Gray Beard Sandwich

Wherever water flows, birds follow and where the birds go, the humans follow. In February I arrive at the seventh annual Salton Sea International Bird Festival. The idea of being with an international group of birdwatchers intrigues me. At 5:30am, with a DV camera and Minidisc recorder, I make my way to the chartered bus. I feel as though the power of technology weighs down my arms until I see all the other birders in line for coffee and donuts. Most of the people are in their sixties and they are wearing chest harnesses for their hi-zoom binoculars and carrying tripods for their spotting scopes and cameras. I am undoubtedly the youngest and the most ill equipped birder in line.

On the bus, I sit between an older gentleman with a big gray beard from the Owens River Valley and another man with a big gray beard from British Columbia, Canada. Every once in a while, their bodies animate as they draw their scopes to their eyes to see the long awaited birds. "White-faced ibis to your right!" "Peregrine Falcon one o'clock on the electric pole!" The bus sways as people crowd sides to get a better view. The sun's warm rays turn the violet fields to gold, unmasking the shadowy figures working in the fields. Flocks of birds cover the sky like a scrim refracting the sunlight on their wings. Their cries and songs clash into a cacophany that echoes against the morning dew.

Here we are on a bus, driving through the Imperial Valley at the crack of dawn with our viewing devices, looking at birds with great scrutiny, observing their movements, their physical attributes and their behaviors. Our lenses fragmenting the landscape and duplicating it endlessly in search of the perfect framed image.