42 On the trail of vanishing birds 



watching them with bated breath. I found that I had forgotten 

 how cold I was and my hand was shaking when I started to write 

 in my notebook. 



The campsite we selected was an oak motte affording shelter, 

 of a sort, from the full blast of rampaging north winds and at the 

 same time commanding a good view of the salt flats. Also, as Bud 

 pointed out, there were no "hooty owls" living in it to keep a 

 fellow awake at night, for there are great horned owls living in 

 many of the scattered mottes of the area, and now and then, un- 

 der cover of darkness, one would visit Camp Cowchip. When my 

 wall tent, grub box, and water barrel were in place and the barbed 

 wire stretched, we fixed up a neat fireplace, built a good oak fire, 

 and made coffee. Then, as it was getting late, the boys departed, 

 leaving me with my two companions. These were my thirteen- 

 year-old son, Bobby, already an experienced and inveterate camper, 

 and a light Ford truck of ancient vintage that had been lent to our 

 project temporarily. When supper had been stowed away, we sat 

 close to the open fire for a while, as it was growing quite cold, and 

 then retreated to our sleeping bags feeling that the job was now 

 really under way. For out there in the darkness, not a mile from 

 where we lay, two whooping-crane families were standing in one 

 of the shallow ponds where they spend the night. At dawn we 

 would be hiding in the oak brush watching them. From here on 

 out, barring necessary interruptions, there wouldn't be much these 

 birds did that we wouldn't know about. Or so we planned it. In 

 practice, of course, there were many interruptions and a long list 

 of unexpected problems that had to be tackled as we met them, 

 and overcome if possible. 



When we awoke next morning it was to come smack up against 

 a sample of these unforeseen difficulties. It was raining, a chill, 

 penetrating rain that was giving the grass clumps and oak thickets 

 a thorough dousing, so that we were shivering and soaked to the 

 skin before we had gone a quarter of a mile. Our oilskins had been 

 left at home! We stuck it out, but without very notable results. 

 From the shelter of a thicket that stood at the edge of the open 

 salt flats we could barely see a family group of three whoopers 

 nearly a mile to the southwest. They seemed to be just standing 



