GUADALUPE MOUNTAINS NP, TEXAS — I aimed my headlights at a Canyon Towhee. It was still dark, but the day had already begun. We’d seen two owls on the way in; one took off from the roadside, lifting what must have been a rabbit with it. As we walked toward the visitor center, the clouds glowed red over the desert. Not fiery. Sanguinary.

By the time we’d found an open campsite and hit Frijole Trail, the sun was up. The desert grassland glowed with colors too bright to be believed, and I rejoiced in the barbed margins of the sotols, the smooth bark and brilliant berries of the madrones, and the cubic bark of the junipers.

The Gray Oaks hold their leaves tightly, though most by now are brown.

Birds were not abundant, but we encountered them in twos and threes. A Rock Wren flushed, pausing too briefly to admire, but its flight drew my eye to a Cactus Wren. Ladder-backed Woodpeckers kept to themselves. A sunny corner held at least four wrens: two rocks, a canyon, and a Bewick’s. Small flocks of juncos were common; the birds seemed generally hooded and pinkish-sided but did not, to my eye, display clear characteristics of any of the named populations. Single Rufous-crowned Sparrows moved too quickly for Courtney to see.

As we ascended, the winds grew ferocious, as if the mountain resented our daring presence. Unexpected gusts were strong enough to move our bodies, which made us just a bit uneasy as we eyed the canyon below.

In a flash, a brown bird exploded from the rockface by the path, flying past us and quickly disappearing. There was no time for optics, but we’d just seen a nightjar. Its tail corners were white, and the wings were unmarked.

But it’s the first of January!

A little farther on, we stopped to consult with Sibley. Sure enough, none of the nightjars are shown here in winter. After studying the illustrations, we agreed that neither of us had noted a Whip-poor-will’s gray “braces” on the back, though we couldn’t say for sure they hadn’t been there. The bird showed a reddish tone, as Courtney pointed out, and I made up my mind to research the mystery further.

The wind kept howling as we hiked on, and we could see the path we’d taken far below us, looking as if a child could have etched it into the mountain with a pebble.

I heard some high-pitched calls ahead and finally spotted a dark-faced gray bird. We approached the spot to find stunted trees alive with quickly moving Bushtits. There might have been 10, or maybe 20, and not one of them stayed still for a moment. A Mountain Chickadee joined the fray, and the whole flock moved down the mountain and out of sight.

As we reached the Bowl Trail, pinyon pines had become the rule, not the exception. But the wind whipped them violently, and I began to worry that we’d not see much of anything in such a terrible gale. As a vista opened to the desert below, we looked out into a vast and hazy world. Somewhere, the miles of desert and sky must have met, but the wind-whipped dust, or so we supposed it was, obscured that far-off horizon.

Trees grew taller as we continued, and a large, grayish chipmunk clung to a trunk, eyeing us warily. We heard faint calls, and a Red-breasted Nuthatch appeared, wedging a seed in a crevice and hacking away with its capable bill. Mountain Chickadees worked farther back in a pine, occasionally showing off their smart white eyebrows, and two or three other nuthatches moved back and forth in the trees. All red-breasted.

There followed a long stretch of apparently empty woodlands, and I began to be discouraged. We sat on a fallen log in the sunshine to eat peanut butter with our crackers, and the fire-cleared meadow around us seemed devoid of life. I kept thinking of all the species I’d hoped to see. Just as my despair bottomed out, I heard a call behind us. Birds!

Mountain Chickadees, specifically. We were soon surrounded by a flock of 15 or more, and I was interested by their low-pitched, wheezy calls. But Mountain Chickadees, delightful as they may be, had not been scarce so far, and I kept scanning the trees for something more.

Conifers ringed the grassy glade.

Several tiny birds appeared in a distant pine. “Pygmy Nuthatches!” I exclaimed, though still barely able to see them for sure. I watched intently, just making out their gray-brown caps and pale blue backs. We walked toward the pine, but they had already begun moving left, disappearing in a cedar, then moving even farther in the direction we’d come from. We followed.

Then they were right overhead, scooting over the branches and squeaking their odd little calls. They, like the chickadees, probed the needles for insects, and when they turned, I could see a pale patch on each nape. Pygmy Nuthatches!

Spirits restored, we continued, encountering another Pygmy Nuthatch and a handful of white-breasteds. That made three nuthatches for the day — not bad at all. Four or five Acorn Woodpeckers moved rapidly through the treetops, and one paused on a bare limb just long enough to see.

I became aware that almost all of the juncos were gray with orangey-red backs, and I was intrigued by the difference in distribution we were observing. In the grasslands below, I had not seen even one reddish-backed bird. But up here, all but one or two of the birds I saw well did have reddish backs. Fascinating. I wanted to know more.

The last new species for the day was a Hairy Woodpecker who presented himself briefly before disappearing through the trees.

I admired the huge old Douglas-firs as we walked, studying their cones and lichen-encrusted bark. There were other cones too, and I wondered whose they were, but maybe I’ll learn some other day.

Of jays, finches, owls and other much-hoped-for species, I can say only this: They did not cross our path this New Year’s Day.

Wind howled through the douglas-firs and spruces.

ydhttmwfi: … and spontaneity

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