Watching Condors in the Paramo

I instantly knew what it was.

Some of the guys on the team were up on a vantage point, helping us to navigate the easiest path around the mountain. One of the team members was struggling a bit, and some of us were holding back to give him a hand. Suddenly, the gesturing changed. Rather than a relaxed attempt – gesturing up, down, or level, they were pointing to something behind them. And they were excited.

We were up in the paramo, a high, sort of alpine ecosystem that hovers, more or less, above the tree line but below the snow line. Because it is in the tropics, it has some unique characteristics. For example, a few trees do manage to hang on to places where the sun keeps it warm enough. Unlike the alpine areas of Montana, which I am used to, the paramo doesn’t freeze. While there is a dry and wet season, there is never a part of the year when it is covered in snow. As a result there are plenty of boggy spots. In some places it felt more like I was back hiking in the moors of Scotland.

It is a spectacular wilderness – filled with tracks of deer, Andean foxes, and other animals that I didn’t recognize. The birding is also fantastic. To be honest, I didn’t recognize most of the birds. There were two avid birders on the trip, but I have to admit that I forgot the names of most of the birds that we saw.

But there was one bird that was obvious.

As they were gesturing towards something behind, it suddenly appeared, thrusting up into the sky behind them. It was immediately obvious that the wingspan was longer than these guys were tall. And they weren’t short guys.

Condors are one of those things you never expect to get to see. They are on the list of well known animals that few people ever get to see – kind of like jaguars, wolves, and polar bears. They aren’t unicorns or dragons, but they are close to it.

Yet, there it was, hovering above us, checking us out. Then it moved down – circling below, looking for food sources that are increasingly rare due to poaching and other human interventions.
There were three in all – two matures and an immature. It is the immature that was the miracle. Condors are rare. They are huge, majestic, beautiful – and will probably disappear within my lifetime. Scientists estimate that 20,000 – 30,000 species become extinct per year. That number might rise to 200,000 – 300,000 per year. Most of them are undocumented – some fungus that grows in a minor basin in Australia or a grass found by one pond in the Russian steppe. Each one is a loss. In pragmatic terms, we don’t know which of these species has the cure for cancer, or might produce oil that can produce cleaner energy, or even possible food sources for our growing population.

However, aside from economic and pragmatic values, there is just something spectacular about seeing a condor. We would never allow the Taj Mahal or the Mona Lisa be destroyed needlessly. Nor should we.

I wasn’t thinking of biodiversity or cures for cancer. I had even stopped thinking about getting to our campsite. I simply watched the condors. It was one of the most majestic and beautiful experiences that life has ever offered me. To say more would be like trying to describe the color red or the smell after rain. Some things just have to be experienced.

I fear it is an experience that will be offered to fewer and fewer people.

Swimming with Dolphins

This past weekend, I went swimming with dolphins. That might be an exaggeration. I suppose that I should say that I went swimming near dolphins-only about 20 – 30 feet. They did stick around us, so I am going to assume that they weren’t too bothered by a bunch of gringos attempting to achieve transcendental harmony on their fishing time.

I don’t know the recommended distance to keep from a dolphin. Indeed, I could almost hear my own voice, exasperated: “Excuse me, sir, you need to say 25 yards away from those dolphins.” Granted, I was usually pestering people about bison, not dolphins – but you get the point.

This weekend was probably the first time in my life that I ever spent a few days bumming around at the beach. Mompiche, a sleeply little town on the Ecuadorian coast, was a wonderful place to start. It was great – Bob Marley, sand in the shoes, the smell of rum and coconuts. Granted, it wasn’t five star – but somehow the fact that there were five of us crammed into a little, stinky room added to the charm.

This is not a bad way to live. Despite drinking a bit more than was appropriate, I am probably healthier for the trip. The entire time I ate nothing but fruits and seafood (baring one freakishly good pizza) – almost all of which was fresh.

I’m thankful for all of it, it was a good time – with new friends, new places and new adventures. A bit more drama, and it could have been a lifetime move.

But when the trip comes into focus, it isn’t about Ron (it turned out that his real name was something like Inito), bartender extraordinaire. Although the “Coco Ron” was excellent.

Instead, the focus is hundreds of little red crabs scattering on the beach, blue footed boobies launching from seaside cliffs, or simply falling asleep to the sound of roaring waves. I believe that affinity for natureis innate in all of us. We need to see crabs on beaches and bison, listen to waves and birds – and sometimes we need to be close to them. Sometimes 25 yards is too much - too far.

In the sea, salt and waves – I was never under any illusions about the dolphins. I assume that they were feeding – but maybe they were resting or just being social. I doubt they paid me much attention. Whatever it was those – meeting nature on its own terms, in its own element, is always a transformative moment. It is in those moments that we get to be just that little bit more human.