Hello birders, twitchers, twitchy birders, bitchy twirlers, and anyone looking for a respite from our bird-brained politics.
This is the second of a two-part exploration of Colorado’s birdlife, courtesy of several recent trips. Two weeks ago I took you to the Front Range Urban Corridor and the Eastern Rockies, and today’s installment highlights the other side of the Continental Divide.
Colorado’s Western Slope is a land of contrasts. Yes, I know that phrase is the punchline to caricatures of bad essay writing. But seriously, how else would you describe the vertiginous incongruity of dumb dexterous dweeb Lauren Boebert representing the famously rich, progressive, and Hollywood-infested resort towns of Aspen and Telluride? (And, before the 2020 redistricting, Vail, Breckenridge, and Steamboat Springs were also in her theater of operations).
As with all western states, this contrast extends to its terrain. On the relentlessly gorgeous 150-mile stretch of I-70 between Denver and Glenwood Springs, the scenery seemingly changes around every curve. However, one commonality that binds the Western Slope, from glamorous Aspen to Boebert’s hometown of — wait for it — Rifle, is ruralness. There are no big, or even medium-sized, cities in western Colorado. Grand Junction, a conservative agriculture and extraction hub surrounded by desert mesas, is the largest with just over 65,000 residents.
Grand Junction’s famously weird street numbering system.
THE LONGEST YEAR
September 2020 marked my sixth consecutive month of being trapped in Tarrant County, TX, which included the entire miserable summer. Although my wife and I fared quite well overall during Covid, we were still reeling from two traumatic and health-damaging pregnancy losses and the death of both of our dogs. Travel — a luxury not afforded to the parents we wish we could have been — was our main solace. Having already canceled five trips, we took a calculated risk and headed to our favorite state for some hiking and leaf peeping. Thanks to smart planning and an assist from a kind universe, we managed to hit peak fall foliage in all three destinations.
While aspens are known for their bright-yellow hue, in great foliage years like 2020 they can also turn orange and red. [Click for larger image]
Our first stop was Aspen, a convenient home base for seeing the famous Maroon Bells Scenic Area. One of the most photographed mountain scenes in North America, the viewpoint and its accompanying trails are reachable by car (early morning or evening only), shuttle bus, or by a stunning but relentlessly uphill 8-mile bike ride. The payoff from the ride is worth the hype and exertion, whether in fall (2020):
Or summer (2021):
While Aspen shows unmistakable signs of being the most expensive ski-resort town in the world, I was pleasantly surprised by its welcoming vibe. The massive tax base is put to good use, with great public parks, hiking/cycling paths, and even a free art museum. One of the paths runs along the Roaring Fork River, affording access to the mixed woodlands that host a healthy variety of birds.
Birding, Covid-style, along the Roaring Fork just a few blocks from downtown Aspen.
During an early morning walk in late-September, I got this adorable American dipper as a lifer:
Photo credit: American dipshit
The other lifer was a Cassin’s finch (right). A red-shafted variety of flicker was another highlight:
We know dippers dip. But do flickers flick?
It’s always a treat seeing Texas’ wintering sparrows elsewhere in different seasons:
White-crowned sparrow (Photo credit: bald-crowned professorbird)
Three warblers appeared on the walk: yellow-rumped, Wilson’s, and this Townsend’s:
I also saw an old favorite from my earliest birding memories of the Arizona mountains, a pygmy nuthatch:
Photo credit: pygmy nutjob
PURE IMAGINATION
My second stop in 2020 is possibly my favorite town in the world. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my family piling into our car during the hellish Arizona summers and driving to the San Juan Mountains in southwest Colorado. Home of many postcard-worthy, mining-turned-tourism towns such as Silverton, Durango, and Telluride, the area’s crown jewel – at least in my opinion – is the tiny town of Ouray (population: 900). This former mining base sits in a dramatic valley, with towering peaks in every direction. Neither my description nor pictures will do it justice, so try to get there sometime if you haven’t already.
It is also a short trek down the Million Dollar Highway (U.S. 550 between Ouray and Silverton) to one of my favorite photo spots: Crystal Lake. It’s a tiny lake with nothing to do there but photograph it. But that’s plenty:
After getting that last pic, I saw an eared grebe in the lake (lifer). The shore was lined with photographers capturing the perfect landscape scene, and this little floofball annoyed them by rippling the water.
Are there any other birds with body parts in their names that aren’t preceded by an adjective/adverb? Beaked gull? Nosed warbler?
One of Ouray’s highlights is the Perimeter Trail, a hiking path that makes a 6-mile circle around the town, affording views of it and of the surrounding mountains. Its foliage is highly variable for such a compact area, with conifer and aspen forests, mixed woodlands, lush grassy meadows, arid shrubland, and even an occasional cactus. Unsurprisingly, it hosts an impressive number of bird species. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I got my long-sought MacGillivray’s warbler there in June:
The trail is a good place to see mountain stalwarts like the Steller’s jay:
Mountain chickadee:
Another spark bird from the inception of my birding hobby 30 years ago.
And one of Colorado’s most widespread birds, the black-billed magpie:
The town is lightly birded, so it also affords the chance to record the only sighting ever (on eBird) of a Cassin’s vireo in Ouray or its perimeter:
My second lifer of the 2020 trip named after Cassin. I’m afraid to look him up. Knowing the unsavory history of early naturalists, he probably sold poisoned milk to school children to fund his opium habit or something like that.
It’s also a great place to see grosbeaks. Black-headed are abundant:
Photo credit: black-hearted grossgeek
As are evening:
I even saw a relatively rare pine grosbeak there in 2019, still the only one I’ve ever seen:
Speaking of pine birds, siskins were widespread, including in the middle of town:
Other sightings included a red-breasted nuthatch, several house wrens:
Some Townsend’s solitaires, and this adorable western flycatcher I saw on two consecutive days in the same spot this year:
My second sighting named after Townsend. I’m afraid to look him up. Knowing the unsavory history of early naturalists, he probably shot bald eagles and used their feathers to make racist puppets or something like that.
Beautiful Waters
One of the great perks of birding is being able to break up long driving days with a quick stop at a hotspot. For me, checking eBird before a drive is as important as checking the roadmap. En route to our last destination on the 2020 trip, we stopped at Blue Mesa Reservoir, part of the Curecanti National Recreation Area along the Gunnison River.
We saw zillions of ducks, but mostly from too far away to photograph. However, I was able to earn two lifers in the surrounding landscape — a red-naped sapsucker:
And a green-tailed towhee:
HOW LONG WILL THIS LAST?
We followed the river to the town of Gunnison, and then north into the mountains to the resort town of Crested Butte. Honestly, I found it to be a bit unfriendly — but in fairness, Covid made everyone cranky. My most enduring memory from there was seeing a policewoman in a truck yelling through a bullhorn at pedestrians who weren’t wearing masks.
The main draw in the fall is the nearby Kebler Pass, which contains what might be the largest aspen grove — indeed, the largest living organism — in the world. And it certainly didn’t disappoint:
While I was driving through an aspen canopy on a gravel road, a hearty wind caused a huge leaf drop that looked like a surreal, swirling yellow rainstorm. At that exact moment, the song I was playing in the car pleaded, “I’m telling you it’s gonna get better. . .It’s not gonna be like this forever/I’m not gonna do this forever.” I’ll neither confirm nor deny that I had to pull over because my eyes were burning from the salt water. It felt like one of those moments that would, in retrospect, be seen as a turning point — but alas, that was only October 2020, so we did have to do it for what seemed like forever.
Anyhow, I didn’t do much birding that day — but during lunch on a hike, this dude perched on the log on which I was sitting and kept me company:
It was so close that that’s actually a phone pic. But don’t think it was merely being friendly — that’s a notorious Canada jay, thief of all things edible. The first one I ever saw was during a picnic in the Canadian rockies — and, while I was excitedly photographing the new bird, it swooped down and took my entire sandwich off the table. But that experience made me wise to them, so this one left empty handed.
Thanks for reading! Tell us about your week in bird sightings, sitings, and citings.
Note: the story’s title and all of its section headings are songs from my favorite singer-songwriter, Kathleen, who coincidentally hails from Colorado.
