NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS — A lightning bolt flashed across the gray cloud above us; rain pelted the windshield. But the horizon was clear except for a few scraps of cloud, illuminated brightly by the rising sun. The Puritan Birder and I were together again, winding our way across the rolling landscape between Stephenville and Glen Rose.

By the time we reached Dinosaur Valley State Park, the sun was bright, and the clouds were distant. We drove past two garish model dinosaurs and found a parking lot that looked promising. “TRACKS” said a small wooden sign. We peered down the hillside into the river bed. Sure enough, the rock below held large, three-toed depressions, partly filled with water. Somehow, they hardly seemed real.

Kinglets and chickadees worked the cedars nearby, and we were lucky enough to glimpse the scarlet streak atop one little kinglet’s head. I was curious, wondering whether titmice in the area were Tufted or Black-crested. We saw a couple of phoebes, and I had a very quick look at a Blue-headed Vireo. Perhaps the titmice were elsewhere.

We made our way down into the river bed and stepped from rock to rock. A Turkey Vulture perched menacingly in a snag as a family with small children frolicked past. Then it turned its back toward the sun, spreading its wings wide. It was still cool enough that I appreciated the sweatshirt I’d borrowed, and I supposed that the vulture was warming its muscles for the day’s activities.

Though signs here said “Main Track Area,” we did not see any tracks — or many birds — and kept moving, eventually veering away from the river and onto a trail that led along the edge of a field. We flushed a couple of House Wrens, neither of which afforded us anything more than the quickest of glimpses. Small birds flying far over the field uttered a two syllable call: pip-it.

The path turned sharply and climbed a hill, and the world changed dramatically. The hilltop hosted a grassland sprinkled with scrubby oaks, cedars, and prickly pears, the latter bearing a heavy crop of bright red fruit. I thought it might be a good place for Black-capped Vireos in the spring; I believe they breed in the park. Harsh, not-quite-a-mockingbird scolds caught our attention. A slender, gray-bellied bird slipped through branches and disappeared. Bewick’s Wren.

We spent the next several minutes zig-zagging from tree to tree, trying to see the spiteful little wren. I saw a white eyebrow; Lynn saw some gray. Not once did the bird sit still; not once did we get anything even approximating a satisfactory look. But we’d both seen Bewick’s Wrens before, and as we wearied of the game, we flushed a few more little birds, at least one of which proved to be a Field Sparrow.

Turning back then, I happened to catch sight of a few bluebirds on a power line. We lifted our binoculars to bid them good morning, and then we saw that the sky behind them was full of hawks. Dozens of hawks, circling together in a loose column. Very distant … which ones are they? White bellies … underwings appear dark.

The kettle, evidently having recently lifted off, drifted closer to us. One bird soared overhead, displaying dark flight feathers, white coverts, and a chestnut-colored bib. Most of the others remained more distant. Were they also Swainson’s Hawks? The spectacular sight made it hard to quibble over details; we watched them circling effortlessly, high in the deep blue autumn sky, and I think we both wished we too could soar.

After the hawks were lost to sight, we thanked the bluebirds and turned to go. A husky call caught our attention. “Yellow-rump?” Not quite. Ah — no, that’s a cardinal. There it is, a warbler. But which one? Small, brownish, yellow throat. Unmarked face and wings. We advanced toward its hiding place, cardinals distracting us occasionally.

And there we were, sneaking from tree to tree again, trying to get a decent look at the bird, which stayed near the ground in dense vegetation. Once I saw its undertail — yellow. But the belly was decidedly drab. We kept following her but finally gave up as she disappeared once and for all. Not sure what we had seen, I rehearsed the field marks so we’d remember when we got back to Sibley.

Instead of retracing our steps, we decided to follow a stream bed that presented itself invitingly. It would lead back to the river, we reasoned, and maybe we’d see something interesting. Birds we did not see, except for a phoebe early on. Chickadees called occasionally, but never titmice. We scrambled over the dry gravel bars and rock heaps, sometimes narrowly avoiding pointy branches that dangled in midair.

“Whoa!” I looked down, and there was a dinosaur track, plain as day. Once we started looking, we saw a few more. Then Lynn saw a bluebird overhead, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was a watchman.

We did in fact find the Paluxy River again, but high water and steep banks prevented us from following it back to the parking lot. I tried to make a scouting expedition along one bank, but I decided to swallow my ego and retreat. The poison ivy can keep its urushiol, thank you very much.

Despite the detour, we arrived back at the parking lot in short order. The birds had quieted down by then, and we decided to be on our way. We never had encountered any titmice, so my question went unanswered. We had verified, however, that the woodpeckers were Red-bellied and not Golden-fronted.

I assigned Lynn to look up our mystery warbler while I took a few pictures from the overlook. She was looking at Mourning Warbler when I got back, which had been one of my guesses when we saw the little bird. Our bird had a brown belly, however, and I turned the page to Common Yellowthroat. Yep. Young female. Among the cactus? Ah well. I was left with one of those unpleasant, should-have-known-that feelings, from which it takes awhile to recover.

Dinosaur tracks!

Learning that Squaw Creek Lake is closed for security reasons, we swung past Granbury Lake instead. A lone Mallard was our only reward, but so many sand burrs adhered themselves to our persons that we spent the rest of the afternoon gingerly removing them from our shoes, our socks, and the carpet of Lynn’s apartment.

Trackback This Post | Subscribe to the comments through RSS Feed