October 4, 2012
Western Tanager bathing
Western Tanager bathing

Like molten lava the droplets of scarlet and yellow, themselves reflecting the colors of the bathing bird, coalesce over the edge of the fountain into a cascade of burnished copper illuminated by the rays of the late afternoon sun, then split again to specks and spray of foam in every nuance of every shade on the red end of the color spectrum.

My cell phone is buzzing, but I ignore it.  I cannot turn away.  I have never seen a bird bathe this long.  This long and I still have not yet been able to pin a species label to it, though I have good idea.  Perhaps as long as a full minute, more than enough time to cursor through my mental rolodex--size, season, experiences, expectations . . . .

Finally form begins to emerge, shape sharpening within the swirling palette of bright colors, coming clean I’m sure after this much time in the watery kaleidoscope of splash and motion—male Western Tanager, dripping, shaking, preening frenetically, flight feathers beating wildly to dry before any discerned danger.  Watching bathing birds makes it apparent this is the moment they feel most vulnerable to predator attack.

Smaller birds will retreat to deep foliage to finish the bathing/preening process, but this tanager holds his ground on the fountain’s edge, taking his time to run the entire length of several primaries through his bill, re-oiling, rearranging, gradually transforming himself from bedraggled, barely recognizable ball of wet feathers into one of North America’s most stunning songbirds.  And taking this jaded birder full circle in the process.

Thirty-seven years and three months ago we were waylaid on a backpacking trip in Great Sand Dunes National Monument in southern Colorado by a broken camshaft in a vehicle one month out of warranty.  Disconsolately loafing under a pine tree awaiting a tow truck from twenty miles away, we couldn’t believe our eyes when a fantastic medium-sized bird, red head, yellow body, black wings, dropped from the tree and snatched a bug from the ground right in front of us.  We had one pair of cheap binoculars between the four of us, a love of nature and the outdoors, but only a rudimentary knowledge of birds and bird families, not a clue about this particular beauty which we had never seen before, and zero idea that “bird” could be a verb.

Deva walked two miles to the Visitor’s Center and bought a field guide while I and our two little ones went with the vehicle, none of us guessing that this first Western Tanager and first field guide would ultimately prove more exciting than this first tow truck ride and provide half a lifetime of great memories.  The tanager before me on the fountain finishes his due diligence and disappears up into our ancient olive, leaving me deep in reverie.  He’s headed south.  Figuratively, so am I.  He probably needs to hurry.  For sure I’m trying to slow down.  No way I’m answering this cell phone.  Western Tanagers are real life, buzzing cell phones just intrusive interludes.

Western Tanager post bath
Western Tanager post bath