom.

            Minutes later, a second quetzal appeared, a female with a gray breast, and when she perched on a dead snag a hundred feet away, I snapped my first pictures.  After two attempts since last June, my third earned the prize.  Sixteen years since I last saw one, but this is my first in the U.S. and species number 232 for Cochise County this year. 

A female Eared Quetzal, one of a pair that ventured from Mexico into the Chiricahua Mountains to the delight of hundreds of people.

More than a thousand people will list the Chiricahua quetzals on eBird.  Who knows how many others traveled here to see the birds.  I consider this as darkness closes over the oaks outside my window and Bandit stretches his legs on the sill and spills books onto my desk.  He’s relieved with the cool air slipping through the opening after a day of record heat (94 degrees).

            “Feral cats,” I write in my notes, “are a distraction from the real issue: Chasing birds.” I’m not making friends here.

            I think about how many miles I, a mediocre lister at best, have driven during the Pandemic just to check off a bird.  Not counting my weekly trips to Tucson for the writing workshop, and the many side trips to places like the Benson sewer ponds and Curtis Flats.  Not counting the drive to Yachats and those 9 life birds.  Not counting any incidentals, I’ve traveled 2600 miles since last March just for birds.  2600 in six months!  Using a convenient Internet carbon footprint calculator for my Subaru at an average of 28 mpg, I’ve dumped .76 metric tons of CO2 into the atmosphere to list 25 life birds.

            I need to plant five trees to offset my Pandemic birdwatching.  Five large trees.

            The Head Blond says I’m good, though.  My birding footprint is already offset because I don’t wash my car, shower, or change my clothes.

The Birdwatcher’s Guide to Global Warming says that more than 63 million Americans are birdwatchers.  We inject billions of dollars into local economies throughout the country as we purchase birdseed, binoculars, guidebooks, and hotel rooms before venturing outdoors to pursue our hobby.  

“Global warming threatens our own backyards,” the 2002 guide says our “beloved” songbirds are telling us, “and we must begin to confront it.”  Among other things, suggestions include supporting emission caps on power plants and promoting clean energy from solar and wind power, purchasing energy-efficient home appliances, insisting on better fuel economy standards for new cars.  No mention of considering the cost of chasing birds.

Two quetzals on my checklist.  .06 metric tons of CO2 toward a hotter planet.  

For two hours the quetzals flew in and out of the woods, “flutter feeding” on insects and ripe hackberries, sometimes perching together, sometimes leap-frogging each other.  They seemed unbothered by the roadside gawkers and our shutter clicks and quiet exclamations of wonder.  Often, the birds came within a few dozen feet, staring at camera lenses with one beady eye.  Their appearance in the 43-degree, predawn light—their contrasting red and green plumage among so much gray and ash—turned the forest somewhere between tropical and magical.  

            Tonight, I post to Facebook my favorite photograph of the amazing birds after culling through 200, mostly unfocused attempts.  One out of two hundred.  “This happened today,” I write above a perched male eared quetzal that glows from within.  Later, because of some confusion, I add that I spent the day in the Chiricahua Mountains. 

“Phew,” Arlene Ripley, replies.  “I thought it was in your yard!”

I don’t mention my carbon footprint...or that maybe I should stay in my own backyard.