May 24, 2022

In Apache and Comanche territory, specifically Lincoln National Forest, I am alone again. Like former Texas Ranger Agustus McCrae, I would like to wander and philosophize, maybe take care of somebody I could love, and sleep under the sky every night. I could learn his campfire biscuit-making method, too. Unlike Augustus, I expect to be able to do this without murdering anyone already here. It seems the people of these particular deserts were a warring kind way back when; there was plenty of tension to go around when the white men arrived. Not that there’s any justification for stolen land, but I happen to know that Augustus as well as his partner, Woodrow Call, felt that people needed protecting and nothing more. I also understand them to be wholly fictional.

There’s a former US Coast Guard dude posted up near me here at James Canyon Campground, at 6,670 feet. He wants to be left alone and so do I, though we exchanged firm handshakes and decent pleasantries. If I know anything about former military–often men in general–I am now under well-meant but relatively useless protection.

I maneuvered Sorcha until she was evenly set in the campsite under circumstances that are only just short of ideal. According to my rubric, this spot is perfect, including the singular, infrequent bar of cell service. I come about this assessment firstly by whether my bed is level, then what the sky will do in relation to that setup and my views. Lastly, I incorporate privacy and quietude. I try to face the car toward wherever the most human noise is occurring, and also so that her ass end, where my tent goes, is relatively secluded given the locale. If I’m putting the tent up at all, there’s already a certain amount of privacy. This time I aimed to catch a little of both the sunset and rise, secured my star view from too many trees, and double-checked that I was level. It was then that I realized I’d effectively put the car against the main view, from both the campground and the road, of my activities at the site’s picnic table–a bonus. This is all a very boring way of explaining how my brainspace gets used out here on the road. Arranging the priorities accordingly, I do this routine in parking lots, rest stops, anywhere else I stay. It’s nice to be in touch with what’s going on nearby, and in the sky, especially when you can see it all from your pillow.

A pair of Stellar’s jays (I have learned how to correctly capitalize bird names!) greeted my arrival here–my first sighting of them since around this time last year, and by then they’d become commonplace. What a lovely spot for our reunion. I have been quite fortunate ornithologically this year. I haven’t planned or bothered to try, but I pull in whenever I see the right kind of sign, and I go look at birds. In this way I came across, among so many other perhaps less startling but equally impressive shorebirds, the Roseate spoonbill. April was too late in the year to consider visiting South Florida, so I thought I’d missed out on prehistoric pink birds. Not so! The original spoonbill is already a strange and gorgeous creature, looking a little lost as it leans for the water among vigilantly hunting shorebirds; these beauties rarely bring their bills up from the muck as they siphon and suck and enjoy. It’s kind of disgusting and wonderful. Remember Bazooka Joe gum? That is the pink of the Roseate spoonbill’s feathers. They are sugary bright, gloriously out of place in garb that seems better fit for a children’s party than a marsh bath.

My neighbor Clay, it turns out, never shuts up. I’ve asked him not one question, but have been subjected to his entire life story. And I wouldn’t believe how old he is, because no one ever does. These gems of conversation go overlooked as I insist on keeping my peace. I continue to do whatever it was Clay has attempted to interrupt, which is mostly watching birds. Herein is the difficulty: were I staying elsewhere, I could just tell Clay to take a fucking hike. Tonight though, this is my home. That he is a man and also ex-military both factor into my consideration when I choose not to tell him off. He drones on even as I ignore him; I never meet his eyes except to say contrary things. As, for the umpteenth time, I listen to Clay chirp, “knock knock” without so much as pausing as he enters my campsite, it occurs to me that I might actually have to murder the person who was here when I arrived.

I didn’t really want to leave Austin, but it was hot and expensive to be in that city. I went back and forth about it for a bit before taking off on a bright morning. The heat of the desert sun soon found me in the heart of the hills of Texas. Tucked right in among deep stretches of rich farmland, after the many miles of impressive mansions northeast of Austin, sits an old ashe juniper forest. It’s the protected habitat of the Golden-cheeked warbler–their one and only home in the States. I knew none of this, but you know, I’ve developed this habit of pulling off at the right kind of signs. I had already been stunned by the revelation of so many millionaires in the hills of Texas—that these were not gated communities was an added confusion; this tiny bird with its proportionately sized habitat was a much preferred surprise. Thus, I arrived at Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge. I parked Sorcha and got myself settled for a hike: sunscreen, hat, scope, water, bandanna, etc. When I finally left home, the volunteer manning this little ice-cream-looking information truck was excited to have me, especially after he found out I had arrived by happenstance. He gave me some pointers on the trail map and sent me right into the heart of the ashe juniper and oak, forest. The trees were spindly, just tall enough, and smelled divinely of fresh piney earth. The path was narrow for conservation purposes, crunchy, dusty, and somewhat rocky, but mostly level. It was an easy hike; the elevation combined with the sweet forest all around made for cooler weather than I’d known in well over a week. I was stoked just to be there.

When I heard the warbling, I of course paused and oriented, then set to my visual search. The warbles continued, almost taunting in their immediate presence and clarity. Ashe juniper trees are of thin build all around, and plentiful in their reachings. Interspersed with the oak, they crocheted a loose blanket of forest across the horizon. It’s all a thicket of twigs, leaves not sparse but not generous, so that sky comes through in pinches and bits, everywhere with no consistency. If a bird moves, you might see it. Maybe. If it just sits and sings then you’re never going to see the bird and it’s probably laughing at you. Having stared for a while, I arrived at this inevitable conclusion, and sat myself down on the path. No sooner had I mentally capitulated though than I witnessed a small bright torpedo hurtle from wherever it had been singing in front of me across the path directly behind. There it landed, somewhere precisely out of my line of sight, and began again to twitter some beautiful tweets. Just as I had sat down! And you scoffed when I said the bird is making fun. Grumbling quietly but nonetheless in cheerful earnest, I stood, wiped the dirt from my butt, and turned to resume my search for the warbling. Wouldn’t you know that all of a sudden this sassy beauty alighted right in my line of sight, just there, maybe twenty yards away, through several well-situated little windows through the trees: a Golden-cheeked warbler.

I listen to a lot of Poetry Unbound, a podcast hosted by the poet Pádraig Ó Tuama, whose poetry I have never read but whose mind I adore. Back at my perfect campsite, Clay has gone for a hike and I have the privilege of listening to Pádraig read M. Soledad Caballero’s “Some Day I Will Visit Hawk Mountain”. It’s about birding, and all I can do is ruin it. You can listen to the podcast, or just read the poem, here. I randomly downloaded this episode from the list of “unplayed” without knowing how apt it might be–ah, poetry, always–and can certainly say I am delighted to have had it here, in particular. Here where I watch their flights closely but cannot imagine differentiating a swallow from a swift, or any of the hidden many by their songs. Here at my picnic table amid Ponderosa pines, who grow so tall and have no branches lower than six feet, I look up to see the Stellar’s jays again. They are boldly, casually peering down on me like old white ladies at the supermarket with their heads cocked so I don’t know if they are trying to figure something out or just want my snacks.

I am glad when there arrive neighbors on the far side who are much less eager for attention. I go to bed contentedly enough, and with a mind for mental preparation, complete with a raging debate about departing my perfect campsite sooner than later. In the morning, my first little jaunt is to the bathroom. Here I read very bad news that makes me laugh out loud: The forests of New Mexico are threatened by fire all over the state, and the National Forest Service is closing Lincoln National Forest effective immediately. Please leave today. No longer torn about departing this beautiful forest, I am happy to begin packing. As I do, Clay attempts to communicate with me while I ignore him completely. He says my name and I do not react. I am organizing breakfast at my relatively private picnic table when I hear a noise across the dry stream bed. My first reaction is to wonder if Clay has gone “hiking” over there, but I look up to see a Mule deer casually bounding by. Directly in my field of vision, it leaps from left to right. This hurried creature seems small for a Mule deer, but it is unmistakable so close. The animal springs carefully through the brush, bearing the telltale understatements of its kind: dull brown coat so muted as to be almost gray, broad black nose, and dramatically dark ruminant eyes, complete with lashes to die for. It vaults from each pair of hooves in turn, rear, front, up again almost before they touch the forest floor. This is the creature I must depart the forest to save, and gladly.

Firefighters showed up in their adorable, mint green–“Forest Service Green,” they say–four person truck and politely answered my volley of questions about their job and what’s going to happen in this forest. It turned out they were brought in from Washington State, where a lot of their jurisdiction is still melting with Spring. They gave me advice about visiting both their state and Idaho, complete with brochures they had in the truck, which it turned out they’d driven all the way down from the northwest. They said they were lucky it was only four of them, because the truck can hold five.

Throughout this entire conversation, Clay was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience for his turn. He butted his way in eventually, at which point I thanked the firefighters, bowed out, got in my car, and drove away smiling.

When I started this entry, I didn’t know where it was going, but I thought about Augustus’ musings and felt like doing something similar. Augustus would never let anyone, not even his partner Call, spoil his good time. And so I didn’t. This is a particularly non-fiction piece, which I hope sings as clear as a Golden cheeked warbler how much I love this cowboy life. Speaking of, I have to admit that my man Augustus wouldn’t waste a fight on a guy like Clay, which is really the only reason I didn’t murder him.