Lamoille Canyon
doesn’t attract many tourists. It’s in Nevada’s
remote northeastern corner, and that’s just fine with me.
I’ve come to the Ruby Mountains for something that’s
becoming rare in America: a starry sky and a generous helping of
Western birds.
Even the drive to Lamoille Canyon is
wonderful. Telephone poles on the deserted state highway are
probably more useful to perching raptors than to chatting Nevadans.
A large ferruginous hawk eyes us warily as we pull over to get a
better look. Red-tailed hawks scan the surrounding buttes and
sagebrush for small rodents. A prairie falcon with a chestnut
mustache studies blackbirds foraging in the lush grass of a ranch
below the highway.
Just over the top of a hill, my friend
and I notice a large silhouette on one of the poles. It looks as
big as the mini-refrigerator in the motel where we stayed last
night. But refrigerators don’t have wings. The golden eagle
remains almost motionless, its robust talons, massive beak and
thick legs clutching its perch. Instead of fleeing as we open the
car door, it challenges us to a staring match.
Several
miles later, on a flat close to some abandoned heavy equipment, we
notice about 20 cigar-shaped nighthawks swooping low over the sage.
It’s only 10:30 a.m., yet the asphalt is already hot to the
touch; flies buzz lazily and a heavy aroma of sage fills the air.
The nighthawks belie their descriptive name. Their angled wings and
white wing bars flash and roll as they chased down insects. Somehow
they don’t collide with each other in their whirlwind
pursuits.
When we arrive in Elko, I purchase a fishing
license at a sporting goods store — serious business in Nevada —
as the form requires your social security number. On the way out of
the shop, my friend notices a woman wearing a T-shirt that says
“W.R.A.N.G.L.E.R.” In small print below, it read:
“Western Rancher Against No Good Leftist Environmental
Radicals.” We’re not in Audubon Society card-carrying
California anymore. Beyond Elko, the green crest of the Ruby
Mountains rises over the Great Basin like an earthen tsunami about
to break over the city. The mountains got their name because of
their garnets, the ruby-red gems found by early explorers. Clearly,
glaciers played a role in the formation of these peaks: U-shaped
valleys, tarns and cirques punctuate the mountains. This terrain is
perfect for the mountain goats and bighorn sheep that call the
Rubies home.
Our car grinds up the mountain in low gear
until we stop at a picnic area at the bottom of Lamoille Canyon. A
creek wends its way through the canyon, lined by large cottonwoods,
and even though it’s a scorching afternoon, the birds are
singing. A crow-sized bird lands on the top of a dead cottonwood,
and moments later, its rowing flight and pink head reveal it to be
a Lewis woodpecker. Unlike other woodpeckers, Lewis woodpeckers —
named for the 19th century explorer Meriwether Lewis — frequently
catch insects on the wing. The woodpecker flies low over our heads,
almost buzzing us, and disappears into the foliage of a large
cottonwood. Suddenly, the cries of baby birds reach a pitched
frenzy.
Moments later, the woodpecker emerges from behind
the tree and returns to the cottonwood snag. We watch as the
routine is repeated three, four and five times: We have not only
spotted an unusual woodpecker, but a nest full of babies as well.
Stunned by our good fortune, we hunker down to observe. Farther up
the creek, another woodpecker, ferrying lunch to its young,
disappears into a small hole in the crotch of a cottonwood. A
raven, looking for an easy meal, watches from the parking lot near
the cottonwoods. Does it know the location of the nest?
That night, a thrush’s fluted melody coaxes the sun below the
canyon rim. The big dipper rises, its ladle gesturing toward the
North Star. Now, each hour brings a different shade of darkness:
gunmetal gray, violet and at long last, charcoal. The darker it
gets, the more the stars seem to pop out of the sky — white grains
of sugar sprinkled on a black tablecloth. Thirty minutes later,
I’m tucked in my sleeping bag, gazing at the stars tangled up
in the branches of aspen. As I drift off to sleep, I know
I’ll be back this way again.
Seth Shteir
is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). He lives in Los Angeles where he works as a
teacher.
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