Monday, June 23, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.
Actually, come to think of it, Rita Schlageter might be perfectly happy if the bird of paradise flew up her nose -- particularly if that species had never been spotted in or around any other nose in Southern Nevada. She could check it off on her list!
She is one of the growing number of those for whom "bird" is as much a verb as a noun, as in "to bird," as in "to go to the middle of nowhere on a sodden Saturday morning to tramp around in hopes of seeing a ladderback woodpecker."
"This is a very special group." Schlageter is addressing the 11 people semicircled before her in the dirt parking lot of Oliver Ranch, a Bureau of Land Management property between Bonnie Springs and Blue Diamond. "We're the first group to go through here. This area has never been birded. You're trailblazers!"
No one expects this trip to be a real wingding. The spring migration ended a month ago; back then, well, this would have been a veritable smorgasbird of visiting species. But Oliver Ranch wasn't open to the public then; it isn't this day either, but Schlageter, a member of the Red Rock Audubon Society, finally wangled an invitation. Today's birds are likely to be common, fly-of-the-mill residents, but hey, it's a historic occasion.
So off they march, the Birdy Dozen. They trailblaze through the grove of tall trees sheltering the ranch site and BLM station and out into the crumpled, wash-cut desert. Although it's June, most are wearing jackets. The area has been freshly drizzled and the sky is low and gray. Binoculars hang from almost every neck and, because it's to be a three-hour tour, most birders have bottles of water -- avian water? -- strapped somewhere to their bodies.
Schlageter leads the hike, for she is a true bird brain. "I'm amazed at the depth of my mother's knowledge," says her son Martin, who's along for the walk. Schlageter guesses she's led at least 20 birding treks in the last three years. She has been known, during birding contests (teams compete to spot the most species in a given time period), to venture into the raw desert at night to play a tape of owl calls in hopes of bringing one to within checklist range. "They all put me off as slightly nuts about birding," she has said, smiling.
The composition of the group reflects the local Audubon chapter. They are middle-agers and action seniors looking to fill their post-child-rearing years with not-very-strenuous, nature-oriented fun. They are uniformly cheerful and energetic. They can say "riparian area" with deceptive ease. Many of the nation's estimated 63 million bird enthusiasts are younger, Schlageter says, but in Las Vegas -- owing perhaps to the city's popularity among retirees -- the demographics skew a bit older.
"When I realized I was getting old," says Elaine Steele during a break in the hike, "I said, 'Who are the best, brightest old people around?' The answer was bridge players and birders. So I do both!"
Red Rock Audubon has just over 1,100 newsletter-receiving members, although not all are hardcore birders. Some are conservationists, others are members simply because they think it's a good cause. As the city's population grows, so does membership.
Hey, look! That flash of reddish-orange in that cottonwood -- it's a male summer tanager! Excitement grips the group. "It's not really common to our area," Schlageter explains later. This is the northern edge of tanager territory, so it wasn't a guaranteed sight.
That shiver of discovery is part of why they're here at a time when more sensible humans and birds are still warm and sleepy. It's the thrill of the hunt without the kill of the hunt. For some it's relaxing; others say they simply love nature.
"I love nature," chirps Jan Gunlock, bringing up the rear as the group ambles down a rutted trail. The ancient hulk of an abandoned car rusts in the background. "I'm a nature artist, and I want to focus on drawing more birds." Birding, she says, "is an uplift."
"It's kind of addicting after a while," says Jim Shammot, a former president of Red Rock Audubon, crossing a trickle of water in a stream bed.
"They say if you get hooked, there's no cure," Schlageter chimes in.
Despite the rain-softened dirt and rocky terrain, the hike isn't difficult. Steele is using a cane -- she broke her ankle not too long ago -- and she's not having many problems. Well, nothing a few days of uncomfortable recuperation won't take care of.
"I'll be sitting around for two days because of this," she says. "I'll practically be in a wheelchair. But it'll be worth it just for a few hours to be out here. Just listen to that quiet!"
Yeah, just listen: It's a deep, resonant quiet, embroidered around the edges with plentiful bird calls. "It's amazing, really, the variety of birds in the desert," Shammot says. Aside from the summer tanager, the birders will eventually spot an oriole, flycatchers, hummingbirds, phoebes, cowbirds, finches, sparrows and more (plus a yellow-bellied wordpecker, if you count the reporter accompanying the group). The Audubon checklist for Nevada numbers 400-plus birds, many of them regularly occurring, others that have only been seen a few times, or perhaps just once.
"It's not like there's one kind of hummingbird," Gunlock says. "There are eight kinds! There's not one kind of flycatcher, there are a dozen."
Despite its combination of barren desert and urban sprawl, Southern Nevada has more birding potential than you think. Floyd Lamb State Park is a good place, as is the Desert National Game Range (just past mile marker 101 on U.S. 95). Just a quarter-mile east of Oliver Ranch is a 15-acre bird preserve set aside by BLM and maintained by the Audubons (public is welcome, just shut the gate when you leave).
Even the humble suburban back yard has potential -- Schlageter's home near Rancho and Charleston is renowned among her birdy cronies as an oasis of feathered curiosities.
Which is not to say growth hasn't taken a toll. "A lot of habitat where we've watched birds is getting destroyed," Schlageter says. Sunset Park is an example. Used to be, you could find, say, a western bluebird there. Once they cleared out the mesquite, though, bye-bye birdie. Las Vegas Wash, too; floods in the mid-'80s damaged bird-friendly habitat. "It can still be pretty good," Shammot sighs, "but nothing like it used to be."
Quiet now; the group is milling in a bushy grove near a tiny stream -- one of those riparian areas they've been talking about. And there, over on that dead branch in the crook of that big tree, is another splotch of reddish-orange: a summer tanager! The same one? A second? Educated speculation ensues; there are likely two birds, everyone decides. "The tanager is our star of the day," Gunlock says.
A 90-degree turn away, someone says, is a yellow oriole hopping around a thick bush. Twelve people stand still as 24 binocular-aided eyes strain across the acreage, trying to divine a flicker of yellow movement in all that shadowed greenery. And even if you're not into it, you stare intently, partly because you've never seen a yellow oriole before and may never again, and partly because it's just a damn good-looking bird. Which, they'll tell you, is the whole thing right there.
Toward the end of the walk, a jet rumbles overhead. A woman with the perfectly appropriate name, Phoebe Fowler, swivels her binoculars upward. "I'll watch anything that flies," she says, and does.
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