Exploration

It was finally warm enough today to open windows and turn the heat down, so in the afternoon I shut off the computer and headed for the wash with the new camera. I hoped to capture a photo of a Black-throated Sparrow, and maybe see a new species. Instead of trying to climb through the barbed wire fence, I walked up the end of the street and climbed down the steep slope near the culvert. From here I headed south up the wash to territory I’ve only walked on one time before.

It is 4 p.m. when I head out, but already the sun is low in the sky. The whole west side of the wash is already deep in shadow, and I can see the darkness creeping towards me. Undaunted, I keep walking and hoping for some new bird. The birds are few and far between, however. Is this unusual for this time of day or year? Since I am new here, I don’t know. And since there has been a lot of road construction gong on lately, I have no idea how many species have been scared away. As for the sparrows, they are playing hide and seek with me, flying up like musical notes from the desert and settling behind cactus and brush, or diving into the grass. I see them briefly, but as soon as I raise the camera they are gone. There is a mixed flock here of Brewer’s Sparrows and Black-throated Sparrows and they are winning at this game we are playing.

I am frustrated by the crunch of my shoes in the sand. It’s impossible to take a stealthy step. Here in the quiet of the canyon my steps seem to roar in my ears. I take a few steps, then pause, take a few more, then pause. I am listening for movement, song, anything. I am wondering how the Native Americans got about without shoes to protect their feet from thorns and spines. Perhaps I need a pair of leather moccasins. Perhaps they will offer protection and silent steps.

As I walk up the wash I can see how the channel has changed over time. Deep cliffs are cut on the east and west rims. Spread out between these canyon rims are the deposits of numerous storms. All manner of trees, cacti and scrub have sprouted on soil deposited hundreds of years ago. Where the new channel cuts through I walk on deep sand and gravel. To the edges of this large boulders and rocks are deposited. I am amazed at the colors of stone, from normal string gray and brown, to green, purple, red and white. I need a geologist to explain it all to me. I find one mesquite tree grasping the cliff desperately. Its exposed roots twist and writhe as they grasp the eroding soil. The roots bulge like muscles on a weight-lifter and the tree still stands. I wonder how old it is, and how much longer it can last.

A few mourning doves and Gila woodpeckers fly over my head. The sparrows continue to elude me in the grass. A Costa’s hummingbird scolds me from an ocotillo, but that is all I see. I’m starting to wonder how I will get out of this deep canyon, when I find the trail up to the eastern rim. It’s a bit steep and bumpy but I make it and I feel like I am on top of the world again. I gaze out over the desert sloping away to Green Valley and Sahuarita, when I am startled to hear voices. I swing around to discover 2 men standing on a mound of dirt with a dune buggy parked nearby. I see the road that’s been newly excavated as development pushes into this part of the canyon. It was fun to feel like I was alone in the world in a wild place, but the truth is this is very tame, and I am close to home. I hurry back down the trail, feeling a little sad. Suddenly a desert cottontail is startled by my footsteps and scurries off the path. Then I hear the yipping of a coyote, frantic and wild across the wash. It’s not too tame yet.

Evening Shadows

Though it was such a beautiful day here yesterday I got caught up inside working at the computer. By 5 p.m. I’d had enough and decide to go for a walk. I crossed the street to the trails and headed for the fence. After consulting the Sycamore Canyon trail map I discovered that the trail went right through this spot. This is part of what we pay for with our HOA fees, so, not to be deterred; I climbed through the barbed wires and stood in the wash once again.

The setting sun cast long shadows and golden light around me. It is so quiet at this time of the day. Not a leaf twitches. Not a peep is heard. The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath my feet as I head south up the wash. The rays of the setting sun play through the branches of trees and scrub. It paints gold onto the clay walls before me. All the rocks, stones, sand and saguaro bones take on the golden cast until it appears as if I stand in a glided outdoor palace. The shadows cast by the tree branches create a black filigree against the burnished walls. I walk forward with my footsteps pounding in my ears.


I see the four Saguaro Sentinels towering above me on my left. The Purple Martian holes are vacant now. I will have to watch for their return. I wonder if they will return, now that there are new houses so close by. I catch a movement off to my right from the corner of my eye. Quietly I turn and focus my binoculars in the fading light.

Little sparrows are flitting about in the brush. They dart behind the twigs and dive into the grasses. I step cautiously forward and finally fix on one. It is a black-throated sparrow hopping around the base of a prickly pear cactus. I smile to see his black throat outlined in white. He is a striking bird for a sparrow. So many sparrows are hard to identify, that birders frequently call them LBJ’s, or Little Brown Jobs. This bird is a uniform brownish-gray with a white eye line, white whisker marks, and a black throat that extends partway down the breast. It has a silvery voice to match its distinguished attire. He is the gentleman of the desert and his voice the song of the desert bell choir.

Of course, I would love to find the elusive five-striped sparrow. I have only read of this bird in my bird guides. According to the books, the five-striped sparrow in a rare visitor to a few rugged canyons near the Mexican border and mostly seen in spring and summer. This sparrow looks similar to the black-throated sparrow, but without the extensive black on its throat and with an additional white stripe that splits the throat patch in two. Thus the five stripes are 3 white and 2 black. It’s highly unlikely that I will find one here, but I keep hoping, so I examine each black-throat carefully.



I stand in the wash where I saw the sparrows and look off to the south where the last rays of the sun tint the limestone mine on the slopes of the Santa Ritas pink. I think that it may be called Helvetia mine, but I am not sure of this. Another research project for me I suppose, but nothing can take away the silent beauty of this moment, this ephemeral peace that I carry with me out of the wash and home.