Sisterhood of the Traveling Bums 2: Den Ya Kat and the Mental Progression of Good Hiking

The day after our flippant ascent of Doi Chiang Dao, Hope and I woke up dark and early. The day's mission: go ride up a mountain and bird down. We'd tried valiantly to delay this adventure and take a rest day. Turns out it's good we couldn't, because this way the lactic acid buildup had yet to reach its full potential. Our taxi driver was ready before we were; to his bewilderment, we bypassed the cushy interior and hopped right into the bed of his super sexy pickup.

Two of America's great shortcomings are that (1) we can't have Toyota Hiluxes and  (2) we do have pickups but you're supposed to ride in the cab. Where's the fun in that?! Therefore, when I visit Asia, I capitalize on my opportunities to travel via Hilux bed. It's a good way to start the morning, laying down and watching the dizzying star ceiling, feeling the rush of clammy morning air, smelling cooking fires in the small villages. Occasionally a shooting star would streak over, and I'd wish for Giant Nuthatches and Hume's Pheasants. After jostling around for an hour and a half, we spilled out at Den Ya Kat substation. The trees, etched against the graying sky like disappearing ink, were just beginning to gain structure.

We set out to do just that: find Giant Nuts and Hume's Pheasants. After birding the pine glade around our dropoff, we settled with a White-crowned Forktail and a Hoopoe, and started trudging down down down. Weariness from the prior day's craziness manifested itself with every step on the hard dirt road. Although it was early, time was of concern, so we adopted a policy of "no flock no stop". Fortunately, nice mixed flocks (containing more than just bulbuls and phylloscoshits) broke the monotonous journey.

Punishing hikes are one of my favorite things. To test your body's limit--to command your exhausted core to keep you upright on narrow, uneven switchbacks, to feel the twinge as your hamstrings groan for a respite from steep uphill, to marvel at the flutter of your lungs as you pause to settle your pulse. Attached to this comes clarity of mind, a massive endorphins dump, and, more times than not, devastating scenery. These are all reasons why I hike.

A demanding hike is accompanied by predictable thought pattern. The first stage--happiness. You're at the beginning, feeling good. Air crisp, wrought with dewy promise. Around every corner discovery--in fact, for every 5 birds that are new, you celebrate by eating. You celebrate often. The world is pretty much your oyster. Even if you don't see Giant Nuthatches, fairy bluebirds are still breathtaking; piculets are still adorable. Besides...that next grove of pines will have a nuthatch, surely.

The second stage--quiet. Although you're still content, you don't feel particularly moved to express your happiness. The sun has risen, the air warm and dustier, hope for Giant Nuts is fading, the flocks are more predictable. You lift your binoculars, another Maroon Oriole. You shrug, turn to your companion--cool, she sees it too. Keep working the flock, hoping for something new. It's been a few minutes. The bird book is really fucking annoying. Who'd start off with cuckoos--and why on earth are herons in the middle of the guide? Just aso the silence begins to feel somewhat ominous, the appearance of the next stage--philosophical--breaks the quiet.

By now, it's really hot. You've repealed the 5 birds for food principle. A baker's dozen of cows with unclear pedigrees and unclear ownership appear next to the road. Hope doesn't like cows. I like to eat them, but aside from that am generally ambivalent. This herd didn't wow me with their intelligence; they trotted down the road, bells tinkling. Occasionally they'd pause, look at us concernedly, and evacuate their bowels. This went on for several kilometers.
"I feel kinda bad. You realize we're chasing them down the mountain..."
"We're not chasing them. They're choosing to be chased."
"Wow. I want to think about that one for awhile."
We did; predictably, the conversation turned to boys. Hope shared a hilarious tale of one who'd gotten away--one who'd gotten away DESPITE her attempts at wooing with the bequeathing of a prized insect specimen.

I don't remember when we lost the cows; by then, we were engrossed in my favorite stage--delirium. Since it tails philosophy, delirium generally results in heartfelt discussions over absurd situations. One must take caution, however, to avoid misidentifying  delirium as happiness. This is crucial, for delirium is followed by despondency, and this transition is unsettling when one moment the world is your oyster and the next, you're in the depths of despair.
"Ooh. I've got a good question."
"Yeah?"
"Would you rather. If you were going to have a magnum bar, would you want an Asian Paradise Flycatcher or a frogmouth to deliver it?"

Magnum bars may well be the discovery of the trip. They're an ice cream bar and also perfection. A skillful crafting of silken ice cream that caresses your tongue encased in a sinfully good chocolate and nut coating. Most notably, much thought was apparently behind their design, for they seem engineered to resist melting under tropical heat -- an important factor indeed. I'm a little chagrined it took me more than a year wandering southeast Asia to find these treasures, for they're not particularly hard to come by. So, I've attempted to rectify this impasse by consuming at least one each day. I pondered Hope's question, giving it the thought it deserved.
"A frogmouth." Hope nodded emphatically.
"It could just carry the magnum bar in its mouth and regurgitate it for us and when it did that its eyes would pop out even bigger and it would be ADORABLE and I can't even..."
We pondered the overwhelming cuteness of this scenario and decided, for good measure, that our frogmouth ice cream courier should be accompanied by a team of Kalij Pheasants pulling a sled of curry puffs.

Instead, we ate stale garlic bread and a medley of MSG variations. You see--hunger is an additional stage that can be inserted anywhere, anytime, limitlessly. Hunger is fickle. Ignore it, and the current stage is exacerbated, the next ushered prematurely. Acknowledge hunger, and you'll almost certainly enjoy a brief regression to happiness.

The final stage is despondency. The journey is painful. The destination is unreachable. Even Great Barbets do little to bring cheer. One of the most vivid episodes of despondency occurred earlier this fall, when my sister and I got schooled by the Manistee River Trail.
"Every step feels like someone is injecting my feet with thousands of needles full of fire ants. I just want to take my shoes off and throw them in the woods."
"Yeah? Well I'd like to take my legs off and throw THEM in the woods. My hips are killing me. And you know what else? I've had Raffi songs stuck in my head for the last 3 miles." That's despondency for you.

Although fate had failed to deliver us Giant Nuthatches, our luck changed before we entered serious despondency. A Hilux stopped, and it's driver offered us a ride to the checkpoint. This shaved 10 kilometers and resuscitated our spirits. A short walk through the village--now dusty, hot, full of chickens and sacked-out dogs--brought us to the main road. Just as we set foot on it, a songthaew heading away from us pulled over; the driver crossed 4 lanes of traffic to see if we wanted a lift. We collapsed into the back exhausted, reveling in the smallest thngs, like the breeze from a passing truck. Life was good--good until we knew better.

When the songthaew ejected us at Chiang Dao hut,  we limped past the older French couple sharing the guesthouse.
"They're drunk," observed Hope.
"They're French," I retorted.

We didn't know. Soon though, we did. There was an awful situation in Paris, the work of evil people--people too weak to use anything but violence in their attempt to prove a point.
"Do you think they know?"
"They know," I said. "Let's go back."

We cried with them over our broken world, hugged them. The day was now a confusing fog of exhaustion, anger, sorrow, happiness--and a potent guilt for feeling happy in the face of such pain. How can life be good?

Sisterhood of the Traveling Bums 1: Doi Chiang Dao

Hope and I lazed on our porch at Chiang Dao hut. It was raining, and we were swatting mosquitoes and trying to make plans --futile on both counts. Chiang Dao is a small town about an hour from Chiang Mai, set back in jungle foothills. It's beautifully serene and palatably touristy, a destination where it's possible to get away without significant investment. We'd already blown a day eating green curry and befriending adorable flea-ridden puppies. It was time to actually do something.
"So we could go birding at Dem Ya Kat tomorrow and summit Saturday..." I suggested, my St. Paul soft body veering away from certain punishment.
"Oh, wait. You have to get the park permit BEFORE you go to Dem Ya Kat. Guess that means we'll summit tomorrow."

Doi Chiang Dao, Thailand's 3rd highest peak, is well-visited, but you're supposed to tackle the 7.5 km, 1100m gain over 2 days, camping just below the summit with their guide. This is all well and good. However, we didn't want to overnight, didn't want to pay for a guide--and for that matter didn't really WANT a guide. To circumvent this, we'd summit it in one day, which led to another problem: how to get to the trailhead, 10.5 kilometers from our guesthouse. We came up with 3 possible solutions: 1. Walk it. 2. Bike it. 3. Motorbike it.

We ruled out walking; we'd be doing plenty of that anyway. We also, after much deliberation, decided a motorbike was out of the question. You see--neither one of us had driven a motorbike before, much less on mountainous roads. There was also a disconcerting common thread in Hope's pool of acquaintences who'd rented motorbikes in Thailand: they'd all crashed. So, that option was nixed as well. So, bicycles it was.
"We can walk them on the steep parts, ride them the rest." concluded Hope optimistically.

So we rented bikes and went across the road for dinner, where we ordered 2 dishes each. This confused, then amused, the staff.
"Very hungry," we explained.
We somehow managed to relocate the copious contents of our plates into our stomachs, then waddled back to our hut.

We were excited, we were nervous, and we're both blanket stealers, so sleep did not come easily. We gave up about 6, hopped on our bikes, and pedaled past the huts, dogs, and Sooty-headed Bulbuls that lay between us and park headquarters.

At the gate, the guard asked, "You go Chiang Dao?" We shook our heads and mimed binoculars. "Look for birds." We paid the fee while he looked skeptically at our bikes.
"10 kilometer up...UP."
We smiled and pedaled off and fortunately made it JUST out of view from the guard shack before we hopped off and began humbly pushing our recalcitrant steeds up the grade.

Save a brief respite of coasting through cloud forest for about 2 km, we fought up the steep grade for 2 hours. This whole time, my breakfast was also fighting its way up.

Finally, we reached the trailhead. This represented another stretch of steep up. As we labored, we admired the stunning scenery. Every mountain in Thailand has a different aura; Chiang Dao's is thick emerald forest shrouded in clouds, abrupt limestone peaks, unexpectedly smooth valleys. The trail is mud, with a few rocks and roots thrown in for good measure.

Much of the hike up escapes my memory. I was the slow link, reaping the benefits of a summer where I was paid to sit. Hope was reaping the benefits of a summer where she'd been paid to hike. What I do remember is a lot of sweat, a few descending hikers concerned about our sanity, and occasional stomach-wrenching whiffs of Hope's Fivefingers.
"I think we smell worse than anything alive...and maybe some things that are dead," I observed.

We walked and stopped and drank water and avoided looking at our watches until the sun was alarmingly high.
"Weelll...it's 12:30 now. We can't leave the summit later than 1:30."

We stomached this, disappointed. We'd come so far and invested so much...we had no idea how far we'd come. What if we couldn't make it? Shortly thereafter, we reached the campground. Only 15 minutes from there. We'd make it.

We scurried up the last bit. Steep, slippery, our bodies protesting. Habitat rapidly changed--by now the Sooty-headed Bulbuls had been replaced by White-headed, and green magpies darted around. At the summit, we wolfed down some snacks, appreciated the assortment of swallows and Swifts wheeling beneath us.

We still had the hike down--and hiking down is not easier than hiking up. Gravity is at best a fickle friend, one moment tempting you to run, the next tripping you over a root.

We reached the trailhead at twilight, just as the rain reached us. The road down is heartpoundingly steep. The grade must be illegal in the states and  narrow, wrought with ample hairpin turns. Vehicles blast their horns as they approach the worst bends; the mountain becomes a chorus of receding (or approaching) beeps.

Wet brake pads did not lend themselves well to these conditions, so we decided the sensible thing to do would be to walk our bikes down. At this point, walking was the LAST thing I wanted to do. My feet ached; blisters had re-opened. Mosquitoes made me irrationally angry. I smelled bad and Hope smelled bad and we made a sorry parade limping resolutely down the road, water dripping down our necks, restraining bikes that were suddenly eager to dash down the mountain. I really wanted to let mine go, wish it well, and recover its carcass from the bottom.

Finally, I gave up, got on, and flew down the mountain. It was an exhilarating ride through the dusk, rich with head-on collisions with enormous jungle bugs. The whole thing was executed at rates of speed my mom would certainly disapprove of. At the guardshack, we devoted a moment to marveling over the fact that we didn't die. We were covered in mud, scratches, and sweat and reveled in the joy of the young, cocky, and invincible.
"You realize, right, that we're absolutely batshit crazy?" Hope stated.

I did, and I do, and it's great. We don't destroy our bodies enough in regular life to obtain such pure clarity of mind. That evening, for the first time in many months, I experienced peace.

Cornering

Corner: vb; to abruptly acknowledge one's locational cluelessness, halt abruptly  (typically on a corner where signs with English lettering can be found), and pull out a map, while bemoaning your obvious tourist status. Usually accompanied by elements of awe and disbelief when one finds their place on the map, yet the actual getting there remains utter mystery. Used in a sentence: "Hope, do we need to corner?"

So, Hope and I are wandering around Thailand this month. We don't have tight plans--any plans, really... we have a similar travel philosophy, and that is that travel--and life, really--should center on BEING, not DOING.

This morning we woke up, cried over spicy food (hello Northern Thailand!), bought a few essentials of life  (e.g. water and kitkats), and sought the perfect journal spot--one that was shaded, not awkward, and had a clean place to sit. After much cornering, we found the perfect spot to squat on--the grounds of a hospital adjacent the river.  Asian House Martin's and various flowerpeckers and sunbirds were worthy distractions, but I found myself thinking about travel, and on being a tourist.

Does anyone actually enjoy fitting the tourist stereotype  (for we ALL do), or do we just poke fun at other tourists while ignoring the elephant in the room? (That is, no matter how much we deny it, our actions and pursuits on vacation differ from those who call our destination "home"). What's wrong with being a tourist, anyway?

For that matter, why do we crave travel? To answer questions?  To elevate ourselves in comparison to less-cultured homebodies? Is it in search of rediscovering that sense of childlike wonder?

Save paltry 2-week breaks, Hope and I have been full-time slaves to work and school for the last two years. This trip represents the breaking of that cycle,  the defiance to societal pressures that barricade introspection. Long vacations are so important.  It takes time to disconnect from those demands and space to re-evaluate where I'm at--career, relationships, general well-being.

Hope and I were talking on the train to Chiang Mai.  After we left Bangkok Station--but before we crossed the rice paddies and their assortment of Asian Openbills, Red - wattled Lapwings, and White-throated kingfishers, we'd already hit the philosophy.
"Some people live their lives in circles, but I'd rather live linearally...always moving forward."
I nodded, ruminating on the thought but not entirely agreeing.
"You know, I actually like the idea of living life in a spiral. That way, you're ever-expanding, yet also revisiting where you came from,  connecting new experiences with the things you've always known."
My spiral contains so much cornering that it must defy all geometric laws, but in life--like in navigating Chiang Mai--sometimes you've just got to stop to confirm you're on the right track.

Storm-petrels and sandwiches

Great Shearwaters weren't obliging at all...

Life post-St. Paul has been an adjustment. Produce abounds, Gray-crowned Rosy-Finches do not, driving on pavement is an experience comparable to floating through silken clouds (and Boston drivers look at you quizzically when you wave at them). And, after spending months straining to find birds in non-wooded habitats, I've reentered a world where vertical vegetation exists and fluttering leaves masquerade as warblers. I lasted in New England woodlands for a whopping 5 days before again seeking treeless horizons.

Paulagics was running an overnight pelagic off Brooklyn, so I convinced my roommate that she wanted to devote a weekend to rough seas and cold wind. She agreed joyfully, because Rose is cool like that (and, she's also cool enough to have seen a Tufted Puffin in the Atlantic!).

There was a hiccup, though--Rose finished work at 2:30 Friday. We needed to be at the dock no later than 10:00 Friday. It takes nearly 7 hours to drive this distance in optimal conditions, but dogged determination fueled by tubenose lust propelled our hope.

Rose took a huge leap of faith and let me drive. Still in St. Paul mode, it wasn't until New Hampshire that I realized I'd neglected to fasten my seatbelt. (Ironically, in New Hampshire, you don't have to wear one anyway.)

We endured Boston rush-hour, then Worchester rush-hour, then Hartford rush-hour, then an accident...
"I don't think we'll make it." said Rose, the sensible one.
"I think we will." I contradicted, holding on to the hopeless optimism near and dear to any birder.

I'm not entirely sure how we made it--this is possibly due to the nonfunctionality of Rose's dash lights; our post-sunset speed remains mystery. I'm also not entirely sure how we managed to parallel park, since our cumulative prior experience could be counted on one hand. However, we did, we conquered, and we soon were standing on a dock next to a dumpster-full of pizza boxes, making small talk with long-lost acquaintances.
"What are you hoping for?"
"Dunno man...it's my first Atlantic pelagic. I'll get Life Birds no matter what."

The engines wheezed to life, and I headed up to the top deck, where I found a half-occupied bench with just enough space for my sleeping bag. The engines wheezed to life, and I fell asleep as New York's lights blinked out behind us.

When I awoke, we were more than a hundred miles offshore. That sounds romantic, so I'll be honest--I awoke when the city lights still blinked distantly. I awoke again when a rude, salty wave invaded my sleeping bag, then once when Nathan, on the floor behind me, announced he'd found someone's hard drive sliding around. You get the idea.

When I awoke the final time, the boat was pitching in the dark swells; the chummers were beginning to lay down the fish oil slick, trusting that dawn would overthrow night. I too trusted that dawn would overthrow night. You see--I'd signed up thinking that, if nothing else, the endeavor would be a fine opportunity to see if I get seasick. I was hoping I wouldn't.

Finally, the horizon emerged, putting my mind at ease. Michael, snuggled in his beanbag tarp burrito, looked like his stomach was not at ease.
"Alison, do you have some food?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm not sure if I can make it to the cabin before I puke."
"Oh. Take my crackers!" I pushed the Ritz roll into his hand.
Fortunately, Michael would not be adding to the chum slick.

Dawn came and with it the birds, who could smell our fish oil miles out.
"Wilson's Storm-Petrel! Gettin' late there!"
Lifer. Storm-petrels are one of my favorite tubenoses--they're delicate, pattering across the waves like tap-dancing swallows. The ocean temperature was warm for late October; our hopes were high for the unexpected. (Though not the inexpectata.)

We were not disappointed--in fact, the sun technically hadn't risen when a large bird arced distantly over the fish oil ribboning out behind us. Pale underwings, glaring white rump...
"BLACK-CAPPED PETREL ON THE SLICK AT 7:00!!"
Birders spilled out of the cabin to watch this desired Pterdroma...then the next one...then a group of 3...then an 8th (or was it a 9th?).

The petrels set the excitement level high, and the ocean continued to deliver. Mola-mola breaching. Great Shearwaters wiggling through the wake, shyer Cory's cutting the swells, Gannets spiraling overhead. Manx Shearwaters, fulmars, a sharp juvenile Black-legged Kittiwake, MORE storm-petrels, some mahi-mahi.

The mahi-mahi were quickly transformed into sandwiches. Rose, in the right place at the right time, lucked into one of these and kindly bestowed half of it to me. It was a pretty amazing sandwich--definitely a rewind/repeat meal. While I was licking my salty fingers, someone yelled out a Pomarine Jaeger. A mass evacuation ensued. I remained, unwilling to compromise my sandwich enjoyment. The last birder to lurch out the door paused.
"Trash bird for you?"
I smiled.
"Oh, no. It's always a good day when you see a jaeger. It's just, this sandwich is really good..."

I doubt he understood. I'm not sure I fully understand, either, why we'll happily spend hundreds of dollars to go spend hours throwing up in the ocean--why the idea tantalizes us so much. When I see a storm-petrel--a tiny bird better-equipped to elicit the sea's mercy than I am--dancing over the waves, I understand a little more. We're intrigued by the unknown, crave that which we cannot control. And we get that by spending an October weekend on a boat 100 miles offshore Brooklyn.

Rainbow Birds

Yesterday morning, I retrieved Susan from the King Eider. It was 10 AM, the sun only recently emerged from the Bering Sea.

We had just enough time to drive Northeast before lunch. Save the growing flocks of Snow Buntings and a couple Brant on Big Lake, it was a quiet morning--quiet in the bird department, that is.

Susan, a long-time veteran of St. Paul and a fellow Michigander, is one of the most ebullient birders I've met. A day spent with her shotgun isn't really work. As we wound back to Trident, we acknowledged fall's advent.

First snow of the season

When I came in May, everything was yellow-brown, flattened from the recently-departed snow. I can't remember when exactly--I think it was when VENT saw the Common Cuckoo--overnight everything turned emerald. That sounds cliche, but it wasn't; one night, I went to bed and the flanks of Polovina were just beginning to green. The next morning I looked across the harbor at Tolstoi Cliffs and blinked, disoriented--it was lush, verdant, green.

Then, summer--babies and purple flowers and life exploding.

Hatchling Rock Sandpiper and Nootka Lupine

And now, fall, with its volatility of weather and Good Birds. Rain squall, rainbow. Snow squall, rainbow. Hurricane winds and horizontal rain in the morning, sun in the afternoon. Rainbow.

Marunich taking a pounding...

looking west from the top of Hutch.

Everything is brown again--again, overnight. Celery flattened where we've stomped it for vagrants. Longspurs gone, cliffs barren, me not wanting to leave yet wanting to go. Susan's here again. Our season began with Susan; now, she's here as we finish up.

By the curve at Polovina Hill, we both noticed the double-rainbow over the tundra. Susan turned to me, raising an eyebrow.
"You know what this means, now..."

I returned the eyebrow raise. Yeah. This fall, rainbow days have also been good bird days: Purple Finch, Ovenbird (both 1st-Prib records); Jack Snipe, Siberian Rubythroat, Olive-backed Pipit (stellar finds anywhere in the ABA-area)...the pressure was on for me to find us a Good Bird.

"It's been September 19 since I got a lifer. We're due for something else. I think we'll still get a good bird while I'm out here."

Lifers for Susan are unfathomably rare. This last lifer of hers was none less than Pallas's Rosefinch--a first ABA-area record.

PALLAS'S ROSEFINCH

About then, I pointed out the 6 Cackling Geese dropping into the grass by Big Polovina Lake.
"Well, there's a trip bird for you!" I offered.

Susan wanted more than trip birds. I wanted badly to deliver more than trip birds.

A pipit squealed out the stuck-open Sequoia window--Red-throated.
"I'm tired of looking at pipits."

Couldn't exactly blame Susan; it's harder to get excited about little brown birds that are challenging to differentiate from other little brown birds, especially when you've already seen most of these little brown birds but you could see something like...

"Hobby. I think it'd be a good day for a hobby."
"I think we all need hobbies", I thought sardonically, continuing Northeast while Doug and Tom trailed us in the van, antagonizing me by playing Taylor Swift over the radio.

At Webster, we stomped the celery remnants; Susan stood sentinel on the berm. This netted us one Pacific Wren that we briefly tried to make something less-expected. We prepared to continue Northeast.

Tom, near Gate Celery, started yelling.
"Falcon...Peregrine...male, maybe."
Doug and I looked up to catch a slate streak bombing Webster Lake.

Tom yelling, again.
"Actually, I think it may be a HOBBY..."

As Doug began firing shots, I looked frantically for the person we cared about most.
"....SUSANNNNNN? THERE'S A HOBBY OVER THE LAKE."

I bounded over the pallet pile and intercepted her on the other side of the outhouse. Her face told her story. It's no fun to spend all day looking for new birds and find none. It's less fun when the guides get the bird and the clients don't.

High on adrenaline but repressing my celebration, I pushed a radio into her hand and ushered her to Doug's van. Doug's put some serious guiding time in on St. Paul, and the cloud of rumors about his driving are rivaled only by the cloud of dust that billows behind his van.

We spun out of the driveway, frantically scanning. They were heading to Polovina Hill for a better vantage. I radioed them--
"Hey, do you want me to post up on the Big Lake dune? Spread out a..."

In the background, I heard Susan's shrieking
"THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS!"

The hobby cartwheeling over their van; Tom nearly clocking Susan with his door as they both leapt from the vehicle; the hobby streaking through Big Lake dunes...I enjoyed it all, exhilarated for us, for Susan, for GOOD BIRDS.

When I caught up to them, Susan and I tackled each other with excited hugs, jumping up and down in the road shouting with happiness.
"Did you get good looks?"
"OH DID I GET GOOD LOOKS."
"WE GOT A HOBBY! WE GOT OUR RAINBOW BIRD!"

A few hours later, when our ecstasy had tempered to coherency, Susan said,
"You know, I wasn't expecting to get any new birds this fall. And, here I am with two."

Oh, St. Paul, I'm going to miss you so much this winter--your everchanging skies, your Good Birds, your rainbows. Even though I want to go, I don't want to leave. Yet the hobby--and all it represents--will tide me over until my return, because I will be back. 

Puffin Factories

Parakeet and Crested Auklets

A seacliff is a place impossible to feel dead. Take a walk to the edge, inhale deeply the fusion of seabird excrement and nootka lupine. Stumble through the pushki pits, sit in a grassy hollow, marvel at the abundance of life unfolding below.

Tufted Puffin

Horned Puffin

From your perch, enjoy the puffin chuckles, the braided wake of porpoising fur seals, the Red-faced Cormorant stench.

Red-faced Cormorant 

Naked-eye, the cliff is a writhing blur: incubating murres looking meditative (hell, I would too if I had to spend a month preventing my egg from rolling off the ledge); gray and green lichen; whitewash against black basalt. 

Thick-billed Murre

Arctic summers are so short. Much must happen in a limited amount of time; these nesting colonies explode with life. Sitting here, you have to wonder: if your life was likened to an arctic summer, would you be exploiting the finite time? 

Least Auklets

Parakeet Auklets

Crested Auklet

Least Auklets leap from rock to rock, jostling for the title of King of the Mountain. Crested Auklets assemble in bickering clumps; they sound like chihuahuas with squeaky toys. Breeding plumage and behavior are in full display. Every creature is living out what it was designed to do. The beauty of this is pure, simple--yet overwhelming. 

Pacific Wren

Tufted Puffin

Like the wren belting away down the wall (I will always marvel how such a small bird comes with such a large voice) or the puffins bouncing jauntily beneath, I recognize my place here. The accompanying joy is palpable. 

Tufted Puffins

A few evenings ago, I was working with three photographers on Ridge Wall. A fierce Tufted Puffin dispute unfolded beneath us. To my surprise, the pair tumbled off the cliff, crashed on the rocks below. The luckiest arctic fox on Saint Paul carted one off, and I sat in goosebumps and disbelief. Although it takes a less-blatant role on the cliffs, Death is an inherent facilitator of Life. 

Northern Fulmar love

Red-legged Kittiwake

One of the best things about this job is the privilege of showing our visitors their first Bering Seacliffs. Each time we peek over the edge (and they're bombarded with the decision of which specialty to feast upon first!), it's like I'm seeing the place through new eyes myself. The life unfolding beneath me is powerful, compelling, restorative. 

Least Auklets <3 

Pribilof Fourth

I write this latest St. Paul installment from the balmy refuge that is our boiler room, on the Fourth of July. If that fails as a revealing lede, perhaps I should reconsider my life course.

Scott's absence has allowed me to integrate with the St. Paul community. His approaching return is providential; my approach to assimilation involved delegating this week's tips to poker and dancing the night (and a good chunk of the following morning) away in our vacuous rec hall. Unsurprisingly, I didn't open my eyes on Fourth of July 2015 until a luxuriously late hour. I woke to sirens--a sound I haven't heard since early May.

There were few spectators of St. Paul's parade, for the entire village was the parade. The procession, marshalled by our puke-green fire engine, wound through each street. Victim to a distinct aversion to getting dressed, I watched the proceedings through our cracked window, hot chocolate in hand, clad only in red/white/blue pants. Freedom is a great thing.

St. Paul centipede races, note the dust storm...

By 1:30 I'd finally pulled my act together, and I wandered across town towards the gravel ballfield to mingle. There, a bunch of kids bounced around on buoys while the adults supervised from the comfort of festive vehicles. I spotted some unfamiliar, friendly faces on the edge of the crowd, so I did the good tour guide thing and introduced myself. We endured small talk's banalities.

"So, what brings you to St. Paul?"
"Well you see, we're hoping to sail the northern route to Greenland, if we can make it before ice-in."

Pretty fucking cool.

Turns out that Seth (a professor) and Ellen (who writes for sailing magazines) live in Switzerland during the school year, taking off on epic sailing journeys in summer. They are a captivating duo, and eager to show their boat off. I was eager to continue our conversation, so we wandered to the harbor. Their boat was small, gorgeous, the type of craft that takes some serious balls to navigate through the Bering Sea. Inside the cabin, they regaled me with chai tea and good conversation. We discussed the similarities between fur seals and frat boys, poked fun at their dock neighbor Tyrone, up for halibut season and well into a bender.

Hunger drove us back to the ballfield. As we passed A-Dorm, I pointed.
"I live there."
Their faces were mixed shock and pity.
"We weren't sure if anyone could live there."
I take sardonic pleasure in revealing our hovel to those accustomed to cushier surroundings.

We made it back just in time to witness the flag-clad MC recruiting for the pie-eating contest.
"You can do it even if you don't have teeth!"
Three brave souls stuck their faces into the gooey melding of whipped toppings and canned fruit; one of them promptly yakked, much to the delight of the little-boy spectators.
"Is he done puking yet?"

Maybe pie-WEARING contest would be more accurate? 

Not even this spectacle could diminish our appetites. We shivered in line, backs to the wind, looking lustfully at the mountains of food. I bypassed the tray of cheese slices that by now were covered in a layer of volcanic grit and headed for the watermelon. The produce section in the AC has been barren for the last two weeks--last time I checked, we didn't even have onions or potatoes. This is the first place I've lived where I've entertained genuine concerns about scurvy...

By the time we sat down, we were all too cold to open our king crabs.
"I don't think I've ever gotten hypothermia on the Fourth before, guess there's a first time for everything."

We endured through the pinnacle of the celebration--scaling a crisco-greased pole to claim a flag and a significant cash prize. St. Paul's gang of little boys dared each other to pelt me with grass while I stood there, for the most part lost in thought.

The victor!

Today I ate reindeer for lunch, had a near-altercation with a fur seal, wrote a blog post in a boiler room. To me, St. Paul is very dissimilar to stereotypical 'Murica, but that doesn't mean we'll pass up a good reason for celebration.

Good chase/bad chase

There are many things I don't mind doing by myself, but chasing a rare bird is not one of them. Chasing is far more enjoyable when you've got a partner: another set of eyes to reassure you that your incompetency isn't the reason when the bird isn't showing; another set of feet to cut down the area that you have to cover; someone to share in the celebration--or the disappointment.

Last week, I got a text from Cory about an "unusual" golden-plover in Nova Stoshna. My group was working the kelp racks and whale carcass at Marunich--pretty much the antithesis of where you want to be when a vagrant is found elsewhere. By the time we pulled up in Nova Stoshna's foggy dunes, the bird hadn't been seen for about an hour. To add insult to injury, the "unusual" golden-plover had been photographed in flight; the bright white underwing suggested European Golden-Plover, a 3rd Alaska record.

Scott's group of photographers released him after lunch. Scott must be living his life right, because he experienced a wild streak of luck and found the bird flying down the beach northeast of Nova Stoshna. I clearly haven't been living my life right, though--by the time I could go look for the bird, I was the only person left on the island interested in trying. This meant that I was going to have to take on Nova Stoshna by myself.

I've always been too damn competitive. Although I don't really care about my ABA list, I care about my island list. Particularly, how my island list measures in comparison to the other guides. They feel the same way, too, and this friendly competition is good, because it helps everyone net more Good Birds for all.

So, I began trudging through the gray, damp, rolling tundra, spurred more from a sense of duty than from actual desire. After all, is a guide worth her salt if she doesn't give it her all to see rare birds on the island? (Never mind the fact that she'd rather be finding her own rare birds instead of chasing sloppy seconds.) I wished for someone to share the search--and the misery. My only camaraderie and help came from two avian plover-flushing machines: a sexy Parasitic Jaeger and the island's FOY Peregrine Falcon.

About 8 miles on foot later, I finally pulled out of Nova Stoshna ploverless and in a Bad Mood. Chasing is such a bizarre compulsion, demanding that you doggedly give your all to, in this case, search for a bird that (a) resembles OUR more common golden-plovers and (b) is an easy-to-find bird in many other parts of the world.

That was a sad chase.

We all like stories with happy endings though, so here's another one...

Two days ago, I was finishing up some solitary birding up Northeast. I drove sedately past Polovina, just on the brink of entering cell service when I noticed a vehicle coming towards me. Funny--it looked like our red Sequoia...it was our red Sequoia. What was Scott doing out towards Northeast? I rolled down my window.

"Have you gotten the texts?!"
Panic welled up in my throat, colliding with the dust cloud coming in the window.
"...nooooo??"
"GO TO REEF THERE'S A NEEDLETAIL."

I don't remember any further conversation, just tearing down a washboard road at a maniacal rate of speed, hoping I wouldn't encounter a police officer or a baby Rock Sandpiper. White-throated Needletail would be a first Pribilofs record; I tried not to ponder the probability of an aerial bird persisting.

At Reef, I sprinted through the Pushki towards Cory, looking intently in his scope.
"Do you still have it?"
"I'm on it. Okay...get ready...it's going left."
"Ready."

Cory stepped left and I dove in, overwhelmed in a shaky cloud of relief as I watched the massive swift foraging over the lava fields.

"How'd you first find it?"
"Well, it's a long story. I overheard seabird people talking about a petrel flying around the cliffs...a few minutes later I looked up and saw this swift. Saw the white and thought it was Fork-tailed. Then, I realized the white was on the underside."

What a flipping GREAT bird. After watching it for about a half-hour, I went home. The place was in shambles--lights on, TV on, a trail of clothes leaking out of the bathroom... Scott found out about the bird while he was showering and raced out to Reef, shampoo still in his hair. I'm sorta surprised he didn't just leave the shower running and show up to Reef in a towel.

Yeah, it was a happy chase for us all, the way it should be.

A Lifer for Bill

"Olive-backed Pipit...the bird of the trip...the rarest bird on this island!"
Bill's eyes lit up with frenzied hope as I laid out the options for Brookline Bird Club's first evening on St. Paul.

Over my mountain of rice and octopus, I surveyed my 20 charges with uncertainty.  Out of the three options I'd given them--male Brambling at Hutch Hill; Common Cuckoo at Nova Stoshna; Olive-backed Pipit at Webster Celery Pits--the pipit was the one I was least stoked about. The previous day, Cory, Ashley, and I had failed to relocate it, my gut feeling was that it had skipped town.

Bill, leading his 23rd--and final--trip to St. Paul, wasn't about to be swayed. Unlike the other options, Olive-backed Pipit would be a Life Bird for him. So, after we escaped Trident's caloric onslaught, we loaded into the bus and drove to Webster. A few hours later, I dropped them off at the King Eider, still pipitless.

Two days later and Bill still hadn't gotten a Life Bird. I really hoped we'd find one for him--after all, it was his final trip. It was my day off, so I decided to go turn over some rocks that hadn't been flipped for awhile. It was a beautiful afternoon. Sunny, warm, only light winds. Just beyond the airport is a nice corridor of wet areas separated by lupine-carpeted dune bowls. We often check the wet areas individually, but I decided to just walk the whole complex.

I drove past Weatherbureau, arm raised in Rock Sandpiper salute to the lost Barrow's Goldeneye and Double-crested Cormorant. At the road's end, I grabbed my camera and binoculars and began slogging through the Mare's Tail.

When I guide, I'm constantly "on". You have to be sensitive to the needs of your groups, play off their dynamics, give them the best experience possible. You have to be adaptable, intuitive, three steps ahead of where the group's at. Your work goes far beyond simply finding them birds. You have to figure out the best way of getting everyone in the group on it, then be an ornithological encyclopedia about the identification, the life history, take a stab at explaining why it ended up on this speck of a volcanic island instead of on its Siberian breeding grounds. It's exhausting, gratifying work. To recharge, I must allow my thoughts to outwander my feet when I'm off.

I was thinking thoughts so deep they must have been heavier than my feet (swaddled in sweaty alpaca socks, entombed in rigid rubber coffins) when I saw a bird with huge white wing patches flying away from me. Huge white wing patches are not a trademark of any St. Paul regular, so I drew my binoculars and nailed the bird in my sights.

Awwww yeah--HAWFINCH. Most years, some Hawfinch end up in the Pribilofs as they leave their wintering grounds in Japan and head towards the Kamchatka. It was a Life Bird for me. Was it a Life Bird for anyone else?

The bird landed on the far side of the bowl. After snapping a "record shot", I called Scott, who was taking the Brookline Gang around that day.

"Yo."
"Hey, I got a Hawfinch in the dunes between Tonki and Tim's."
"We're heading that way."

By some miracle, when Scott's group started walking from Tim's, the bird had positioned itself optimally--to escape, it would have to fly by me or Scott, and those glaring wing patches weren't going to make a stealth escape easy.

Scott's small army and their colorful windbreakers crested the dune. The Hawfinch flew. I glared at it bouncing away in finch fashion. They were so close to getting it, this escape attempt was not permissible. I called Scott, barely out of shouting distance.

"Yo."
"It's flying your way...LOOK UP! Oh, it landed. Do you have it?"
"No."
"It must be just over the berm for you."

They marched forward, Scott raised his hand, they stopped. They had it. My anxiety upwelling receded, and I made my way to the group to be greeted by a receiving line of high fives.

During the chase, Bill's windbreaker had slipped down to his elbows. His eyes--those eyes that have been finding birds for more than 40 years--were wild, elated. He shook my hand.

"Nice going, nice going, I've been coming here for 23 years and this is my last trip. Great find, the bird of the trip. Good direction. Well-played, nice going."

Bill had gotten his Life Bird

Gale Walk

With the craze of spring migration, Days Off have been a precious resource to all St. Paul Tour guides. Although working here is living the dream, Days Off allow for activities ordinarily impossible--long walks; writing; not wearing pants. Two days ago, my legs needed stretching; my head needed emptying. I threw a journal in my pack and hitched a ride to Southwest Point with Cory and Ashley. There, I hoisted my tripod on my shoulder and set off towards Marunich.

12:30 PM. It's been a half-hour since I started walking the ATV trail from southwest, and I'm almost at the top of High Cliffs. The wind is fierce--it tangles my hair, buoys kittiwakes, slams swells into the rocks well below. The sea is angry, beautiful. I crouch as close to the edge as I dare, just above grating Parakeet Auklets, imagine my mom's disapproval. I feel so small, so alive.

1:20 PM: I've now made it to the base of St. Paul's highest point, Rush Hill. It peaks at a whopping 665 feet, and I spontaneously alter my route to take me over its summit. I've traded the guttural sounds of the seabird colony for longspur snarls and Rock Sandpiper (Frog Sandpiper?) croaking. An arctic fox whines from another slope. There is no shelter in this bowl; unsurprisingly, no birds either. Time to move on...

2:02: I still have not summited Rush, thanks to my discovery of an intriguing fissure begging to be explored. Following the fissure led me to an American Pipit and a large opening that felt like an abandoned ampitheater decorated by tundra flowers, moss, and reindeer skulls. Snow Buntings and Rock Sandpipers call from the slopes. The beauty here is more peaceful than the sea's fury.

2:58: After a harrowing walk down Rush Hill's volcanic furrows I'm now sitting on a grassy plain. I sat in some veg that smelled like sage--and on further examination, tasted like sage too. I'll make this a short stop--Tsmana's pond and house beckon from a mere half-mile away. I finally remember to take a lupine photo for Dave, and suddenly feel a twinge of guilt for the selfish pursuits of my day off. Adri, Danielle, Gunnar, Katie, Rose, Summer--you're all in my heart. I miss you. I'll write you soon.

3:29: Tsmana. There are 2 Red Phalarope on the pond--2 Red Phalarope and a LOT of whitecaps. I knew walking the shore in this gale was idiotic, but last night Scott and I talked about irrational opinions and one of mine was that a Spoonbill Sand would be waiting here for me. It was not, but Red-legged Kittiwakes are gathering mud next to me and that's pretty cool, too.

Tsmana Camp House

4:07: Wind and hunger make me angry...need I say more? I packed a sandwich, but ate it about 2 miles into my hike, back at High Cliffs. That was intelligent. It's so windy that as the waves are coming in, the opposing wind is actually blowing them backward. There is a big raft of Harly Ducks offshore; the fulmars seem to be enjoying the gale. Glad something is.

4:44. I found a bird I hadn't crossed paths with for a couple weeks--Red-necked Grebe. I pretended it was a rare bird, and thus documented it, since that would be the correct action. This documentation was less to prove the bird than it was to prove that I have a camera.

5:21: Once I saw the size of the Harly flocks along the north shore, I halfway expected to find a Steller's Eider, and I did! Steller's are the smallest eider and nest on arctic tundra. At St. Paul, they are a fairly common winter resident, and there are still a few lingering with the Harlequin flocks. Steller's are listed as "threatened", and thus a better bird in more parts of the world than, say, the Common Cuckoos that have been causing a ruckus on St. Paul this past week. It's only the 3rd time I've seen one; the walk has now been justified.

5:54: Aww yeah, made it to Cormorant arches, it's an easy 20 minutes back to Marunich. I'm ready to be done with the wind, which must be a sustained 30mph+. The gusts unbraided my hair, which induced a fit of rage when I had to wrangle my hair out of my eyes and mouth as I tried to identify a swallow being buffeted. It's moments like these that tempt me towards dreads, girl problems...

9:15: Finally out of the wind, after a dash up to the north side of the island for an unsuccessful stab at Olive-backed Pipit. Per usual, my day off left me more exhausted than the accumulation of days on, but it's a good kind of tired.