In early June, I attended the annual Colorado Field Ornithologists’ Convention in Steamboat Springs, in northwest Colorado. The CFO has hosted these yearly gatherings since the 1960s, but it was my first. I enjoyed meeting birders from various corners of our state, and joining field trips to a number of counties on three consecutive days, each guided by a different leader with a unique style. I bird on my own most of the time, yet a group provides more eyes, ears, and experience to help me detect and learn about species I am unlikely to spot on my own.
I tagged on a few days at the front and tail ends of the convention to engage in another favorite activity: camping. Before the conference, I stayed at Stagecoach Reservoir State Park, approximately 20 miles south of Steamboat Springs, a destination known to me from a previous journey. One of the “primitive” loops (no water, only pit latrines) offers camp sites for $10 per night. Because I was there during the week, I did not need a reservation, whereas on the weekend, I neither would have found a single unoccupied site, nor would I have wanted one. What would be the point of being in a tent encircled by an RV city?
I love to sleep in a tent. I might have been made to sleep in a tent. I have vivid childhood memories of carrying blankets and towels into the back yard and attaching them to a patio umbrella with clothespins, thereby fashioning my own. It provided a favorite play area where my friends and I were obscured from scrutiny by our parents (not that we needed scrutiny, well- behaved as we were). Occasionally, my dad pitched a genuine tent. Made from heavy canvas, its central portion looked and opened like an umbrella with a very pointed top, and the walls were attached to the roof with a zipper. To me it looked like a Bedouin shelter which facilitated flights of fancy. It doubtlessly served as the model for my improvised umbrella-cum-cover construction. Even though my friends and I overnighted in those tents every once in a while, my family never took actual camping vacations. Fortunately for me, I married a man who introduced me to tent camping during road and backpacking excursions. Now I might be more fond of it than my teacher (he disagrees).
I love being separated from the outside by a mere layer of fabric. If the weather is clement enough to leave off the fly, or to keep the vestibule open, I position my sleeping pad in a way that enables me to follow the trajectory of the moon and the stars. Besides, it allows me to listen to nature’s sounds. The howling of coyotes, no matter how cliché, reassures me that some wilderness remains. Then there is birdsong. My favorite locales teem with feathered creatures that wake me long before sunrise. I delight in setting out with binoculars and camera for a few hours early in the morning, before returning to the campsite to heat water for a cup of tea or coffee on our trusted camp stove. Or, when we travel together, to have my husband surprise me with it!
While it is highly unlikely not to have neighbors at a state park during the summer, I saw no other humans when I camped among the Wild Horses at Sand Wash Basin in Moffat County after the conclusion of the birding conference, which did not conclude my birding. Sand Wash provides a home not only for equines, but also for avians, including some of my favorites. As soon as I turned from the paved highway onto the gravel road, I was greeted by Western Meadowlarks and Northern Mockingbirds, both superlative songsters. I became better acquainted with the varied and cheerful repertoire of Sage Thrashers, and with a new life bird, the Sagebrush Sparrow. In a landscape where the dwellings of prairie dogs are marked by earthen mounds, Burrowing Owls are always a potential presence, and my hope in that regard was not disappointed either.
Far away from human cacophony, the evening and morning chorus of the avifauna was complemented not solely by coyote music, but by the neighing of wild horses. Maybe sleeping in a tent reminds me of my own, wild self.
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