Sometimes, the birds win. We don't like losing, rarely do it gracefully. Sometimes though, you've got to hand it to them.
Last night after dinner, we went up to Hutch for the wheatear and the rubythroat, but mostly the rubythroat. My stress level was solidly in the red zone, for my experience with rubythroats out here is basically uniform across the board: they're bitch birds. We'd found out right before dinner--the worst possible timing so, consequently, the slot when most birds are found.
I'd eaten at Trident with the group to maximize efficiency. Turns out I didn't even have to pay the $20 because we had a sulker that stayed in the van. He'd wanted to skip dinner and go straight to the bird, but in a group majority rules and he'd been outnumbered. I ate his dinner for him. Didn't even enjoy the halibut though, thanks to anxiety and the fact that I more or less swallowed it (and the scalloped potatoes and the recently-frozen brussel sprouts) whole. I'd bypassed the crab linguine--every move was being made in the name of efficiency.
And now we were at Hutch, cresting the hill. I'd tried to scheme a plan, as always, there were a plethora of factors: wind direction; the habits of the bird; the mobility of the group. Rarity-oriented guiding is a much different game than the Kirtland's tours I used to lead: higher stakes and high-complexity strategies. In a strong south wind, the bird would be hunkered on the north side, probably low and in the rock gardens and celery at the base of the hill.
I was wrong.
Our heads were still in the wind when a small brown bird shot out to my left, dropped into some rocks in front of me.
"BIRD! RUBYTHROAT!"
A few of us saw it, but most of us did not. Someone saw it in front of where it'd gone in, running on the ground. Frantic directions ensued.
"It's in front of the rock..."
...we were in a rock garden...
"...with the orange lichen on it."
...like all of the other rocks in the garden.
I thought of two things that we could do. We could push forward fast, flush it again--maybe it would fly up and be gone forever. Or we could wait and hope it popped out again. We tried the latter.
It didn't work.
So we edged forward. Into view, at, past where we'd last seen the rubythroat. Fucker had slithered low through the rocks away from us, fitting for a bird that's more or less Satan's spawn when they show up out here. Those bitch rubythroats.
We hatched a few plans and acted on most. We swept and scoured and squinted through the bright green terraces that will soon be covered by seals. In the process we found the wheatear, a few Wood Sandpipers, Pacific Golden-Plovers and Ruddy Turnstones, and an Eastern Yellow Wagtail. Not the rubythroat.
Some of us wanted to stay, some of us wanted to go, and the hill needed us to go. I spoke on behalf of Hutch--
"We've combed it over. It needs a breather. We can sit and watch, but we're not walking it any more tonight."
There was dissent, which I'd expected and affirmation, which I hadn't, but none of that matters, because in the end it was my call. And my call was to let the bird win because sometimes, that's what you've got to do.
Postlude: The next day, we went back, and more of us won. Twice. Because I'll lose a hand but not the game.
"Welcome to St. Paul. If this isn't your stop, feel free to get off the plane, but you can leave your bags," the PenAir flight attendant announces over whining props.
I know it isn't St. Paul because there are trees, a lot of them. Unless the island's undergone dramatic change since I left 6 months ago, we don't have those here.
"This is DILLINGHAM," someone at the back of the plane pipes up, quickly following with "Didn't mean to put you on the spot, Savannah."
That's one of the pluses of PenAir--most everyone's on a first-name basis with the crew. The drawbacks of PenAir, though...they're numerous. In light of this, the first thing I did yesterday morning was pack defensively: bins on, boots on, sourdough starter & Bailey's in my carryon (that's right, there's no security). Turns out this was oversight. At the gate, the only unhappy people were those bound for Dutch Harbor, socked in with fog. I felt their pain. It was rumored the St. George leg of our flight might not happen either--too windy.
"Well if they cancel George, at least our bags will have a better chance of coming out with us," Scott mused.
Because of the perils associated with flying a small plane over the temperamental Bering Sea, PenAir has strict weight restrictions and sometimes, your body ends up on the island well before your bags do.
We take off from Dillingham and cut out over the water. I'm here on the plane with a bunch of seasonals and St. Paul residents. In front of me is Claudia, another guide. She's going over peep identification and has a tab open that reads "Thai Cashew". I smile, for I'm doing the same thing: looking at Rare Birds of North America and furrowing my brow over a shopping list I'll be taking to a store that never has what I really want.
Across the aisle is Caitlin, who's about my age, a newly sworn police officer and St. Paul resident. We could be friends. There are also two female techs sitting somewhere behind me. We could be friends, too.
This is my second season out here, and I love St. Paul the island. The people who call it home love it too. I don't want to love it separately from them. I want to love it with them, together. For me, it's been a hard community to break into and that is one of my biggest regrets from last year: I used the island for its birds without investing in St. Paul the community.
The Saab Turboprop's landing gear locks into place as the Bering Sea comes closer and closer. I look out my window, it looks windy down there. The island comes into view, and I can see dust trails from cars heading to the airport. Flights are kind of a big deal out here.
"I'll do better this time," I silently promise St. Paul. We're on the ground and stepping off the plane; I almost get blown backwards by the stiff north wind. Yep, feels like home.
Inside the hangar, I see familiar faces. Dennis gives me shit for getting stuck so many times.
"This year, we got a special tow truck just for you. Says Alison on it!"
"TDX needs to make a special position then, too--just to pull me out."
That's something else I can do better at this year.
Paul smiles, Barbara gives me a hug, Z says,
"Beer-thirty this Friday!"
"I'll be there!" I grin.
And I will. I promised to do better.
We make our way into town: Gray-crowned Rosy Finches, Rock Sandpipers and a Bar-tailed Godwit on Salt Lagoon. I'm cautiously evaluating the status of the Sequoia. Engine's not knocking, windows are okay--and good, the brakes seem to work too.
At A-dorm, we spend just enough time to deposit our stuff, gear up, and deduce the fridge has had a rough winter. Now, it doesn't just howl intermittently: it's added Willow Ptarmigan and Barred Owl sounds to its repertoire.
We're all excited to get out and see what birds are waiting to be discovered. Our first stop on Salt Lagoon reveals a flock of Bar-tailed Godwits and a sharp adult Black-headed Gull. We visit Pumphouse, Antone Lake, and Weather Bureau. At Tonki when we get out into the wind to scan the ocean, it starts to spit rain. Oh we're definitely on St. Paul.
In Anchorage everything was warm, pleasant; there was actually a dawn chorus. Now it's like we've gone back into winter. Rotting snow, brown tundra, that unceasing north wind. No more tap beer, trees, dogs, mosquitoes, or phone service.
We swing by Charles' house to eat reindeer steak and warm up. We talk about the dearth of produce and Biff's rent-a-wreck (going rate $1500/month) and the time I wore the skirt to the bar here. The meal is delicious, the friendship nourishing. It's so good to be back, even though knowing what to expect out here doesn't necessarily make what I do easier.
After dinner we drive out Northeast. Last year when I came out, these places were just names, names I often couldn't remember. Now, they have memories attached to them: Polovina Hill, where Brandon finally got his Willow Warbler. Hutch Cut, which still has yet to impress me. Nova Stoshna, where we saw a Bristle-thighed Curlew last year...and, as a burly shorebird flashes in front of me and shows its buffy rump, it's where we saw a Bristle-thighed Curlew this year, too.
So, Philippines again. Some things don't change--all of Kensuli has malaria. The baseball-sized circle of red and purple on my right buttock is evidence that the trail is at least as treacherous as it was when I left. The first scoop of a bucket shower is still a frigid mental barrier.
A lot is different, too. All my friends got married, had new babies, or got married AND had new babies. Kensuli is mostly abandoned, pigs are everywhere, it's messy. It's not safe for me to walk on the trails by myself anymore.
Drying rice at Mirikewbew
Things have been heavy on my mind. I've changed too, and I'm not the same person as I was nekana'in, when I lived here 11 months. After I left Kensuli, I romanticized it so much, forgot all the hardships. Now, I'm back after 2 months of lounging around vacation destinations, and Kensuli is not a vacation destination. Furthermore, it's hard to simply visit without being invested wholly in the people and the work here. I feel guilty being an observer instead of a worker, a taker instead of a contributor.
Di'in and Miri
1. Banwe ni Di'in: (Di'in's house):
Although we're drenched in sweat from toiling up, we quickly become chilled sitting on the drafty bamboo-slat porch. Di'in (younger than me) and her 5 y/o Miri both have selet. (Literally "snot".) Her husband Albin went to the Wednesday market in the lowlands where he's probably gambling money they don't have on volleyball and drinking tuba'. When I lived here, Di'in took her birth control religiously--it's not surprising that Miri has no siblings. If I had a child like Miri, I'd probably do everything possible to never have another, too. She bullies children twice her size, races around the dirt yard harassing puppies and chicks all-the-while shouting the Jollibee Song at the top of her lungs. Then, she lights a cigarette in the cooking fire and pulls on it better than I could. "Anday megsigu!" snaps Di'in, to no effect.
Tamleng River
2. Banwe ni Kiri. Carrie has been a nurse in Kemantiyan since I arrived, and I've been staying at her house. It's morning; mosquitoes swarm up through the datag cracksand attack my feet. Huts here let in more than keep out. I am attempting to make fried rice, but the humidity is inconducive to lighting the burner. After three matches, I give up and let Carrie do it. It lights on her first attempt--the burner AND the emaciated cat crouching on the stovetop. For a brief moment, Missy's entire left side is a burst of flame; the stench of burning hair permeates the house. Remarkably, Missy is entirely nonchalant.
Kikid (Mariliya's daughter), Mariliya, and Patma (Mariliya's niece)
3. Banwe ni Mariliya. Mariliya's got a new house. This is because Bep, their paralyzed son, was playing with fire and burned down their other one. They lost everything--clothes, mosquito net, photos I sent of us after I left, the feathers she'd stuck above the door as testament to her husband's skill with a blowgun. And they were already SO poor. But, regardless of that AND of them all being sick, they gift us a bunch of ripe bananas. I look around me--Bep with his big drooly beautiful smile. The unusually quiet rooster trying to steal newly-harvested rice.
Maribel, Runita, Ruwina
Ruwina
Maribel
4. Du'un Mirakubew. Although I lived in Kensuli, I spent most of my time with the people who live in Mirakubew. Today, the women are home but the men are not. I sit on the porch missing the times when I could keep up with their fast words. Some I can pick out, like, "Mam, nelipaten ke at Pelawan." ("You forgot how to speak Palawano.") Ruwina (24), Maribel (21), and Runita (18) are sisters. They've all had children since I lived here--4 months, 2 months, and 18 months. Maribel also adopted an 8-month-old from a neighboring village. She did this because the mother was possessed and wouldn't care for her child; she weighed only 4 kilos at 6 months. Now the father wants the child back, since it's a daughter and therefore she can be sold. But for now, she's Maribel's. The love the whole family radiates to her is incredible, especially given that they all have babies of their own. They extend their love to me and my students, feeding us sticky rice with tlinu't kumbehang (cassava leaves) we eat with our hands. Maribel sits across from me, cradling her child, shooing chickens out of the drying rice with a long bamboo pole. If someday, I am half the woman she is I'll be doing well.
5. Bagung Te'un (New Year's Eve). Carrie and I walk through the night. The crickets are drowned out by firecrackers. Our destination is a hut where a couple dozen Pelawans have gathered. Lilu'lut (sticky rice cooked inside bamboo) is arranged over the fire; the men are hacking apart a goat on a giant banana leaf. Hopeful puppies gather around. A confused duck alternates sleeping with spastic flapping. A little girl I don't know crawls into my lap. I hold her tight, sensing she needs love. She rests her head on mine--I wonder if she has kutu (lice). She scratches her head--yep, she has kutu. I wonder when I'll get kutu. The stars are as glorious as they were when I lived here.
It's hard to return to a place that you were wholly invested in, find that the biggest way that it's changed is in how you relate to and understand it. The hopes and dreams that I had when I lived there before have transformed, I have time to have hopes and dreams. They still struggle to survive. It's not fair.
(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).
"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.
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?
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.
