Winging it 

A Hungarian teen meets the flockers at Red Rock Lakes

Page 2 of 2

But this time of year, the sandhills have already left the refuge in search of warmer climes, and there's no sign of moose, either. Or swans, for that matter.

That leaves us with a lot of birds that are too far away to identify, even with our binoculars and a guidebook. Still, there's something reassuring about the fact that they're here, again, as generations have been before them, blissfully unaware of the external pressures that dictate our lives these days: the recession, or Facebook, or even—especially, if you're a 17-year-old from Hungary—Victoria's Secret. What they know is that they're where they need to be, that for the moment, this is home.

Jeff Warren, the biologist, shows up shortly after our arrival to help set up his wall tent, which seems to be the size of my bedroom, and which provides numerous laughs since it's just Reka, me and the dog, and just for one night at that. Before leaving, the affable Warren even splits some wood for the stove.

By now the daylight is fading, and soon the full moon is beginning to rise in the east, glowing faintly. In Missoula, when the full moon rises, you feel that you could practically touch it if you just hiked up Mount Sentinel. It's totally different here: The valley is immense, the moon a beacon from a faraway galaxy.

After more than a few failed attempts, Reka and I finally manage to light fires in both the woodstove and the fire pit. We pull on the fleece, gloves, hats and parkas I've brought, and heat up our dinner: pre-packaged Indian food served with rice I've cooked at home and topped with yogurt and homemade peach chutney. Even at home, it would qualify as a decent meal. Here, with the spectacular view of the lake and the valley and the distant mountains, it feels like a feast.

"Fun, right?" I ask Reka. But she's not so easily persuaded

"Yeah," she says, although her tone says, "Not really."

click to enlarge DAVID NOLT

Note to self, I think: Next time you go bird-watching, bring the dog and leave the teenager at home. But then comes the moment she's been waiting for: dessert. As I suspected she would, Reka takes to toasting marshmallows like a champ, and I'm relieved to see a smile light up her face as she assembles and tastes her first s'more. And then her second. And then her third. For the first time since we left home, she really does look like she's having fun.

As predicted, the night is cold. Dutifully, I manage to crawl out of my sleeping bag to feed the stove a few times; overhead, I hear the high-pitched cries of a flock of something. They sound like geese that have inhaled helium, and I'm guessing that they're swans, in which case I could use an old-fashioned term and call them a "wedge" or a "ballet" of swans. (If they were spread out they'd be known as a "lamentation.") But eventually, my need for sleep wins over, and by morning the fire is dead. I'm up before Reka, getting breakfast together when she emerges, groggy and disheveled, from the tent. "It's so cold!" she says, by way of a greeting. Um, hello? Whatever happened to "Good morning?"

I swallow my frustration and offer her some milk and granola, which she consumes without comment. Before we leave the tent, I walk back down to the lake's shore. For whatever reason, the birds suddenly turn up the volume, filling the air with whistles and honks. A low shelf of clouds hangs over the eastern edge of the lake, and the water's surface reflects streaks of red and orange sky. For me, these few minutes are more than enough to justify the trip. Still, I'm worried that it's not dramatic enough to impress Reka. And I really want this place to make an impression on her.

Please God, I find myself thinking, as Reka and I pack up: Please let us see birds this morning that she's never seen in Hungary. Let us see swans with necks so lithe and graceful that they put those long-limbed Victoria's Secret models to shame. Let us see something so magical that it imprints on her soul.

At about 9 a.m., we meet up with Warren at the lower lake. A bearded, blue-eyed nature lover, Warren enjoys watching birds. As a hunter, he also enjoys shooting them. That's what he's been doing since dawn, and he's just pulling in his flat-bottomed boat and his morning take: a widgeon, a gadwall, and a lesser scaup. Though she'll happily eat meat, Reka is appalled at the idea of hunting, and averts her eyes, but Warren says it connects him more deeply to the environment he works to protect. "Plus," he adds, noting that he likes to cook, "I'd rather get my food here than from Safeway." I promise to give him the remainder of my peach chutney, which tastes great with duck. It seems the least I can do, given his efforts on our behalf.

We help push Warren's flat-bottomed boat through the shallow marshes and into the lake, and over the next couple of hours, he rows us around with steady strokes, talking about the 50,000-acre refuge and pointing out the various types of birds we see on the lake: pintails, widgeon, eared grebes and blue-winged teals, gadwalls and buffleheads, and of course, the regal trumpeter swans. It's another nice day, one of the last we'll have this fall: windless, with wisps of clouds slow dancing in the sky.

click to enlarge DAVID NOLT

Warren takes us past the bull rush islands, shows us the muskrat lodges that are mounded there; in May, swans nest on top of the lodges. By September, though, the cygnets have fledged, so at this point the two pairs of trumpeters that we see are on the water.

Once thought to be on the brink of extinction, the trumpeters are considered one of the great conservation success stories, with some 35,000 now in North America. But the swans' comeback has not been without controversy, and even today there are some grumblings about how long it's taken them to recover from a population downturn in and around the refuge in 1992, when a winter feeding program was abruptly discontinued. Warren doesn't share that view: He says it's hard to argue with what is now a steadily increasing population.

In fact, despite global warming and its impact on water levels, the refuge boasts a pretty healthy ecosystem, Warren says. But here's the thing: When you deal with migratory birds, one healthy ecosystem isn't enough. "It makes you think outside your signs," as he puts it. In other words, it's a cooperative effort. Red Rock Lakes refuge may feel remote, but its sustainability is dependent on so many other places, so many other people. It's one more reminder that we're all in this together, Warren says.

Then something catches his eye. "Look!" he exclaims.

Reka, who's been leaning back in the bow, eyes closed, soaking up the sun, sits up as he points out 14 tundra swans flying in formation in front of the Madison range to the east. I recognize their shrill calls as the same ones I heard the night before. Not long after, as we're heading toward shore, we see four great blue herons strutting on one of the islands. I've always loved the way herons unfold to take flight, and my heart quickens as their wings pound the still air, and they circle and lift off.

By spring, the trumpeter swans will have survived another frigid and snowy winter, thanks to the thermal waters in and around Yellowstone. But many of the other birds will have been on an epic journey: first south, perhaps to California or Mexico, Louisiana or Texas, then north as far as the Arctic Circle, before coming back to Montana. Who can say what they will encounter on their way, or remember of their flights when they land?

What I know is this: by the time you read this, Reka, too, will have completed an epic journey, returning to Budapest with a new perspective, a mastery of English, and a lot of lasting memories. What will they be? I have no idea. Sometimes the mind of a teenager is as mysterious and incomprehensible to me as that of a bird. But I hope that, wherever she lands, those herons and trumpeters and whistling swans continue to call to Reka, reminding her of life's infinite connections and boundless possibilities, unfolding like her dreams.

click to enlarge MAP BY JOE WESTON
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