Whitewater Revisited (13)

It was my second visit to Whitewater, but my first guided bird walk there. Mark, the man who led the walk at the Coachella Valley Preserve, was standing alone in the parking lot. I was not late this time. I laughed. "What,” I said, “are you the only man in the entire valley who leads bird walks?" I think I embarrassed him. Thinking back, there was something presumptuous about my approach. It was without softness. Plus, I was wrong. He was attending the walk, not leading it. I was cold, borrowed a bright pink shawl from lost and found. Our guide was Nick, a young man who had been working at the preserve since soon after it opened a little over two years ago. He was soft spoken and gentle and knew of what he spoke. He led us into a part of the preserve the public wasn't allowed to wander in by themselves, a special treat, I thought. He was grounded in his knowledge, not boastful. He didn't tell us book learning. He told us where he tended to see the birds, what they were doing, named the trees they'd often sit in. It was his own knowing gathered there over time. I think the five of us on the walk all felt lucky in him.

I knew the least, felt silly a time of two, asking the obvious. But everyone was kind, patient. I saw four birds for the first time: the summer tanager, the ash-coated fly catcher, the California thrasher and the song sparrow. Even better, I believe I learned the song sparrow's call, thanks to Nick, but time will tell. We mostly heard house finches, but I can never get tired of their songs. We heard ravens calling from a distance. We saw finches and starlings, mallards and hummingbirds and towhees. After, Mark and I walked up a ways on the lands open to the public and stumbled upon a family of American kestrels. Ah, what a treat. I saw the mother flying with one of the young ones, only for a moment. I've seen this before, had my suspicions it was a parent and child, never been sure. Then we got to watch the small ones for quite some time. It was pure sweetness, their little painted bodies perched in the bare branches of big trees across a meadow. And watching those feathery adolescents together was a good start to our own fledgling friendship, I think. I am grateful for both.

[Editor's note: Here is an image of an American kestrel for your pleasure. Now I want to get a camera with a telescopic lens. This has always been a dream of mine, getting to zoom in sharp and crisp on a little life in the distance, see the wind ruffling fur or feathers. A woman on this walk had a 500-times magnification, if I understood her right. I almost can't imagine it. But even as I write this I think this may not be right. I'll have to investigate.]