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.