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SCHOLARSHIP REPORTS 2007

2007 VENT Camp Tejano

By Lauren Tompkins

Texas: state of the Golden-cheeked Warbler, Colima Warbler, and Black-capped Vireo. Officially, the Northern Mockingbird is its state bird, but as far as birders are concerned, it might be any one of the three Texas specialties. And we were birders, all fifteen of us - and we looked very out of place, sitting on the floor by the baggage claim with our luggage strewn around us, several field guides floating around our group. Passersby might have stared at our binoculars, but we didn't notice; we were busy talking about what we would see in the 14 days ahead, discussing the optimum numbers of birds we could add to our life list, arguing about the breeding range of the Colima Warbler. Our leaders, Victor Emmanuel and Barry Lyon, managed to get us up and out of the San Antonio Airport, but we stalled them in the parking lot as some of us glimpsed our first Great-tailed Grackles. With the exception of our leaders, I was the only person who had been to Texas before, but that didn't mean that I was used to its oppressive heat, or the humidity that hung in the air and coated the lungs. A few seconds after leaving the cool airport, groans rippled through the group as the excitement of grackles wore off and awareness of the heat set in. It was probably no more than 85 degrees outside and a blanket of gray clouds threatened rain, but if one came from Michigan, or extreme Northern California, the temperature was still a startling change. Barry, Victor, and counselor Amy Sugeno then led us through a colder parking garage, and into two white ten-person vans.

As soon as the luggage was loaded we were off - and it had started to rain. Huge drops of liquid pelted the windshield, at times almost drowning out conversation. When the rain stopped briefly (it continued off-and-on throughout the trip), we excitedly pointed out Scissor-tailed Flycatchers and White-winged Doves, binoculars pressed to the van's large windows. Slowly, as the city around the highway turned to scrubby country, we started seeing more birds: Cattle Egrets fed in the median ditches and flew over the van, Northern Mockingbirds perched on wires, Eurasian Collared-Doves sat on top of telephone poles. We were heading, Barry told us, for Neal's Lodge in Concan. The lodges were purportedly located in the Texas hill country along the shores of the Frio River, and sure to be bursting with wildlife, especially now that some parts of Texas had seen 40 days of rain. Victor had already assured us that, because of the rain, wildflowers would still be in bloom. The wildflowers would attract butterflies and insects, which in turn would attract birds. Already Camp Tejano's 14 days were looking promising.

The next several days were spent around Neal's Lodge. As promised, the wildflowers were still in bloom, and in free time and while birding, campers spent hours catching butterflies: Queens, with maroon, white-spotted wings, Sleepy Oranges (actually yellow), truly Dainty Sulfurs, bright orange Gulf and Variegated Fritillaries, and many more. On some of our early-morning birding trips, several campers became painfully and intimately aware of fire ants. Fire ant nests were little more than tiny mountains of dry dirt, and it was easy to forget to scan the ground, especially while birding. Standing on one of the nests incurred the wrath of millions of the insects. About the size of three grains of salt, they could climb legs silently, taking the camper unaware as they briskly began biting every exposed piece of flesh. We soon learned to recognize, and avoid, any suspicious-looking mound of dirt.

Victor and Amy helped us identify the flowers - by the time we left Concan every camper could identify several species of trees, as well as the bright, every-color-of-the-rainbow wildflowers such as Indian Blanket, Mexican Hat, Mealy Sage, and Lantana. Reptiles abounded; one night after a full day of birding, I stood outside one of the main cabins and chased reptiles by the moonlight, catching Mediterranean Gecko and two Gulf Coast Toads. The next morning, Victor displayed a new species for the trip without even being aware of it. "Victor, I think there's a scorpion on your back," one of the campers calmly informed our leader. Victor's yell could be heard from the yard outside where I was birding, but by the time the campers had assembled for breakfast, the scorpion had fallen prey to one of Victor's field guides and was a smear on the wooden floor.

And of course the birds of Concan stood out the most. Just outside the cabins, many species could be seen, making it almost impossible to stay indoors for any amount of time. Inca Doves fed outside the cabins, Painted Buntings sang from atop telephone poles, Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks flew overhead in the early morning, Yellow-throated Warblers and Golden-fronted Woodpeckers ate bugs from a lamp-post, Black-crested Titmice ti-ti-tied angrily from the Ashe Junipers. There was a large pond on the way out of Neal's Lodges, and by it we could find not only several species of dragonfly but Green Kingfisher. The kingfisher didn't like being seen, and the best look was a two-second one, enough of make us wonder "Was that . . . ?", as we stared at a metallic green back disappearing into the brush. Our first morning birding around Neal's Lodge introduced campers to the Olive Sparrow, the only North American representative of the genus Arremenops. Barry lured the bird closer with a tape that played its churring, trill of a song. This was probably the best look at an Olive Sparrow that we'd get the entire trip. It was a life bird for nearly everyone, and quickly campers took pictures and absorbed the details, taking in its long, pink bill, yellowy undertail coverts, plain front, greenish wings, and brown crown stripes.

The morning when it was deemed time to look for Golden-cheeked Warblers and Black-capped Vireos, was the morning of one of the biggest rainstorms of the trip. The purplish-gray sky was ominous, but the prospect of more birds kept us from getting too gloomy as we loaded up into the vans, ready for the hour-long drive to Lost Maples State Natural Area. Victor had told us a little bit about Lost Maples over breakfast, explaining that the park contained the uncommon Uvalde Bigtooth Maple, and was a preserved area of over 2000 acres. It was, he said, one of our best chances for the Golden-cheeked Warbler. The hike to see them would also take all day, he informed us, which seemed a small price to pay. After the hike, we would stop and eat lunch at a friends' ranch, then look for the Black-capped Vireo.

"Won't it be hard to find Golden-cheeked? Won't they have stopped singing, or left?" I asked. It was, after all, the end of the breeding season for most species - one would think that the Warblers would have retreated to their Mexican range. Barry shook his head. "We've never had problems before. We've always found one."

We made it to Lost Maples, but we never made the hike. When we left the Lodge, we were driving toward the threatening thunderclouds, and as we approached Lost Maples the weather became worse and worse. It started to rain, not gradually, but suddenly and torrentially. We stopped briefly at the town of Utopia (a sign outside the park where we stopped proclaimed Utopia: a paradise, let's keep it nice).

The park, a maintained, graveled area beside a dam, had been home to a Barred Owl for many years, and Barry was determined to find it. So, jumping over puddles and ducking away from the raindrops slipping off oak leaves, it wasn't long before we caught sight of a Barred Owl. The light under the trees was dim, and the storm had blotted out the sun, but in the dusky light we could still clearly see the owl as it flew between the oaks and landed upon a branch in full view of the entire group. Barry put up his scope, but it wasn't really necessary. The Barred Owl still filled even our binoculars, and it looked miserable. Bedraggled and drenched with rain, the owl regarded our group disinterestedly. When we left Utopia, the paradise, it was still raining and Barry and Victor were having second thoughts about the Lost Maples hike. Lightning had started flashing on the horizon, thunder boomed, and the rain sounded like ball-bearings being dropped on the van's roof.

About thirty minutes later we parked at the Lost Maples visitor center, and listened to the rangers' cautionary words. "The storm's been hanging over us for four hours," they said, pointing to weather patterns that moved lazily on their computer monitors. "The Lost Maples trail to see the Golden-cheeked Warblers is flooded out, and will be for several days. Then we have to clear it. Er, enjoy the gift shop, there are hummingbird and seed feeders outside."

Most of the young birders had already discovered the feeders, and were watching cardinals and Black-chinned Hummingbirds. Realizing that the trip was a bust, Barry ordered us back to the vans, and once we were inside, we headed toward the Black-capped Vireo spot. We traveled along the same highway, only to find that the rain had started a flash-flood, and we were cut off by more than fifty feet of fast-moving water. "We have plenty of other places to look for both birds," Barry reassured us as we took another, longer route back towards Neal's Lodge.

The drive back took us past seemingly empty pastures filled with knee-high grass, surrounded by barbed-wire fence. Soon, though, we began to notice small herds of animals in the dead fields by the road. As we usually did, we yelled at Barry to stop, stop, we saw something. Tannish, deer-like creatures with pure-white bellies and white eye rings skittered away when the van stopped, amid a clamor of voices: "What are those?" "Let me get a picture!" "They're not in the mammal field guide!" "Are they tame?" "They're Black-buck." said Barry.

They weren't in our Mammals of North America field guide because they were actually from India, and only in Texas for shooting. The land that they were on was one of the many Texas "game ranches" that littered the hill country. Barry explained that the ranches and Black-buck (brought in by wardens) were there for the entertainment of rich hunters. It was a strange and inhumane concept, but there were some beautiful animals behind those fences. We saw huge Axis Deer later on. The males and females looked like different species: the males were dark, with long legs, large antlers, and white spots, the females more tawny and much smaller. Barry, who had no doubt seen all these animals before, was patient in his explanations, now that we were eagerly scanning for more exotics among the trees. He told us that there were Rhinoceros on some of these ranches: we were hoping for Elephants. We did eventually see both Black-capped Vireo and Golden-cheeked Warbler.

One of the most memorable trips, on one of our last days in the Hill county, was to Chalk Bluff Park. The park was situated on the Nueces River, which had a backdrop of a gigantic white cliff. The area was mostly a vacation resort, with RVs and tents and squalling children. Up close, away from most people, the river could truly be appreciated. A bright emerald green, it seemed to give a glow to everything around it, from the whitish pebbles and rocks that bordered it to the trees that dotted its shore. Across the river, we spotted a Great Blue Heron (one of the first truly familiar species I'd seen on the trip), but the bird wasn't truly what we were looking for. No, we were searching for the Ringed Kingfisher, the blue, red and white bird whose range just barely extended into Texas. We knew that this would probably be our only opportunity to see it, and so we spent a good deal of time scanning the opposite shoreline, scrutinizing branches overhanging the water - and I don't honestly recall who found the bird. What I do remember is the bird itself, giving a rattling call as it flew across the river to land about a hundred feet away from us. Quickly, Barry set up his scope and made sure we all got good looks. Later, we spotted a Green Kingfisher, flying below us as we walked along a cliff. We also found Gulf Coast Toad in an ashtray outside a small store by Chalk Bluff, and a Spadefoot Toad under a newspaper stand.

We returned to Neal's Lodges for the afternoon, some of us taking naps, awaiting dusk. At that point, we ate dinner and got into the vans. We were heading for the Frio Bat caves, and we were stoked. "To the Bat-Cave, Barry!" we commanded, slamming shut the van doors. So we drove, and drove, screeching to a halt to see a bobwhite perched atop a ranch entrance gate, and pausing for juvie Grasshopper Sparrows among the sunflowers; a "bonus bird" for the trip that we hadn't considered seeing.

We continued to the bat cave. It wasn't quite dusk when we got out of the vans, so we watched Black-throated Sparrows and Painted Buntings. The habitat was the same desert scrub as everywhere else, with the exception of the grassland/juniper hill country. Here, agave dotted the landscape, but was far outnumbered by Sotol, a relative with a tall stalk similar to the agave's, but with a q-tip shaped bloom at the top. Prickly pear cactus bloomed here and there, amid creosote bush and low mesquite. The bat cave was a pit in the ground, albeit a gigantic one, surrounded by swooping Cliff Swallows and Cave Swallows. The cave was protected by a fence, and close to the fence there were stones set into the ground, taking the form of stadium seating - perfect for bat-viewing. The cave had a population of about 10 million Mexican Free-tailed Bats (probably more, but how do you count bats?). The cave protects them from rain, Texas monsoons and most predators.

We waited patiently for the bats to appear, moving around as little as possible, eyes focused on the cave opening, squinting as the light dimmed. The first bat swooped out of the cave, scarcely venturing above its rim, skimming the rock face. Another blur of a bat joined the first, light brown smudges against the gray rock. A few fluttered over the rim, over our heads, and toward the east. You blinked and there were a dozen more, blink again and suddenly three times that were filtering out into the sky. Sometimes a chitter or a squeak was audible, but for the most part there was only the sound of beating wings. Soon there was a great stream of bats flying over our heads and vanishing into the distance in a continuous, undulating strand made up of thousands of dark bodies. The spectacle obviously must be seen to be believed - it is impossible to put into words. We all gaped up at the bats as they winged their way overhead, and I could hear the constant clicking of cameras. We kept watching the bats, at least until we were told we had to leave. Then we walked back down the road to the vans, bumping together occasionally in the darkness, exposed faces and arms pale blue in the moonlight.

Barry gave one of us a spotlight with which to scan the road while we drove. Sometimes the light would illuminate something on the side of the road - a piece of litter, a sotol stalk - once, the shape of one lone tennis shoe tipped on its side, laces curled around it.

"There's a shoe," someone said, which started a line of conversation: why a tennis shoe, why just one, why on the side of the road? "We should have stopped," we told Barry. "We should have stopped," Barry agreed. "Yeah," we replied. "It could've been a memento, a mascot -- I could've told Victor I wanted to stop and look at something in the trees, and picked up the shoe," Barry said with profound regret. "It could've been sitting right here," and he slapped the dashboard gently, a couple of feet over from the steering wheel. "It could have," we agreed.

The van filled with the scent of wintergreen as Barry passed around a plastic box of mints.

"Yeah. You know, those chances only come along every so often, and you gotta take 'em in that minute, you can't wait, you know?" Barry said. "Yeah, we know." we said. And so we continued down the paved road, getting closer and closer to Neal's Lodge, but farther and farther away from the Shoe of Frio.

The trip to Big Bend would take all day. When actual mountains formed in the distance, and grasslands started to vanish, we knew we were getting close. We started to see Scott's Orioles perched atop sotol. The road inexplicably narrowed, and soon we were driving down a canyon with orange-red walls rising around us. Conifers grew in the rocks, scraggly trees searching for a little sunlight, and in canyons and gashes in the rock the foliage was thicker. "Look for Rock Squirrels," Barry said, slowing the van as we went around some of the tighter curves. "What does a Rock Squirrel look like?" "Like a rock. With a tail."

There was a sunset in the making through a gap in the walls several miles away, shining a yellow-orange that turned the rock walls red. The wash below us was a patchwork of desert willow, sotol, agave, and prickly pear. Outside the dining area where we ate our dinner, and near the parking lot, there fed three deer about three feet tall, with absolutely no fear of humans. "Midget deer!" became a frequent refrain when passing through this particular area of the park. A Say's Phoebe was in the process of building a nest by the dining room's windows, and the requisite Black-chinned Hummingbird buzzed around the blooming agave. After we finished dinner, we drove to our campground. Our allotted area consisted of a small patch of hard, pebbly ground surrounded by brush, and a concrete pad upon which sat four wooden picnic tables and two metal boxes for keeping food from bears. Shade for the concrete pad was provided by a metal roof lined with holes. We all kicked aside sharp rocks, and set up our tents, glad that Big Bend was out of the range of fire ants. In the fading light, we caught Tropical Buckeye (one of the rarer butterfly species of the trip) a different form of Bordered Patch, and a Common Checkered Skipper.

We spent much of the next two days 'taking it easy', since on our last day in Big Bend we would be looking for Colima Warblers. The walk to see the Colima Warblers had often been described to be as 'strenuous,' 'intense' and 'brutal' - it was also always described as 'worth it'. Today was possibly the most-anticipated of the entire trip, and it involved an 11.5 mile hike up a mountain. Early in the morning, we started the hike. The path up the mountain was wide enough for one person, and so we walked in a line, up the trail of loose pebbles, bordered with junipers, desert willows, cactus, lemonade berry --- and Mexican Jays. The higher we traveled, the better of a view we got, and the promise of Colima Warblers counteracted any complaining. Here and there Golden-banded Skippers perched along the path, and Victor stopped frequently to point out new plants. As the landscape got rockier and rockier, trees became more and more scraggly as their roots dug for a hold on the slopes. In the shallow gullies we occasionally descended into, maples flourished. After hiking for about three miles, we were rewarded with views of Colima Warblers, darting between the large maple leaves. It wasn't a spectacular look, but it was a spectacular bird. Soon we spotted and caught) a Chisos Skipperling, a tiny butterfly with purplish iridescence on its wings: two endemics in one day . . . not bad.

It was hard to fully appreciate the scenery while trying to walk as fast as you can uphill, but we did stop to look at Boot Canyon for Zone-tailed Hawks, Lucifer and White-eared Hummingbirds. Blue and Gray Hairstreaks fluttered by the edge of the path as we finally began to descend. It was mid-afternoon, and the sky was once again clouding over. Though it was warm outside, rain began to drizzle down. Lightning cracked. We began to walk faster. The switchbacks which had previously been appreciated now seemed like a waste of time. Most of us had forgotten our jackets. Most of us didn't want to get hit by lightning, either. We made it back to the dining area in record time, pausing only for a Canyon Wren or two. Elated, we felt as if we had completed our trip - we'd seen Golden-cheeked Warbler, Black-capped Vireo, and finally Colima Warbler. But we weren't done yet. The next day we would leave for the Davis Mountains, in the search for Montezuma Quail and Gray Flycatchers.

The trip to the Davis Mountains took nearly all day. These were to be our final two days of the trip. We spent a good deal of time taking it slow, catching butterflies, and looking for Montezuma Quail, enjoying the scenery more than we'd had a chance to previously. The Davis Mountains were a habitat of rocky and grassy hills, and open prairie. On the prairie we got our first (and last) looks at Pronghorn Antelope. We missed Montezuma Quail and Buff-breasted Flycatcher, but we did find a Calliope Hummingbird, after spending an entire afternoon watching a friend's feeders. Excepting the birds that we saw on the car trip back to San Antonio, the Calliope was the last bird of the trip - apart from the Grackles at the airport.

These young birders attended the camps/events they report on with the help of ABA scholarships.