Over the Memorial Day weekend, Gary and I went birding on the plains east of Denver. I know, I know--it's kind of strange to spend a beautiful sunny day out on the windy prairie in the middle of nowhere. But we have a knack for picking trips that place us exactly where no one else is. And it was the right choice.
Driving on highways and dirt roads that ascend into the great big empty blue sky was pretty close to Nirvana for me. We added at least a dozen birds to our life list and saw environments and bird behavior that we'd never seen before. We glassed pronghorns that were watching us from miles away. We talked about everything and nothing. My thoughts were clear and sharp and then altogether gone.
Our last stop was the Ramah Reservoir, which you would never find unless you were looking really, really hard for it. As we drove up, I was thinking plains + water = trillions of mosquitos, right? But there was a stiff breeze, and I didn't see them at all. We stepped down from the parking area about two feet to start walking toward the lake, and I was immediately enveloped by a hum so loud and so big I felt like I had walked into an alternate universe. There they were. If a bird would fly with his mouth open, he'd have his dinner in thirty seconds flat.
The prairie wind drove pioneer women insane, and after having spent a day out there, I could see why. It's relentless, and it blows dirt into every crevice. But it also keeps away the bugs.
2 comments:
You, my friend, just might have a book in you. You write beautifully!
Coming from my favorite published novelist, that's quite a compliment. The dusty, windy plains definitely bring out the poet in me.
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