The Lek

I first heard about the mating rituals of the Cock-of-the-Rock in my sophmore year Animal Behavior class. So when the opportunity presented itself to witness the spectacle, I signed on.

We woke at ten of four, dressed in the dark and tiptoed downstairs to meet our guide. Outside the lodge, we walked uietly, savoring the night sounds of frogs and insects, the trail illuminated by our headlamps and a waining moon. When we reached the ridge, we paused for breath, and found ourselves between the big dipper and the southern cross. Below us lay the sleeping towns of Nanegal and Nanegalito.

We left the main trail and descended steeply crossing a small stream and climbing again. I began to wonder how this site had been found. Shortly before six, our guide stopped, fished a pocket knife out of his backpack and began to cut long, broad leaves while we, in whispers, guessed at their purpose.

The path descended more steeply and we shook drops of water from each tree we clung to for support. The trail ended in a bench made of two long poles worked into the hillside. Our guide spread the leaves across the poles forming a dry-ish seat for each of us. "The birds will be here," he informed us indicating a swath of the forest below with his flashlight. "Please don't use your flash if you take pictures and don't shake the trees." Then we sat, still and silent waiting for the show to begin.

The daily ritual is called a lek. Males gather in the same spot day after day to compete for a mate. They strut, squak, show off their brilliant plumage and make themselves appear as fit and worthy of a mate as possible. Usually, it seems, the females choose the fellow at the center of the lek, who, as an alpha male has earned the right to be there and fathers about 90% of the offspring.

As the day lightened and the leaves took on color, a loud sqwak sounded below us. A bizarre foot-high bird in brilliant crimson with black and white wings and a bulbous array of feathers on his crown paused on a branch to preen. It was 6:00 am, right on schedule. Other birds added their voices to the melee and shortly the lek reached a crecendo. Birds flew in and out, flapped their wings, ducked their heads adn called loudly, each seeking to out-compete the others for best in show.

Over the next hour, the volume increased, ebbed, then racheted upwards again. We sat spellbound on our leaves craning our necks to spy ont eh birds through dense foliage. This day, apparently, the performace concluded without the presence of a female - who, according to our guide would have landed on the ground and immediately been surrounded by a hopping squadron of crimson suitors. At ten of seven, the squaking died down, each crecendo a little further from the last and a little less intense. Finally in a prolonged period of silence, we rose to go.

On the walk back I thought of Robert Askins who first introduced me to many of the strange and wonderful habits of birds, and whose teachings ignited in me a lifelong passion for and curiosity about the natural history of my avian fellows.

Santa Lucia

If you go to Ecuador and you don't mind a bit of a hike, go to Santa Lucia.

When we reached the lodge after ascending 2000 feet over a well-maintained 3km trail, Eduardo met us on the porch with glasses of lemonade sweetened with raw sugar from their own plantation. We sat to take off our shoes and sip lemonade while empress brilliants and andean emeralds lapped nectar from the hummingbird feeder. We found that, despite our afternoon arrival, lunch had been kept for us and we sat at the broad-planked table to enjoy a hearty oat and vegetable soup, rice, beans and lettuce from the organic garden.

Santa Lucia began as a farming cooperative. As the enterprise grew, members began to seek out viable alternatives to clearing the land and farming with pesticides. Construction on the lodge began in the mid 90s, and today, the cooperative offers simple and sustainable accomodations perched on a ridge surrounded by primary and regenerating forest.

In our three days there we slowed to the pace that living with minimal electricity allows. In the morning dailyight and birdsong woke us, and after a delicious breakfast of bread, blackberry jelly, and scrambled eggs, we headed out along the main trail following the ridge. We stopped to watch a masked trogon and later a golden-headed quetzal. Wrens sang in the undergrowth, and mixed flocks of tanagers drew our eyes to the canopy.

While our bird list grew, our minds and hearts settled. A place in which everything - food (outside of that grown in the garden), supplies, building materials, and in many cases one's luggage - arrives by mule, teaches gratitude. From eggs in the morning to papaya cake after dinner, each offering was a treasure. Hot showers were made possible by propane tanks carried up the mountain by mule. The bare bulbs that lit our after dinner bananagrams games came from solar pannels. In light of their sources, we found these accomodations to be the luxuries they are.

Eduardo and the other members of the cooperative live this gratitude as well. Their pride in what they have created is evident, and their joy in living a simple, non-harming life is infectious.

As we walked down hill, scanning the canopy for tucanets and barbets, our talk turned quickly to returning and to all the people we wish we could bring when we do.

Tanagers

As J. and I walked in toward Three Mile River on our first night on the Appilacian Trail almost fifteen years ago, three male scarlet tanagers joined us. They flew low along the trail or in the woods on either side of us. The birds, startlingly red with black wings and tails stayed with us for nearly a mile, and from them I took my trail name: Tanager.

The Birds of Ecuador has seven plates of tanagers illustrating almost 140 species, two of which return to the northeastern US each spring. As we left Otavalo and began working our way through the Intag and Guayllabamba vallies, tanagers again graced my trail. Around Apuela the Lemon-rumped Tanager, a glossy black bird with a lemon-yellow patch on its lower back was common along the roadsides and field edges.

When we paused at the Rio Guyabamba Yellow-tufted Dachnises and White-shouldered Tanagers gleaned for fruits on the river side trees. But it was on the road to Santa Lucia that tanagers became our daily companions. The brightly colored birds called from the tree tops and roadside shrubs hopping and flitting in search of fruits and insects. We saw the red, yellow and turquise Bay-headed Tanager, the striking Golden Tanager, and the common Blue-winged Mountain Tanager.

With colors equalling the brilliance of tropical fish, Orange-billed Euphonias and Flame-faced Tanagers moved through the canopy in mixed flocks with Beryl-spangled Tanagers and Metalic-green Tanagers. We delighted in watching them, though each encounter sent us scrambling for the bird book. What a warm welcome they offered, these creatures. A sweet glimpse of the familiar in the foreign.

Long Shortcut

All the advice we received told us to take the bus south to Quito and then another back north to Nanegal. But our maps showed a more direct route from Otavalo, so at 8:30, we boarded the bus for Apuela.

The small village hugs the mountain side above the Intag river and serves as the headquarters for DECOIN the environmental organization that is working to encourage sustainable opportunities to keep copper mining out of the valley. We wandered through the market and watched part of an Ecuavolley game while drafting our plan to begin our 40 mile journey. Around us pickup trucks and camionetas filled with people and goods and headed off toward the surrounding valleys. A police officer in a pick up, already loaded with a father and son, offered us a ride and we hopped in the back.

Knowing people would think we were nuts if we gave our full plan, we offered only the next village as our destination. The cop dropped us off at the intersection of the road that would carry us up to Silva Alegre and he headed on to Garcia Moreno. The day was warm and dry, and as we headed up the road lemon-rumped tanagers flitted into the undergrowth. When the road began to climb more steeply we paused to eat bread and a papaya we had brought from Otavalo while white-collared swifts soared and dove for insects.

We got a lift the last three miles uphill in a camoneta carrying sacks of woodchips. Selva Alegre sits perched on a ridge above the Intag and Tonglo valleys. The hard scrabble town was fully enveloped in the clouds. The Sunday volleyball game was in full swing, and most of the town had turned out to watch it, and then us, as we emerged from the pickup. We sat for a moment in the plaza to rest, but finding the village's eyes on us uncomfortable, we headed on in search of a campsite.

We found it as dusk was gathering, and pitched our tent at the base of a slope above the Rio Meridiano. Though the crops were poorly tended, we placed our tent mindful of the corn and bean plants, and spent an uneventful night amidst the voices of the cloud forest.

In the mornning the sleepy road carried us to Naranjal, an area that in New England, might qualify as "thickly settled". We donned our rubber boots to ford a stream and followed the road through town. Past the school, slopes on both sides of the road held banana and sugar cane plantations broken by brief tangles of native vegetation. We got a ride down to Playa Rica and stopped in at the tienda for off brand lemon and orange sodas. To our left the Rio Guyabamba rushed toward the ocean.

The bridge at an elevation of about 900m marked the lowest part of our journey. The concrete abutments offered a resting place, and we ate our snack while the waters from Quito and Otavalo rushed beneath us. On the slopes above we encountered the village of Cacapara where a mother and daughter spread corn kernels to dry in the sun, and the rythmic cycling of an engine pumped out from the sugar mill. We left the paved road at the town limit and switched backed up the hill passing wooden shacks with corrugated metal roofs. Chickens and dogs picked through the dirt and commented on our arrival. Several kilometers above the town a red chevy double cab stopped and the driver offered us a ride to Nanegal, our destination.

As we walked, M. had told me about an assignment he´d been given in college; on three subsequent days, students were to walk, bike and drive to class, noting, each time, their observations of the world around them. In general, people thought we were nuts walking the forty miles from Apuela to Nanegal. And it was hard to explain in our broken spanish why we so enjoyed it. How could I explain to someone who grew up in Naranjal or Selva Alegre how lush I found the life around them, the diversity of birds, plants, even insects that they had known from birth. In walking, we felt rich, and in taking rides (for which we were grateful when they came)our senses were, somehow, deprived.

El Marcado de Animales

Yesterday we followed hoofprints in the mud across the bridge that lies behind our hostal, across the Panamerican Highway to the animal market. We entered by the small animal section where chicken wire circles and bamboo crates held chickens, ducks and guinea pigs for sale. Where purchases had been made, chickens (2 for $7) hung by their feet, or grain sacks, bulging with their cargo wiggled momentaily before settling. The smell of ammonia and chicken feathers laced the air

Further in, pigs wallowed in the mud or nosed for corn their owners tossed to keep them quiet. Two women negotiated over three piglets held with rope harnesses. Thirty-two for this one, or fifty-six for the pair. As I watched, the bristled ear of a sow brushed my fingers. Five llamitas drew us further in, at $75 each, they were almost tempting. Cheaper than a new lawnmower, but the airlines, I think, would be a little less open to a baby llama than they would a puppy. A gentleman walked by with one of those tucked into his coat, a finger absently stroking the soft fur. He smiled when he saw me watching.

Cows and calves stood hobbled, most stood easy, chewing their cud, though one aimed a switf kick at a passing man. Others added their contributions to the mire. Two men began negotiations over a cow, the buyer opening the cow´s lips to check her teeth and running his hands over her flanks. A too-large calf sucked at his mother's udders despite her side-stepping protest. Two burros and three horses stood at the edge of the cow market.

At the farthest edge of the market stalls offered food, benches and tarp roofs against the morning´s persistant drizzle. Simmering pots held cow innards, lungs and testicles. The smoke from grilling meats drifted over me as I ducked an umbrella seller. Below a loud speaker extolled the virtues of a colon cleanse and proclaimed the latest treatements for prostate health.

We followed the crowds back to the center of town and the burgeoning Saturday market.

Sunglasses and a raincoat

Fernando laughed when we asked if there were a good website for weather. "What do you need that for? The climate is always the same here. You bring a raincoat and when it starts raining you take it out and put it on, when it stops, you put it away."

Later as we headed out on an excursion in his car when he needed heat. "En la mañana, y en la noche." But of course. So we leave the house prepared to weave through the seasons in a day. In the morning I emerge from the shower shivering and pull on almost all the clothes I´ve brought: a long sleeve shirt, wool sweater, down vest and winter hat. By mid day I´ve shed my outer layers, pulled up my sleeves and put on my sunglasses.

Leaving school, I wait out the first raindrops and glance up to Cotacachi to see what is in store for us. Torrential rains are not uncommon in the afternoon, but neither are lingering showers that share the sky with sun. By late afternoon I slid back into first sweater then vest. Getting ready for bed, I regularly find my sunglasses still perched on my head riddled with raindrops. And each evening we retreat under the three blankets on our bed and sleep out the winter of night.

And so we`ve learned. We`ve discovered that morning sun (or clouds, or rain) is no indication of the day`s weather. We`ve learned to put on sunscreen when we get up and to pack our raincoat. We`ve learned to duck under an overhanging roof when the sky opens. And we`ve learned to fill our eyes with the mountains when they emerge.

Afternoon Excursions

It began with a scrabble game and a trip to the heladeria (ice-cream store, and from there, our afternoon grammar lessons disolved completely into excursions. The brilliant part about it was, that we were still studying - every where we went we spoke and listened, teased out meanings and relayed stories.

In Peguche, we descended a few steps to the weaving room of El Gran Condor where an Otavaleña demonstrated carding and spinning wool and showed us the natural plant (and insect) dyes used to color the wool. Several blocks away, we tucked into a back patio where a man showed us how to craft traditional pipes and flutes from bamboo.

In San Rafael, upslope from Laguna San Pablo, the abundant reeds that line the lakeshore provide the materials. The reeds are woven into everything from fans to mats, figurines to furniture. A grandmother sat on her mat, weaving it to the specified length using hand tools. Around her the tools and materials of her trade: reeds bundled and stacked to dry, forms for baskets, containers of dye. I took her picture at the urging of my professor, though I shouldn´t have; she turned her back on me as soon as she saw my camera.

After touring the workshop, we visited a local shaman who showed us through her garden. Walled by the ruins of an abandoned monastary, the garden was a tumble of herbs, vines and shrubs. Miniature hammocks cradled orchids that she was trying to coax into flower. As we would through the rooms of the convent, her fingers trailed over the leaves, alighting long enough to offer a name, or to pinch off a sprig and offer it to us to smell. This one is good for the heart. This for the digestion - cleans you right out. At 76 she was light footed and energetic, only her lined face revealed her age. Her energy she atributed to her vegetarian diet and daily exercise. As she explained, she hinged back onto her back, her legs tucked underneath her. And loose clothing, she added lifting her skirt to reveal a bare thigh - nothing underneath so my skin and spirit can breathe. Crazy, some might say, but her eyes shone clear and deep and her garden was a wonder.

The following afternoon found us paying homage to another divine spirit - the Cascada de Peguche whose rushing waters tumble down rocks and fill a sacred pool where locals bathe at midnight on the shortest night of the year. The trails leading to and from the waterfall were a labratory of new vocabulary: that afternoon root, moss, trunk, leaf, berry trumped infinitivo, gerundio and pronombre.

On our last afternoon, we announced that we had not yet made the acquaintance of El Lechero, an ancient and solitary tree rooted on a hilltop overlooking Otavalo and Lago San Pablo. The species name comes from the milky sap that runs in the tree´s leaves. The tree is revered for its healing powers and the tree's trunk and lower branches have been worn smooth by generations of hands. I ran my palm over the lowest branch wishing for a safe journey ahead.