Arizona, the End

As the first light of morning snuffed out the desert stars in the skies over the eastern Chiricahuas, I awoke to a pre-dawn chorus of owls. Whiskered Screech-Owls' toots competed with the deep hoots of a Great Horned Owl, and a nearby "Mountain" Northern Pygmy-Owl joined in with its repetitive whistles, its doubled accent betraying its Mexican ties.

We didn't rush out on our last day in the Chiricahuas, but headed back over to South Fork for a hike before breaking down camp. It was a fun little hike up the deep canyon, but not very birdy. Overhead there was a constant stream of helicopter traffic; at the time we thought it was the Border Patrol, but later it turned out it was a fire crew working on a weak fire miles upstream.

As we neared the parking lot, we tracked down a calling male Trogon. It led us to its nest, or a potential nest site, anyway, which was pretty cool. As we were watching the bird, a couple from the Central California coast came over to get a look, and mentioned that they'd just seen a Montezuma Quail up the road a short way.

Now, we very much wanted to see a Montezuma Quail. Unfortunately, that's difficult to do, requiring a lot of luck and patience. These birds' primary defensive strategy is to hide. They crouch motionless and let their cryptic plumage blend in with the oak leaves and grass-stems that litter the ground where they live. The grassy habitat they favor consists of clumps of foot-tall bunch grass, that overhangs and provides the perfect hiding places for smallish ground-dwelling birds. Cornell's Birds of North America account remarks that one can hike for days in appropriate habitat and not see any quail, even when they are common.

Well, we can attest to that! We'd been looking all week, scanning roadsides constantly whenever we drove through likely habitat, scanning hillsides on all of our hikes, and generally keeping a sharp eye. The gentleman who had seen this bird didn't think we'd have much luck if we looked for it, as it had disappeared into a grassy area, but gave us directions anyway. We set out with high hopes.

We finally arrived at the spot, and nothing was stirring. After looking from the road, we set off into the woods, cautiously walking, eyes straining for a sign - a dark lump, a quivering feather, anything. Nothing, however, showed, and, undaunted, we crossed the creek and began searching the grass on the far side. We decided our only hope was to come upon the bird as it was crouching in the grass and get a look at it that way, so we split up - placing maybe six feet between us, and slowly, ever so slowly, we crept forward, eyes and ears peeled.

We nearly died the next moment when the quail, directly between us at our very feet, exploded into the air, furiously flapped its wings and then glided off up the hill and disappeared. Our brief look at a Montezuma Quail was of a dark feathered back receding quickly into the distance. We hunted for it up the hillside, but couldn't find it, again, and finally we headed back to our car. So, that's a bird we definitely would like to see again.

Packing up was once again accompanied by some ominous raindrops, but nothing came of it. Then it was back to Tucson, the first 20 or so miles on gravel roads. Between Wilcox and Tucson on the 10 we got hit by a mammoth thunderstorm that brought traffic to a crawl. Pretty fun to watch it coming.

After checking into our motel for the night, we headed up Mount Lemmon to go owling. We arrived on the lower slopes before dark, and enjoyed the views of the Santa Rita Mountains, where we'd stayed earlier on our trip, and distant downtown Tucson.

Libby on Mount Lemmon

Our primary target was Flammulated Owl, which we'd missed in the Chiricahuas, but we wouldn't have minded a Northern Saw-Whet, if it had called. Nothing was doing, though, in the high country. Multiple stops along the roadsides, and one trip down a gravel road in the dark, didn't find any. It was probably just a little too late in the year, but it was disappointing.

The next day we headed home after taking another swing at the Common Blackhawks at Aravaipa Canyon (this is the location we visited on our very first day). Once again, we saw many hawks, including juvenile Gray and Zone-tailed Hawks, but we weren't able to find any Blackhawks.

And, then, on our way home, it was 116 in Quartzite when we stopped for gas.

That's hot.

I think that's all, folks.

Pictures in the usual spot: Arizona 8.