I.L.B.T.'s

(Joe Walsh--I.L.B.T. Watch this if you want the rest of the post to make any sense.)

Uh huh. 
That's where it's at. 
Tits.
I like big tits.
(Sultan Tits, to be precise.)

Let's throw back to mid-November, when I was living a relatively stress and worry-free life bumming around in Thailand with Hope. We'd lived a fantastic few weeks in reckless spontaneity, but like all good things, we were ending--at least that's what it felt like.

My explosion, cornering, and curry-puff partner. Doi Pha Hom Pok, Thailand. 

Saturday, November 21st, Arcade Bus Station: we heft our heavy packs from a tuk-tuk one last time, squint in the bright Chiang Mai sun. Our parting is on the grounds of ideological differences: Hope wants to go north to Pai and hang out with fake hippies. My obsession with Sultan Tits leaves me no choice but to head south, towards Kaeng Krachan National Park. Hope and I place bets on who's gonna be the requisite Pai puker (the vans are not for the weak-stomached). She climbs aboard with the greasy smelly white people wearing elephant pants, and I wave goodbye to her for an uncomfortably long time--so long that people around the bus station must've thought we were lovers separating or something.

I cross the street, climb in a double-decker bus that smells faintly of urine and hand my ticket to a brusque woman in unflattering lilac polyester. I sleep most of the 12 hours to Bangkok. When I arrive, it's about 4AM. The bus disgorges us, and illegitimate taxi drivers swarm like fulmars on a processor. I evade this first wave and head towards the taxi-meter line. Thinking I'm safe, I let my guard down for a moment and am successfully solicited by a more convincing illegitimate taxi driver. The plan is that he'll take me to Victory Monument for 400 baht. He fucks up, however, when he stops to laugh with one of his buddies about the stupid American he's just scammed. The only thing I understand is "taxi-meter hahaha."
"hahaha joke's on you", I think.
"Change my mind. Taxi-meter." I reclaim my bag and march back towards the promised land of taxi-meter, while he follows me, assuring that I'll wait a long time and pay a big sum. I wait 3 minutes and pay just under 100 baht.

Sunday, November 22, 4:30 AM, Victory Monument. No, despite being a white tourist, I am not going to Ayhutthaya. The first minivan company I find assures me that they go to Kaeng Krachan, great! We get on the van, I confirm with my huge map that we are, indeed, headed the general direction of Kaeng Krachan. Good. I make small-talk with the adorable older woman next to me until our pigeon-English repertoire is exhausted. In Phetchaburi, I see signs for the Kaeng Krachan turnoff. We keep going. Ah well, Kaeng Krachan is a ways off the main drag. Maybe he's dropping the other passengers and then he'll take me to the park. My seatmate looks at me concernedly and exchanges Thai with the woman in shotgun.
"You miss your stop."
FUCK.
Thai people are generally wonderful, and through the concerted effort of the van occupants, I kind of understand what I'm supposed to do next.
"Motorcycle stop...cross street...van."
Just in case, I have them write in Thai script that I want to go to Kaeng Krachan.

Sunday, November 22, 9:30 AM, Phetchaburi (I think?) Right now, my only comfort is that I can prooobably get back to Bangkok if all else fails. A Thai flower-seller coaches me across four terrifying lanes of traffic, and I find the "motorcycle stop". I show the oldest man my paper, he seems to understand, and assures me he'll help me get on the van. I sit there and wait...and wait...for like a whole 45 minutes. Vans that could probably take me to Kaeng Krachan pass by frequently; the motorcycle guys laugh and smoke on the corner. Impatient, I stew. Another van appears, they jump to life. "This one go to Kaeng Krachan." Oh ye of little faith, they were just waiting for the right van.

Sunday, November 22, noon. Kaeng Krachan! My destination is Ban Krang, about 30 kilometers from the park entrance. The people at the desk tell me a ride to Ban Krang will cost me 2400 baht. I commit to (but don't yet pay) this price--SULTAN TITS!--and then spend the next 45 minutes trying to surreptitiously divorce myself from this arrangement. I'm not a very subtle person, so I tell the desk people, "I walk," and you know what? They can't stop me!

So, I do just that--walk--until I'm out-of-sight of HQ and then I start to hitchhike. The first pickup I flag pulls over; they say they're going to Ban Krang. SCORE!! I revel in my evasion of exorbitant fees, feeling resourceful and anything but a slave of the system. About 5K into the ride, my revelries are abruptly ended. There's a festival, or a market (are they really that different anyway?!), with a throng of security-type guys. They motion me to get out. They speak zero English; beyond "Thank You" I know zero Thai and I definitely am not feeling thankful right now.

I assume they work for the park and disapprove of my hitchhiking around the fee, so I am frustrated and dangerously close to losing face and we're getting NOWHERE and no one in the fucking place speaks ANY English and the teenage boys are starting to gather to laugh at me. Then I do a skit. I walk, beckon like I'm hitchhiking, and the lights go off in their eyes. I'm not sure what they think I said, but they shower me with water and juice and street meat that is highly sketchy and barely cooked. The guy who ordered me out of my first ride ushers me to his aging Isuzu and we limp up the mountain while I try to allocate my new wealth of food that I don't want to eat.

Sunday, November 22, 1:30. I get dropped off at the family-operated checkpoint 15 km from Ban Krang. Guard dude won't let me walk ("Elephants!"), but says I can hang out until I get a ride. Sweet. I awkwardly make myself at home. We watch boxing.
"Boxing very popular in Thailand."
Then, the wife pushes a plate of food towards me.
"Hot!" the guard warns.
He wasn't kidding. His daughter, giggling at the tears running down my face, runs off for a pitcher of water--all for me. I give them my bag of dried mango in thanks.

Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and I wait impatiently for a ride. This gate closes at 5:30 (elephants), and it was 1:30. An hour and three vehicles pass; he motions me to wait each time I try to get up. My frustration swells again--is he going to prevent me from my Sultan Tits?

Again, I'm wrong and my impatience is telling. Guard dude has simply factored in my rancid-smelling body and glut of gear, and was waiting for a pickup truck. Smart guy. I climb in the truck he's stopped for me, and finally make it all the way to Ban Krang. There, I alternately lay in my hammock enjoying Violet Cuckoos and Ashy Drongos and rush to the bathroom, thanks sketchy street meat.

Near dusk, I get yelled at by a Thai family to come hang out. They force friendship (and beer) on me, and I am all too willing. They cite ghosts, tigers, and elephants as reasons why I should move my tent closer to theirs. The cook, bringing a mountain of "fry rice", supports their opinion, adding porcupine and leopard to the danger list.
"Porcupine? They just dangerous if you sit on them!" I retort.
We drink more beer and I show them pictures of snow and they show me pictures of Great Hornbills further up the road...wait WHAT? With the help of the cook, we hatch a plan where they'll get me a ride at 5AM. I'll do anything for a Great Hornbill.

The cook comes out and grabs me to come to the kitchen and look at porcupines. They're less enthralled with me than I with them, raise their quills and waddle away. I go outside again and drink more beer. About this time, we all forget that I don't speak Thai, but somehow they've convinced me that I really do need to move my tent. We do it together. The beer is gone, but a flask of brandy appears and starts making the rounds. The cook asks me about birds. At this point, the answer to any bird question is "Sultan Tit", so I say "Sultan Tit".

The best part about this is he knows what tits are, he also knows what Sultan Tits are, and he does NOT speak English. I bid farewell to my new friends and pass out until 4:30 AM.

Sea of Fog, Kaeng Krachan National Park

Monday, November 23, 4:30 AM. The cook, true to his word, helps me flag a truck going up. I hop into the back unsuspectingly. This ride is one for the record books, and so is the road. Thailand generally seems overcautious with its classification of "4X4 only", but this one is awful. Stream crossings and steep grades over a moth-eaten surface that was possibly pavement a few lives ago. The driver wants to race everyone else to the top and he wins and I don't fall out so I guess we all win. At the viewpoint, it's beautiful. Unspoiled jungle and undulating mountain ridges filled in by fog. I really want to see Great Hornbill, but placate myself with the knowledge that birding at least takes me amazing places and the view and ride has been worth it. The driver notices I have binoculars and perks up. He starts pointing out birds--mostly phylloscoshits in terrible lighting. AND THEN THE HORNBILLS COME.

It's great. They float by distantly, prehistoric silhouettes against the sea of fog. They glide...glide...glide, eventually coasting to a stop in the top of a mammoth tree. I am ecstatic over this Life Bird experience. Just down the road, Chinese photographers spill out of a vehicle frantically changing lenses as the hornbills glide serenely by. This I enjoy too.

Ironically, the guy I randomly hitch a ride with turns out to be a Thai birding guide, and he finds me a few more life birds on our trip down the mountain. Upon return at Ban Krang, the cook rushes me towards a bunch of just-arrived Caucasian farangs. I help (confuse?) all parties, and sit down to another plate of fry rice. The cook shows me amazing camera-trap captures: tapir, clouded leopards, and porcupine sex.

Tuesday, November 24, 5:00 AM. 
You see 'em on the street 
Left and right
I like big tits

My last morning in Kaeng Krachan, Sultan Tits are anything but left and right. Being a guide, I understand that the more you want to see a bird the lower the chances of that actually happening. Murphy's Law and shit. That doesn't change anything; I can't think about anything but Sultan Tits. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was this emotionally invested in a bird.

I try to look away
But I can't resist
Every time I try to call it quits
I like big tits

I'd like to see big tits. I wander around the campground in vain, then travel the road (also in vain). I see some nice birds--Spectacled Piculet. Orange-breasted Trogon. Dollarbird. Blue-bearded Bee-Eater. But alas, none of them get the attention they deserve, because even though some of them are Life Birds, none of them are Sultan Tits. My fixation intensifies as I retrace my steps back to Ban Krang. I start informing every bird that I see that it is not a Sultan Tit. A few minutes later, I accuse them of the same thing. I try, in vain, to turn every Black-crested Bulbul into a Tit. No dice, and there are like 30,000 Black-crested Bulbuls.

I walk beyond Ban Krang, towards the youth camp. I turn around at the gate that says "Staff Only", and sadly begin working my way back to camp. It's been a beautiful morning. Sun glinting through the jungle off spiderwebs. Gibbon whooping. Good bird action. I shouldn't be as disappointed as I am, but I've built Sultan Tits up so much...

Well they come in twos
Hard to choose
Your favorite tit
Uh huh

Unlike Joe Walsh, I have no problem choosing my favorite tit. A swarm of bees blows by, and so does a honey-buzzard. A flock of Asian Fairy Bluebirds are nice to look at--so are Velvet-fronted Nuthatches and a Common Flameback.

I like tits for dinner
Or a noon-time snack
I like tits for lunch
A big tit attack

Suddenly, I see a yellow-and-black tail. I decide that it's attached to a Sultan Tit (something I've done with the last hundred or so Black-crested Bulbuls). Then, I see the rest of the bird and it actually IS a Sultan Tit, and there are actually FOUR of them, and the rakish things forage eye-level in front of me in perfect lighting.

They give me shivers
When they bounce around
Puckered up or hanging on the ground
Tits. 

For at least the next four hours, nothing else matters.

"Says it all for me. Tits." (Joe Walsh). Sultan Tit, Kaeng Krachan (Alison Vilag).  

Finding Winter

"How many Gyrfalcons you seen before?"
"Just one, on St. Paul."
"Right. Well, there's a few reports from the Gaspe."
"Cool...any white ones?"
He clicked around on the eBird map.
"Gris...gris...guess that means gray."
"Yup."
"Blanche--white?"
"Yup."


The little French I know has been gleaned from reading road signs, menus, and--in this case--Quebec eBird checklists. The words I recognize are probably of little utility (rendered even less useful by the complicating factor that I'm completely lost when it comes to pronunciation), but I can help you order a beer or find a white Gyrfalcon.


We were holed up in a motel room near the Maine-New Brunswick line, headed north with our snowshoes and heavy coats, in search of Winter. Winter, elusive until this evening, had actually dipped south and found us--heavy, wet snow coated the roads. We'd been forced to stop an entire border short of New Brunswick-Quebec. So, stranded, we plotted our next few days. Our goals: poutine, winter, and a white Gyrfalcon.

Perce, Quebec

We toured the Gaspe, spending the night in the colorful town of Perce (and accomplishing our poutine rendezvous). The next morning, we continued around the peninsula towards Ste. Ann des Monts. Periodically, he would brave the bitter cold to scan the Common Eider and Barrow's Goldeneye rafts. I sat in the car unashamedly and alternated between eating garlic smoked sausage and sweet beef bologna, compliments of Unity's new meat shop that claims too much of my time and money.


A blast of cold wind entered the car. I licked the grease from my fingers.
"So I go out there and look for your King Eider and you just sit in here and sneak meat?"
I grinned. "Yup."
"That's it. You're not feeding any to the Gray Jays then."
"Yes I will. I'm going to make Gray Jay friends."


For the rest of the morning, we continued to debate the morality of feeding hand-smoked local pastrami to Gray Jays. Our final stop was at Cap Madeleine--where the Gyrfalcon a la blanche had been seen--on January 10.
"You gonna get out?"
"Yeah, I guess I will here."


I scanned over the slushy St. Lawrence. My arms were shaking so uncontrollably that the Glaucous Gull I was following seemed to be doing figure eights.
"You scope that eider raft yet?"
"Which one THERE'S THE GYRFALCON!!!"
It was blanche.


It bombed down the coast, banked, came at us, perched on a post so close it barely fit in the scope. Ice and charcoal and basalt eyes--that chunk of arctic terror glowered at us for a minute then streaked off, its passage marked by flocks of fleeing ducks.


We found winter.


P.S.:

GRAY JAY FRIENDS!!

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.