Aventuras en Sonora, Primera Parte
Generally, when I think of a Christmas Bird Count (CBC), I think of a cold, snowy day spent scouring obscure suburban neighborhoods in search of backyard feeders and the host of finches, sparrows, and the like that are to be found with them. This year’s round of CBCs is different.
We have only been on the trail for a couple of hours since I rolled out of my hammock into the chilly predawn air of the Reserva Monte Mojino in southern Sonora, México. My companions, Raymond van Buskirk, Amanda Powell, and local guide Felix Garcia, and I scramble down the loose single track into a steep-walled riparian canyon downstream from the remote village of Santa Barbara where we stayed the night before. Already, the heat is quite oppressive to me, but the incredible song of the Brown-backed Solitaire echoes throughout the canyon, leading us onward. (I encourage you to listen to some recordings of their song, found here!)
The avian life of the area is quite astounding, with diversity ranging from birds familiar and common in the US, like Ruby-crowned Kinglet and Yellow-rumped Warbler, to such exotics as the Lilac-crowned Parrot and Spotted Wren, both species endemic to Mexico. We strain our ears, hoping for the screeches of the rare Military Macaw, the cliffs here being the northernmost extent of their range. After several false alarms elicited by the frequent ringing of cowbell-toting free-range cattle in the arroyo, we were rewarded by the faint but distinctive crawww of two distant macaws.
Staring through the patchily lit understory, we pick out the calls and later sight such elusive birds as Blue Mockingbirds, Crescent-chested and Rufous-capped Warblers, Rufous-crowned Ground-Sparrow, Elegant Trogons, and many others. Before we know it, the sun is rapidly disappearing behind the ridge of the arroyo, and we are forced to return to camp, meeting up and comparing notes with the other half of our group, who had spent their day climbing on the ridge high above the canyon.
We eat our dinner of tacos around a small campfire, passing an old soda bottle of a fiery hand-crafted tequila, known locally as lechugía, that was gifted to us by a sociable and friendly neighbor. Despite the intense itching of black fly bites, I retire to my hammock and drift to sleep with the distant whinnying calls of Whiskered Screech-Owls and woops of a Mottled Owl in my ears, full of anticipation for the birds tomorrow will bring.