Our drive west along MX 16 after the breathtaking morning at San Nicolas was none too birdy. We did have a few roadrunners leap out of the tropical deciduous forest onto the road; statistically speaking, one or the other was probably a Lesser Roadrunner, but only when we got down into the low desert did we get identifiable looks at a Geococcyx, and by then, of course, we were back where they could be counted on to be “just” Greater Roadrunners. We knew we were on the way home when we started picking up Crested Caracaras and the most abundant roadside bird became Red-tailed Hawk, one for every two power poles between Hermosillo and Nogales.

On our way south we’d seen great white rafts of birds on Hermosillo’s Abelardo Rodriguez Reservoir, so we stopped to look on our way north. It’s a difficult place to bird, far from the highway and not obviously accessible otherwise; there are a few roads that seem to snake out across the pastures to points somewhat closer, but the highway, despite its distance from the water, has the advantage of height. So we stopped on the roadside (a favored spot, it seems, for the dumpers of animal carcasses) and scanned, giving up as too far the smaller birds, but enjoying–and being surprised by–the larger ones.

I’d thought at first that the flock of white creatures would be just American White Pelicans; there were a few of those, too, but we were delighted to find that the flock was for the most part a couple of hundred Snow Geese, among them at least two Blue Geese and, inevitably, at least two snub-nosed Ross’s Geese, identifiable if not entirely enjoyable through the scope. But the big surprise, and a wonderful one, was a gang of nine Greater White-fronted Geese lazing on the mudflats, the first of that species I’d seen in Sonora (and never that common here in southeast Arizona, either, for that matter).

They’re out there, trust me. And to their south was a flock of 250 American Avocets, with scattered fews of Black-necked Stilt, Long-billed Dowticher, and Greater Yellowlegs; the smaller waders, nearly all of which–statistically–were likely Least Sandpipers, were simply too distant to fuss with in the afternoon heat haze.

The geese were the highlight, of course, but we padded our trip list nicely with a good variety of ducks, too, mostly Green-winged Teal (a thousand or more), but the other common dabblers were well represented, and I’m sure that more time and better access would have produced more surprises. I’ve never spent much time here in the past, largely because the timing from Tucson is so awkward: Hermosillo is way too far to go just for some ducks, and because it’s exactly halfway to other, more exotic Sonoran destinations, we’re always anxiously aware of being “on the way” to someplace better. But our experience this time is such that I’ll block time for at least a quick scan on future visits.

What a day: White-striped Woodcreeper and Tufted Flycatcher in the morning, Ross’s Goose and American Wigeon in the afternoon! And a wonderful dinner at El Charro on our evening return to Tucson.

Appropriately named for the jolly patron of the juvenile, Puente San Nicolas came bearing gifts on the cool, bright morning Mary, Tim, and I spent there last week.  It was obvious as soon as we got out of the car that the tangled banks of this lovely river would be our Christmas in November: we were greeted by a pair of Green Kingfishers, and Lincoln’s Sparrows and Green-tailed Towhees, skulky as they normally are, were visible half a dozen at a time, their sheer abundance forcing some of them out into the open.

The emblematic moment of our experience came when Tim had caught a glimpse of something bright in the foliage. It took me a while, but I got on it, too, and just as I shouted Black-vented Oriole, Tim called out Thick-billed Kingbird, and Mary hisspered Rose-throated Becard. It was like that all morning: so many birds that time and again we found ourselves looking each at something else, and usually all three of us on something the others wanted to see as well! It was a riot, of color and diversity and fun, rivaling any day I’d ever spent in Sonora. And we had only an hour and a half to spend, alas.

In that 90 minutes we found close to 60 species, from Golden Eagle to Rufous-capped Warbler. The latter species was represented by a pair–I think all but one of the rufous-caps we saw this trip were in pairs–in an undistinguished small tree that they shared with the Black-vented, a Streak-backed, and a dozen Orchard/Hooded Orioles, plus innumerable Black-headed Grosbeaks, a few Blue Grosbeaks, and a male Lazuli Bunting, while a noisy White-striped Woodcreeper played an earnest sort of tag with Gila and Acorn Woodpeckers on the other side of the trail. We did hear a couple of Sinaloa Wrens, but never succeeded in getting a look at that often tantalizing species.

It was breathtaking and wonderful in there, simply put. But the very best was the flycatcher list. I think I’ve had bigger tyrannid tallies, but none to match this one for the excitement of wonderful views of uncommon birds. The Cassin’s Kingbirds we’d watched mass the evening before were coming off the roost in twos and threes when we arrived at sunrise, and we nearly ignored the Greater Pewees we’d found so exciting on our first visit. Pacific-slope, Gray, and Dusky Flycatchers were joined by a single individual of that most charming of all empids, Buff-breasted Flycatcher. And the treetops nearly crawled with the unbearably cute morning-orange of Tufted Flycatchers, giving buzzy little grating calls as they flycaught from the twigs. Strangely, we found only one Northern Beardless-Tyrannulet, a species I hadn’t even thought of “targeting” for this trip: they’re usually just kind of there.

The best bird of our trip was one of Saint Nick’s flycatchers. Black Phoebes were, of course, everywhere along the watercourse, and there were a couple of Say’s Phoebes and goodly numbers of Vermilion Flycatchers where the banks were more open. We were standing listening to another invisible Sinaloa Wren (and sending not entirely charitable thoughts its way) when a medium-sized bird flew in and pumped its tail: Eastern Phoebe! My first in Mexico, and one of surprisingly few ever recorded in Sonora; they’re certainly more common than the published record would indicate, but this sweet creature was the cap to a wonderful morning on a tropical river.

With all that and more going on, I can be forgiven having forgot to take pictures. Just too much to look at! I did snap the late-morning landscape shot at the top of this page, and I couldn’t resist the pair of Green Kingfishers that kept us company as we marveled at their domain.

Dawn in Yecora November 10 was cold and gray, with only the bright spirits of a clothesline to lighten the scene. The weather continued dank and dark all morning, even with a spit of rain or two, and the dull light made photography difficult (my excuse, at least). But not even the skies could dim the abundant Eastern Bluebirds, gathered in large flocks wherever there were open stands of oak on the edges of town.

We decided to spend the day visiting as many sites along MX 16 as possible, including checking some out that we’d noticed but not investigated the day before. We started just below Yecora, where the river is lined with a series of small ponds. Great Blue Herons and Great Egrets fed along the edges, and the only Belted Kingfisher of our trip was hunting one of the more open ponds. The largest tank was fenced, but we had a good view of the American Coots and a pair of Pied-billed Grebes on the surface; we were expecting ducks and cattail lurkers, but the margins of these ponds seem to have been recently cleared, making the Killdeer and Black Phoebes happy enough.

Thence out past the Yecora cemetery on the road that we thought led to Mesa Grande. We quickly gained elevation to find ourselves in a dry oak woodland, but no mesas in sight, so we contented ourselves with a few Scott’s Orioles, untold zillions of Eastern Bluebirds, and a fine flock of 40 Pine Siskins buzzing the tops of the trees.

We’d made careful note the day before of spots along MX 16 that looked like they might provide access to interesting habitat, and with bird activity fairly low along the road, we took some time to check several of these more carefully.

This beautiful trail at KM275, a scant three miles down from Yecora, led gently uphill through oaks, and would no doubt reward a full day’s hike sometime, as it seemed to lead all the way up the mountain. The wind depressed bird activity, and our most interesting find here was the mortal remains of a Wild Turkey, the only even partial individual of the species we saw. The turkey, the scattered Bridled Titmice and Painted Redstarts, the oaks and the trail all reminded me of Arizona’s Huachucas–as did the November silence.

A few more stops along the road looked equally promising but were, for the most part, equally slow for birding. We did pick up our first Rusty Sparrow, a sneaky creature beneath the manzanita at a wide roadcut, and stopped again at The Barranca; the spring and the woods were remarkably still, with nothing but the chippering of White-eared Hummingbirds to break the silence.

Suppose a bird like that is nothing really to complain about!

We decided to push on west to Tepoco, a name I kept confusing with Topeka. We weren’t in Kansas, though, that’s for sure, when the wheep of a Nutting’s Flycatcher drifted down from the trees; we had our best look at that species here, though the largest numbers were in the deciduous edge near the figs at KM 196 and along what we christened “Bluepipe Road,” a well-built dirt track leading up through fields and forest fragments to, what else, a set of microwave towers.

We didn’t walk very far up, but this photo shows the good-looking habitat this road gives access to. By the time we were here, it had cleared off and warmed up, and bird activity remained low; our best species in here were Nutting’s Flycatcher and Black-capped Gnatcatcher, but I’m sure that many of the other common birds of the tropical deciduous forest lurk in the woods.

It was getting late, as it always does when you’re birding, but we had one more spot to check on: the Puente San Nicolas, a high bridge on MX 16 crossing a small river (perhaps the Rio Morro). We’d seen a road and vehicle tracks leading off along the bank, and set off walking down it towards the river, the electric chacks of a Green Kingfisher accompanying us and dozens of Cassin’s Kingbirds staging in the sunset to go to roost.

The river and the surrounding forest were breathtakingly beautiful, immaculate by west Mexican standards and full of birds: nothing especially unusual, though the loud pip-pipping that I foolishly failed to immediately recognize was in fact a bird on our target list, a Greater Pewee hunting from the highest of the dead twigs.

As dark fell, we resolved to come back for dawn. The site reminded me of the Cuchujaqui and the Magdalena wrapped into one, and it would pay off….

Meanwhile, it was back to La Palmita, where we enjoyed our simple dinner and trundled off happily to our very basic but comfortable–and relatively quiet–rooms for the short night.

Yes, we piled a lot of birding into our first full day in Yecora! Our first stop, just a couple of miles east of town, was an unplanned one, a squeal of brakes and a hasty (but skillful) turn off the road when on rolling the windows down we found ourselves surrounded by the tinkling-glass voices of Brown-backed Solitaires. This is an important species in the culture of Mexican birding–Sutton’s First Impressions begins with an unexpected and mystifying encounter with the bird–and to hear that song, like tiny windchimes dragged across a washboard, always quickens the heart and warms the blood and makes you know you’re in Mexico. Mary spotted the first one, perched on a snag down canyon from the road, and we eventually had breathtaking scope views of singing birds at close range, sometimes two or three individuals at a time in a single tree.

That would have been enough to make the day perfect, but we drove a few more miles and began the ascent of the Mesa El Campañero (Russell and Monson call this Mesa El Enmedio). Most microwave tower roads–the salvation of high-elevation birding in west Mexico–are pretty straightforward: you go up, you go down. But this one was complexly branched, and we never did reach the towers. No loss. We ended up, after taking evasive action a couple of times when lumber trucks came down the road at us (on a Sunday morning!), on top of the mesa in a wonderfully cool, bright oak-pine forest, flat as, well, a tabletop, and crisscrossed by wide, well-maintained paths for birders’ feet.

On the way up we stopped a few times for Gray-headed Juncos (and one apparent Gray-headed x Pink-sided introgressant) on the roadside; by the time we were on the mesa proper, all the juncos were Yellow-eyed Juncos, shuffling along in the grass at our feet. We parked our vehicle near an unoccupied summer cabin with a scruffy yard in front of it, nearly bare with just scattered low weeds poking up; it amused us to watch the yellow-eyes, creatures of the shade after all, coming out to feed on the weed seeds by tracking the shadows of tree trunks and fenceposts.

Our short walk turned up one large flock of passerines, White-breasted Nuthatches, Brown Creepers, and Bridled Titmouses at its core; this gang included lots of other migrants and residents, though, among them Townsend’s, Hermit, and Olive Warblers. Hutton’s Vireos and Ruby-crowned Kinglets fussed and fluttered side by side, and an Arizona Woodpecker lurked around the edges. The flock was noisy, but there was no overlooking that silvery whinny: White-striped Woodcreeper! We had great views of one or two of this amazing tropical bird, even seeing the “ski tracks” of the underparts; I’d forgot how vivid the contrast is between the ruddy lower back and tail and the olive-gray of the upper back and neck, but we were reminded forcibly when the bird (or birds) flew from trunk to trunk, flashing red.

Butterflies were good, too, and in between birds we deigned to look at them every once in a while. Chiricahua Whites were especially conspicuous.

It was warm and beautiful on the mesa, and we could easily have spent all day there, but we’d seen the day before what happens when the birds seduce. So back down the mesa and on to the most famous birding locality around Yecora, “The Barranca,” specifically the rocky spring called El Aquejito. The face in the steep cliff makes the place easy to find, as do the loud chatters of the abundant White-eared Hummingbirds.

There is a good pulloff, but like so many good pulloffs in western Mexico, it’s full of the evidence of a certain absence of civic hygiene; the trail to the Aguejito was similarly sullied, alas, but we carefully picked our way up the hill the few yards we could, accompanied all the way by the good-natured churrs and creaky carols of the local Spotted Wrens.

If I had the money and the leisure to be one of those wacky listers, I think a worthy goal would be to see all of the Campylorhynchus wrens; these Spotted Wrens are really beautiful, the photo notwithstanding, much more subtle in voice and in plumage than the Cactus Wrens that sing to me over breakfast here in Tucson.

The spring proper is very dramatic, but we were puzzled to find no way to proceed beyond it; the rock “dam” effectively prevents access to the upper canyon to those of us without powers of levitation.

As we stood and pondered, a flock flew in around us: the usual Bridled Titmouses, House Wrens, Ruby-crowned Kinglets–but joined this time by a real dazzler, a loudly singing and calling Slate-throated Redstart. We saw Painted Redstarts commonly wherever we were in sight of oaks, but this was the only individual of the more tropical species we encountered during the entire trip. I’ve now seen as many Slate-throateds in Sonora as in Arizona!

Just a couple of kilometers down the road (“up” and “down” the road mean just that as MX 16 snakes through the Sierra) was a small restaurant and hotel called La Palmita; it had been recommended to us, so we stopped and made reservations for the next night and wandered around in the open oaks across the road. It was here that we saw the only snake of the trip, a large coachwhippy creature that startled me almost as much as the dozen Montezuma Quail that flushed out of the grass as we were turning back.

Actually we’d been expecting the species, or at least hoping for it, as the habitat was every Montezuma Quail’s dream; but to have them explode out of the grass at close range is always a heart-stopper all the same.

As I go back through my notes, it’s no shock after all that the day was coming to a close, but caught up in mediis rebus we were surprised to see the afternoon advancing, and hastened to take in a final stop or two. We drove the Santa Ana Road from MX 16 into town, admiring the dozens of Cassin’s Kingbirds, with a single, much less expected Western Kingbird, taking their afternoon meals over the farm fields.

Cassin’s Kingbird, the tail fresh.

We had plenty of opportunity to admire Cassin’s Kingbirds from all angles, including this rather impolite one; it’s always instructive to look closely at the patterns of the fresh tails, which combine, in a muted sort of way, the pale tips of Eastern with the pale edges of Western.

A pair of Black-capped Gnatcatchers was buzzing through the trees, and eventually came in to give us nice close looks and a chance to assess their tail structure. A male Varied Bunting was a quick glimpse in town while a kind Santa Anan and his granddaughter helped us regain our bearings. It turned out that we could continue on the road through and past town for another 20 miles or so and regain MX 16, or we could turn around and go out the way we’d come in, in which case we’d find the Santa Rosa Road just a few yards back up the highway. We opted for the latter, and drove out the four or five miles towards San Nicolas and Santa Rosa in the last bright light of afternoon.

The Rio Morro turned out to be a classically beautiful little river running through classically beautiful tropical deciduous forest. We scrambled down the crumbling bank at the bridge, enjoying a bright Violet-crowned Hummingbird on the way, and walked a little ways upstream in the waning sunlight. Birds were few–the usual Black Phoebes, plus a bumper crop of Canyon Wrens and a nice Rock Wren on the riverbed rocks–but this is definitely a place to repay an early summer visit. We saw several nests of Streak-backed Oriole and one of Rose-throated Becard, and I’m sure that an early morning in June would be alive with birds.

As we drove back out after our quick walk, Mary found something huddled low in the roadside vegetation. It took me forever to get a good angle on it, but this is what she’d discovered:

I’d already blahhed on at great length about how we couldn’t really hope to see Rufous-bellied Chachalaca, and here was one perched fifteen feet away from the car at eye level! The bird was remarkably tolerant of its observers, the only sign of nervousness a slow turning on its perch to give us perfect views of every character, from the funny frontal crest and bright orbital ring to the deep red belly and golden tail tips. I’m still amazed!