Spur of the Moment
Sometimes moments catch us off-guard. For better or worse, our lives can change one moment to the next, before we have time to blink. No matter how much we prepare and anticipate what’s to come, we will get knocked on our butts…left to figure out our next move.
On a less life-altering level, the practice of field recording offers similar moments. At times, you prepare a planned visit to a specific location, with an idea in mind for what you want to capture that day. Loose plans with some parameters. Seasonal changes can dictate when and where you go. Wanting to record some river currents in the Chihuahuan Desert? Gotta wait till our region receives its annual allotment. Hoping to capture the dawn chorus out on a hiking trail? Better set that alarm. And then there’s the waiting. Waiting to hear something, anything. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.
And then you have those moments that remind you that you’re one small part of a bigger whole. One tiny whisper in a much bigger conversation. These are the moments that can demand your attention, urging you to stop what you’re doing, silencing those thoughts running 100 mph in your brain. Often, these moments can catch you unprepared. As much as you want to grab your equipment and set up, adjusting the settings perfectly, sometimes you’re left pulling your phone from your pocket–a seemingly simple tool–hoping to not miss this opportunity.
The following are a few moments I managed to capture last month. All unanticipated and leaving me fumbling to record.
Quail Calls at Nearby Trails
One early weekend morning, I decided to take Vincent Van Dogh for a short walk at a nearby park. In addition to a rec center, skate park, dog park, playgrounds, and fields, the park has some hiking trails. We took it slow. His old age and my aching body limit us right now, but we make daily efforts for fresh air and movement. Walking along the trails and stopping for a poop (him not me), I noticed quail all over the trails, scuttling by as if late to a meeting. They may as well have tiny briefcases. As we turned a corner, walking past an empty baseball field, we saw a rabbit running into some desert bushes and, then, heard quail calls going back and forth. Stopping mid-walk, I knelt down next to Vincent, pulled out my phone, and started recording a short video, hoping to catch the conversation and some more movement.
My impatient pup decided when it was time to go. I still wonder what the quail were talking about. Sunday morning gossip? Reminiscences or regrets of the wild night before?
A Very Vocal Mockingbird
I have a lot of bird activity in my backyard. Everyday, it’s a hubbub of wings flapping, chirping, random yelling (from the birds not me, although sometimes that could help). White-wing doves chasing each other, unwanted romantic attention. Grackles making their disapproval known to all. A rare hummingbird or two passing through. And then there are the mockingbirds. I remember I once heard them going completely nuts, while working in my office, a different sound from what I had heard from them before. I walked outside to find a hawk perched on a branch…and multiple mockingbirds mobbing. This is when they will dive-bomb larger predators to protect their young and territory. I stood there stunned watching them swooping at the hawk. At one point, the hawk noticed me watching from below, and something primal filled my soul. I slowly backed away, like Homer disappearing into those bushes. Not long after, the hawk flew off. The mockingbirds had won. All I could think was “those little badasses….”
On this particular day this month, I took a much-needed break from work, stepped away from the computer screen and went outside into my backyard for some fresh air. Above me, once again, the sound of a mockingbird that had a lot to say. I pulled out my phone and hit record, making sure to capture the little orator on video. Not fluent in bird, I have no idea what it was saying, but I imagine it was very important.
May Rainstorm Teasing
As you can imagine, rain can be scarce in the Chihuahuan Desert. We have our “monsoon seasons,” sure. But the clouds tend to tease in these parts. This past Memorial Day, dark clouds covered the sky. Winds signaled an approaching storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Well, that storm took its time. Off and on throughout the day, I’d wait by the back screen door with my recorder set up, hoping to catch a crack of thunder and some rainfall. The smell of rain was all around but no real downpour just yet. Finally, a late afternoon shower graced us with its presence. In hopes of removing any interruptions, I turned off my AC, and hit record. Sitting on the floor, disheveled, headphones on, I sat and listened for over 15 minutes, with the occasional sounds of a curious pup nearby. A welcome break from the day and a calming track for future listening.
Thrasher Times
This really is a much longer story. A tale that will send you on an emotional rollercoaster. But in the interest of brevity, I’ll keep it short. My backyard is the place for baby birds. These little homies just end up here as they learn to fly, learn to “bird,” if you will. Grumpy little dudes and dudettes, feathers all askew, hungry and wondering why they had to leave the comforts of their nests. I’ve also had more than my share of bird deaths. Anyone who knows me knows that I make every effort to give them proper burials. To an uninformed onlooker, I must look like a serial killer, with all the holes I’ve dug. A Netflix docuseries is forthcoming.
A couple of mornings ago, a fledgling plopped into my yard, shortly after I had watered my plants. I quickly took Vincent inside, so I could assess the situation and keep him from doing any harm. The old man hadn’t even noticed yet. After noticing what appeared to be a parent bird nearby, I did a quick search and realized they were curve-billed thrashers. Using my Merlin app to capture the calls (yes, bird watching does come on strong in your 30s and 40s), I confirmed.
This little baby was active…and grumpy. Let’s call it Forrest Grump. Forrest woke up that morning ready to watch the world burn…and be fed. Two parents were close by at all times, watching. Occasionally, one would swoop down to check on the little one, and, each time, little Forrest would run full force for attention and comfort. I have never seen that much action between a baby bird and its parents. At one point, I, once again, grabbed my phone from my pocket and pressed record, capturing the calls of a needy baby to its protective parents. At one point, the baby, not seeing its mom or pop perched above them, started to run towards me, quickly realizing I was not who it was looking for.
I kept my distance. Since I have a dog and my neighbor doesn’t, I will sometimes position an old plastic adirondack chair against the rockwall, in hopes that the babies can make their way over to a safer setting. When I slowly made my way to do this, making sure I was at a good distance from little Forrest Grump, mom or dad was not happy. With two birds yelling at me, I backed up with my hands in clear view, calmly saying “I’m cool, I’m cool…I promise.” Needless to say, I kept a safe distance the rest of the day.
The following day, Forrest Grump, nor Mama or Papa Grump, was nowhere to be found. I assumed that Little Grump found its way to my neighbor’s yard (“It’s your responsibility now, Norma.”) or had flown off, quickly taking the next step in its little bird life. But, lo and behold, this morning, Forrest Grump had returned. I’m not sure if I’m losing my mind (narrator: she has, in fact, lost her mind), but Baby Grump seemed a little older, a little more mature, a little wiser. Continuing to keep my distance, I was a bit more prepared with my camera and zoom lens. Making sure not to linger too long, I captured a few shots of feeding time. I’ve learned both male and female thrashers will feed the little ones. So it’s anyone’s guess if Mama or Papa Grump took care of breakfast this morning.
An accurate depiction of parenthood.
Wishing you a long life, Forrest Grump.
After watching for a short while, I retreated to my porch, grabbed my camping chair, and sat back. With my earbuds firmly pressed into my ears, I closed my eyes, letting the chorus of Liz Phair’s “Whip-Smart” play as the backdrop for this familial scene.
One of my favorites, Phair sings about her future motherly wisdom, with a catchy melody and bird chirps and frog croaks interspersed throughout. Easily mistaken as real wildlife recordings, these sounds were actually created by Phair’s producer and engineer, Brad Wood, using electronic percussion and synthesizers–a cool example of biomimicry paired with Phair’s unique voice and storytelling.
Everything seems to come back to “the chorus”–the roles we play and the sounds that catch us off-guard. The moments that stop us in our tracks and interrupt our busy and unnatural lives. Sometimes we are able to capture the moments with these human tools we have created, and sometimes we aren’t. Sometimes we create art mimicking what we hear in nature, trying to replicate that which reminds us of our humanness and our place in this earthly chorus. Sometimes it’s just about being there in the moment and remembering that we aren’t always a central part of these conversations. All we can do is quietly listen, tighten our lips, and feel lucky to be invited at all.
To listen to the audio of all of these moments together, visit this album on the Chasing the Desert Chorus SoundCloud.
