John never did see the McCown's Longspur, but he didn't mind. He was there to experience something far larger, an entire ecosystem that has existed here since the glaciers retreated in the Pleistocene. So it was two very happy people who turned our faces to the small town of Val Marie to spend the night in a former convent, now converted to a small hotel by a couple and their son from Nanaimo, who bought it years ago for $1 because the nuns had given it to the town and the town didn't know what to do with it. The building was falling apart and condemnd to be razed when the couple saw it, fell in love, bought it, and saved it. Now their son is grown and runs it as perhaps the most beautiful hotel we ever stayed in.

That night, John went out for a short walk - short because the mosquitoes here are quite, quite ferocious. He came running back to say he heard strange birds calling in the night. I tried to figure out what they were, and finally decided they must be Eastern Screech-Owls, coming into town to roost for the night. They were calling to each other all around us - maybe five or more altogether. We spent a couple of hours trying to see them but never did. All we heard were their diembodied voices flitting here and there, teasing us while the mosquitoes feasted. it was eery and deeply thrilling.

The next morning we devoted entirely to exploring the West Unit. If you're past the age of long hikes and horseback riding is not in your future, the best way to see the West Unit is to drive the Ecotour Scenic Drive, a paved road that goes through the very center of the unit. About halfway through, the tour brings you to a circle drive on rougher roads, the Back Country Loop. This loop is extremely wild and sparsely traveled. If you take it, be sure to take plenty of water and pay attention to the weather. On some of these roads, the bottom falls out in a heavy rain, and you become mired in mud that seems to go down to the center of the Earth. In ordinary years, rain is not much of an issue in July, but this year, nature had been especially generous in rainfall, and we experienced Thor-sized thunderstorms every afternoon. We both came to love the mountainous cumulus clouds that would begin to gather in the heat of the afternoon, building higher and higher until suddenly pierced by one bolt of lightning, then another. Curtains of rain would begin to fall, sometimes far in the distance, and we would watch the approach of the storm, exulting in the wild winds driven before the squalls.

One such storm found us near a reservoir where local Hutterites were fishing. As the skies darkened, we decided to get off the rim of the reservoir, which was the highest point in this flat land. As we drove away, a Marbled Godwit flew up from the grass and objected to something we were doing, or something nature was doing, or maybe just something. It landed on the gravel rroad in front of us and started pacing back and forth, complaining the whole time. I was reminded of an elderly aunt of mine who used to do the same thing. Finally the bird flew off and we were released.

Back on the Ecotour, we headed for a spot the ranger had assured us was the best place to look for Lark Buntings. I had asked her if the buntings were still in breeding plumage, because in winter they look so much like ordinary sparrows I wasn't sure I'd be able to identify them. Plus, I wanted to see the males in their full splendor. But it was July and the buntings are early migrants, leaving the plains in August. I was afraid we were too late to see them at their best. The ranger had apparently never been asked that question before and did not know. I think for her, Lark Buntings are so common, she doesn't pay attention to details like that. So we set off on our quest not knowing exactly what to even look for: a black bird with stunning white wing bars or a nondescript sparrow-like skulker in the short grass.

I needn't have worried. We drove past one field and saw a Lark Bunting male in full breeding plumage, swinging along a loopy flight path, singing as he went. Back and forth he flew, like a midnight carousel horse going up and down in a big circle, accompanying himself with his song. it was glorious to see his performance. I simply do not know how any female could resist him. Certainly I could not. I was utterly charmed.

Our last bird of the day was equally spectacular. As we drove back to the convent tired but happy, I saw a tall bird on a fencepost and shouted at John to stop. He's used to me doing this and has developed a hair-trigger foot to slam on the brakes. We came to an instant stop and watched an Upland Sandpiper stand on his tiptoes as he called, flew to another post, raised himself on tiptoe, and called some more. It was like watching Jose Carreras sing with the Three Tenors. Carreras was by far the shortest, smallest man of the three. To match Pavarotti's volume and Domingo's power, Carreras would rise up on his toes to belt out his arias. I guess the Upland Sandpiper wanted that extra little oomph for his songs too.

Our last morning in Saskatchewan dawned clear, with blue sky arching over us like the world's most beatiful cathedral. We drove to the border crossing a short distance away, where we got into a small line of trucks waiting for the post to open. As we waited, a Common Nighthawk flew in from some black hole or other, fluttered down to the pavement, and promptly went to sleep. It was the most fitting send-off we could have imagined, a magical way to end a magical adventure.

We came back by train, rocked to sleep on the rails, while the land changed from plains to foothills to mountains and eventually to the gray-toned blue of a Seattle sky. I love my home city, and my favorite place on Earth is here in its center, but a piece of my heart will now always belong to the wide and lonesome songs sung by the short grass prairies of Montana and Saskatchewan.

Here's a list of all the birds we saw - I started counting while still in Seattle, so don't be surprised by Marbled Murrelets!

Canada Goose
Mallard
Gadwall
Green-winged Teal
Blue-winged Teal
American Wigeon
Northern Pintail
Northern Shoveler
Canvasback
Redhead
Lesser Scaup
Bufflehead
Ruddy Duck
Ring-necked Pheasant
Sharp-tailed Grouse
Eared Grebe
Rock Pigeon
Band-tailed Pigeon
Eurasian Collared-Dove
Mourning Dove
Common Nighthawk
Sora
Virginia Rail
American Coot
Black-necked Stilt
American Avocet
Killdeer
Upland Sandpiper
Long-billed Curlew
Marbled Godwit
White-rumped Sandpiper
Wilson's Snipe
Solitary Sandpiper
Willet
Greater Yellowlegs
Lesser Yellowlegs
Wilson's Phalarope
Marbled Murrelet-
Franklin's Gull
Ring-billed Gull
California Gull
Glaucous-winged Gull
Forster's Tern
Caspian Tern
Double-crested Cormorant
American White Pelican
Great Blue Heron
Black-crowned Night-Heron
White-faced Ibis
Turkey Vulture
Bald Eagle
Northern Harrier
Swainson's Hawk
Red-tailed Hawk
Ferruginous Hawk
Golden Eagle
Great Horned Owl
Eastern Screech-Owl
Burrowing Owl
Belted Kingfisher
Northern Flicker
American Kestrel
Prairie Falcon
Western Wood-Pewee
Western Kingbird
Eastern Kingbird
Loggerhead Shrike
Black-billed Magpie
American Crown
Common Raven
Horned Lark
Tree Swallow
Barn Swallow
Northern Rough-winged Swallow
Cliff Swallow
House Wren
Marsh Wren
American Robin
Brown Thrasher
European Starling
Cedar Waxwing
House Sparrow
Sprague's Pipit
American Goldfinch
Chestnut-collared Longspur
McCown's Longspur
Yellow Warbler
Common Yellowthroat
Grasshopper Sparrow
Baird's Sparrow
Clay-colored Sparrow
Lark Sparrow
Vesper Sparrow
Savannah Sparrow
Song Sparrow
Lark Bunting
Western Meadowlark
Bobolink
Red-winged Blackbird
Yellow-headed Blackbird
Brewer's Blackbird
Common Grackle
Brown-headed Cowbird
Bullock's Oriole

- Connie, Seattle

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