When I started birding, my field guides became like old-fashioned Sears Christmas catalogs—personal wish books showing an amazing array of beautiful birds. I longed to see as many species as I could, and when I started paying close attention to the wood warblers, especially the 2-page spread in the Golden Guide showing head shots of just about all of them, I thought I’d never be happy until I’d seen every last one.

I quickly discovered that that was an impossible dream, because at that time in 1975, one of the birds in that array, Bachman’s Warbler, was already extinct. But little by little, bird by bird, I managed to see almost all the others. Not until I was doing some traveling to the tropics did I ever see a Swainson’s or Golden-cheeked Warbler, and I never did see a Colima Warbler, but decades later, the dream of eventually seeing all the still-existing warbler species was still rattling around in my brain.

So naturally, when I started my Conservation Big Year this year, I hoped to see as many warblers as possible. I got wonderful looks, photos, and even sound recordings of a Swainson’s Warbler in southeastern Oklahoma when I was on a field trip during the Red Slough Birding Festival.

In Delaware, I got photos of a couple of Worm-eating Warblers.

During a cold snap in Duluth in late May I saw a Connecticut Warbler at Park Point.

And in early June saw Kirtland’s Warblers in Michigan. Suddenly I realized that I’d already seen every warbler species that nests in the US east of Texas just this year. But I’d still never seen the Colima Warbler (the only regular nesting North American warbler I’d never seen anywhere), which is a fairly common breeder in the Sierra Madre Occidental, a mountain range in western Mexico—it makes it into the United States only in the Chisos Mountains of Big Bend National Park, and there only in stands of oak and pine at certain elevations.

I headed to New Mexico in mid-July in hopes of seeing the Rufous-necked Wood-Rail that had showed up in Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge, and wanted to see as many other southwestern species as I could unearth. After I had great luck with the wood-rail, I took a 4-mile hike on a mountain road in nearby Water Canyon—a wonderful area where I saw Virginia’s, Grace’s, and Red-faced Warblers and a Painted Redstart.

I had such a splendid time that I camped in the Cibola National Forest campground and headed out in the morning on an 8-mile hike, getting twice as far up the mountain and seeing even more beautiful Red-faced Warblers.

You’d think this avian wealth would have been enough to satisfy me, but it merely whetted my drive to get out and find myself a Colima Warbler at long last. So the day after I’d done the long hike in Water Canyon, I headed for Big Bend, taking brief detours at a few interesting spots, such as Smokey Bear Historical Park, where Smokey is buried, and an overlook of the Capitan Valley where Smokey Bear was found as a cub, clinging to a charred tree after being burned in a huge forest fire and rescued by fire fighters.

I ended the day in Carlsbad. I’d gone through the caverns over 30 years ago with Russ and our first baby. It was splendid, but I wasn’t interested in getting into the cave—I merely wanted to stand at the entrance and watch the Cave Swallows.

I spent Sunday morning at the park, first in Rattlesnake Springs, a lovely bit of habitat a few miles away that belongs to the national park, and then at Carlsbad Caverns National Park proper. I picked up several species I’d not seen elsewhere such as Scott’s and Hooded Orioles, finally got nice photos of Black-tailed Gnatcatchers, and got several poor photos of the Cave Swallows. They swooped and darted this way and that, not cooperating in the least with my desire for a perfect photo, but were a new species for my conservation big year list.

At mid-afternoon, I took off for Big Bend. It’s very remote—the nearest city, the tiny town of Marathon, Texas, is 70 miles from park headquarters. I checked into the Chisos Mountains Lodge just before dark, set my alarm for 4 am, and was ready for a nice long hike up the Laguna Meadow Trail to the Colima Trail and down the Boot Canyon and Pinnacle Trails.

It’s expensive to stay in the Chisos Mountains Lodge inside the park, but it’s located right at the trailhead, and so I badly wanted to do the big hike up to the Colima Trail on my one full day in the park. A great many people warned me of the dangers of visiting Big Bend in July, the hottest month of the year, so I’d brought quite a bit of water and a good first aid kit. Most of the people warning me actually seemed more focused on crime than the more realistic dangers of dehydration or heat stroke. Many people seem horrified to learn of a 61-year-old woman traveling, camping, and doing major hikes entirely on her own, but being an introverted bird watcher, being in such an isolated place planning a hike on my own wasn’t the least bit scary.

Birders usually start the Colima Warbler hike well before dawn, when a good flashlight is essential, so the worst of the climbing can be done before the day heats up. But when I got up at 4 am, it was pouring rain. I was too excited to go back to sleep, but I didn’t want to start out in a downpour in total darkness. The lodge restaurant opened right about when it was getting light outside, so I had a good breakfast, but the rain didn’t let up. I figured I might as well muster up the money to stay an extra night so I could do the hike the following day instead. But at 9, I was so stir crazy that I decided to at least scout out the beginning of the trail. I put on my rubber boots, grabbed an umbrella and one water bottle, put a plastic rain cover on my camera, and headed out.

Big Bend is an extraordinarily beautiful national park, but for the first few miles, the pouring rain made it hard to appreciate the scenery. I couldn’t put down my umbrella for a moment, and so on the few occasions when I wanted to take a photo with my 400-mm lens, I had to wedge the umbrella into my shirt and then get my camera’s rain cover properly positioned—it was a tricky balancing act, but there were virtually no birds out to photograph anyway. To take scenery shots, I simply used my iPhone—but even then mainly just photographed puddles along the trail.

But step after step, I kept moving onward and upward. The temperature was below 70 degrees, and so much moisture in the air kept me comfortable so that I still hadn’t opened my water bottle. The park seemed pretty much emptied out. The only people I encountered on the trail were one young couple, soaking wet, who had camped out the night before. All their things were saturated and they were headed to the store near the lodge for some dry shoes and clothes.

I was still feeling rather fresh about four miles into the hike, and suddenly the rain let up, switching from a downpour to a drizzle. I still needed the umbrella, but it was such a lovely and hopeful change that dozens of birds started singing, including one Colima Warbler, on an oak branch not far off. By the time I got the plastic cover off my camera, it had flown the coop, but I was thrilled. I could see a few patches of blue in the sky, so kept hiking, hoping I’d run into another Colima after the rain stopped. I didn’t, but the rain did finally end, suddenly butterflies were everywhere, and I saw quite a few other birds here and there.

I wasn’t paying close attention to the time, but realized it was already after 3 pm when I hit the halfway point. Fortunately, virtually all the remaining miles were downhill. At 5:30, when I was on the Boot Canyon trail, suddenly a golden-brown form raced across the trail less than 20 feet ahead of me. I took it in piece by piece—the enormous cat-like head, the long, lanky body, the long, long tail. I never had it entirely in view—the trail was too narrow to fit it all in as it raced across. By the time my brain had even processed that I’d seen an adult mountain lion, it was gone, leaving me all the thrill and none of the fear.

I did finish up my water bottle and did wish I’d brought two, but the high moisture in the air, constant cloud cover, and the fact that the temperature never rose above 72 made the hike quite comfortable despite wearing rubber boots rather than good hiking shoes. I was tired when I made it back at 7:30 pm, 10 ½ hours after starting out, but had only one blister and wasn’t the least bit sore the next day. The glow from seeing a Colima Warbler and a mountain lion will light up my memory for the rest of my life, even as I’m already hoping to return in the next year or two, in spring, to get a longer look and photos of the Colima Warbler. That’s the most peculiar thing about this Conservation Big Year. The more I see, the more I want to see it all over again.

On July 7, a young birder named Matt Daw was taking video of a Least Bittern in the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico when what to his wondering eyes should appear walking right into his recording but a Rufous-necked Wood-Rail! This bird, found from Mexico to northern South America, is considerably larger than the rails we see in the United States. Until Matt’s bird showed up, it has never been reported on our side of the border before, making it what the American Birding Association calls a Code 5, so birders from throughout the country flocked to the refuge to see it. At least two of the birders the book and movie The Big Year was based on showed up.

I’ve never chased a national rarity like this before, and my focus is on naturally-occurring species, not vagrants, but since I had to get down there anyway for my Conservation Big Year, I figured I might as well time my trip to at least try to see the wood-rail, which would be a lifer. I also thought it would be cool to do one big chase in my lifetime.

The very same wings that carried the bird to Bosque del Apache could pick it up and carry it anywhere else whenever it wanted, so the idea of traveling any distance at all to chase this kind of vagrant seems preposterous. Bosque del Apache includes at its core about 8,000 acres of wetlands, a large haystack within which was just one out-of-place needle, but for reasons of its own, the bird was centering its activities in one small marshy area. It was impossible to see it within the dense cattails, but once or twice most days, it walked into an open area in full view from the boardwalk on the wildlife auto loop. So starting at dawn each day, hopeful birders from all over the country gravitated to the boardwalk to watch for it. Many brought lawn chairs and umbrellas to protect them from the hot sun.

I didn’t have a chance to get away until Friday the 12^th, when the bird had already stuck around for almost a week—an improbably long period. I left home on Friday but took a detour through Madison, Wisconsin, so it took three days to cover the 1700 miles. Whenever I stopped, I checked one of the American Birding Association’s Facebook pages, so I knew people were still seeing the wood-rail. I arrived at the refuge about 6 pm Sunday. The bird had last been seen a few hours before.  Most days it made a final appearance at dusk. I stuck around till after dark, getting lovely views (albeit crappy photos–it was too dark!) of Lesser Nighthawks, which were new for the year, but no Wood-Rail.

I’m sort of shy, but the jolly and expectant atmosphere on the boardwalk made conversation easy and fun. People sat or stood around, patiently waiting for a momentary eruption, reminding me of being at Yellowstone watching for Old Faithful, except the wood-rail’s appearances could not be predicted with any regularity at all, and unlike a geyser, at any moment the rail could pack up and leave, or be eaten by a predator, so there were no guarantees that it would ever appear again.

The next morning, I slept until after 6, exhausted after the grueling drive, and didn’t get to the refuge until after 7:30. The bird had been seen many mornings right at dawn, but not this time. I felt better that I’d at least not missed it, but even though I stayed in the right spot most of the day, hour after hour the rail didn’t show up. Sandy Komito, the birder Owen Wilson’s character in the movie The Big Year was based on, was there all day, too, telling stories and contributing to the festive mood. I waited until after 6 pm, but had to run a couple of errands in Socorro, 22 miles away. Rather than drive all the way back, I returned to my motel, exhausted. Sandy Komito threw in the towel not long after I left.

Before going to sleep I checked Facebook one last time. Right before dusk the bird had come out for a nice long showing, providing great looks for everyone who’d stuck it out on the boardwalk and for those who chanced to arrive just in time. Oh, well. I was having such a good time watching other birds, including new species for my Conservation Big Year list, that it didn’t seem all that critical to me whether I saw the Wood-Rail or not. But a lot of people were rooting me on, and I was starting to get the feeling that I’d be letting them down if I didn’t see it. So Tuesday night I set my alarm for 5 am. I had to load up my car and check out of my motel room in Socorro Wednesday morning, but was on the road before the sun was up.

It had rained the night before, and the rising sun as I drove down the final stretch out of San Antonio produced a beautiful rainbow that filled the sky ahead of me. That felt portentous. I was anxious to get to the refuge boardwalk, but don’t drive anywhere close to the speed limit on that road—there are just too many animals out in early morning. So I moseyed, making it to the boardwalk about 7. Everyone there was looking at the same point in the water, where two stunning Black-necked Stilts seemed to glow in the sun.

But the birders weren’t looking at the stilts—the Rufous-necked Wood-Rail was right next to them, even more stunning than I’d imagined, almost glowing in the sunlight, its reflection in the water lit up as beautifully as it was.

It slowly worked its way to the muddy shore by the cattails, then headed back in the water for a bit longer, and finally skulked into some cattails. It had been out for quite a while before I arrived. Sandy Komito had already seen it and left by the time I arrived, so I didn’t get to see how one of the world’s biggest bird chasers reacts when he sees a new bird, but as a one-time-only chaser, I was sure happy.

We can’t really call the Rufous-necked Wood-Rail a rarity, because it’s fairly common in its normal range.  What brings such an exceptional bird so far away from home? Most vagrants appear during migration season, or following major storm systems. Of course, we don’t know if this bird had been at Bosque for days or weeks before Matt Daw first discovered it—the refuge is one of the most popular in the entire National Wildlife Refuge system, and is incredibly heavily birded during fall, but doesn’t get much attention in summer, so we can’t be certain whether the wood-rail took a wrong turn during migration or left its home range during the breeding season. It’s quite possible that this year’s exceptional drought and hot weather were related, or that habitat destruction sent it packing.

One of the reasons I don’t like chasing vagrants is that the long-term prognosis for so many of them is poor. While I was working at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, a Magnificent Frigatebird turned up in Ithaca, New York, following a major hurricane. That poor out-of-place wanderer was found dead the morning after it first appeared and is now lying in state in the Lab’s specimen collection. I was glad I hadn’t gone to see it—I’d have felt sad whenever I saw that check on my New York state bird list. But major changes in climate and continued habitat destruction are going to force many birds to find new homes or die out, so we can expect more and more out-of-range birds to appear here and there in the coming years, even as more and more species dwindle and disappear.

There’s at least a glimmer of hope that wildlife refuges like Bosque del Apache will provide a safe haven for some of these wanderers, but whether these relatively tiny refuges can sustain viable populations of increasing numbers of desperate species is unlikely. The Bosque del Apache refuge was purchased in the first place with federal Duck Stamp money. I will never be a hunter, but I happily paid for  one-day pass to Bosque and I purchased two Duck Stamps—one to keep, and one to sign. That one will give me free admission to other wildlife refuges for the next year, but I’ll probably pay the day admission to them, too. It takes a bite out of my limited discretionary income, but supporting these jewels of habitat is far more important than most other things I could buy.

I spent the rest of the day on Water Canyon, just 15 miles out of Socorro. That is the farthest east and north where one can see Red-faced Warblers.

My luck held—I photographed one gorgeous male, and then went to the campground to spend the night. We had a brief shower, so my day ended as it began, with a lovely rainbow.