188 On the trail of vanishing birds 



just before dawn. With hot coffee we then began another uncer- 

 tain day. Some charcoal burners that came along now advised us 

 that a large flock of flamencos was feeding near Cayo Norte, less 

 than two hours "over that way." We got aboard the boat and 

 started off, not at all sure if Julio knew where Cayo Norte was or 

 not. But he found it, after ambling up several blind alleys, and 

 soon we saw a long line of red against the opposite shore. Julio 

 was so pleased he was nearly in tears. I don't believe he had hon- 

 estly expected to find any flamingos at all, but here they were! 

 I could see that they were not a nesting group but merely a feed- 

 ing flock, and the first job was to get a rough count. By stopping 

 the boat alongside the mangroves at one end of Cayo Norte, we were 

 as near as we could get to them without having them fly. I asked 

 Arturo how many flamingos there were in the flock. He was quite ex- 

 cited and said at once, "Oh, there mus' be thousands!" Julio was un- 

 willing to guess, but the usually reticent Rafael also thought there 

 must be thousands. They were scattered in a long line that made 

 an approximate count relatively easy. I counted down the line with 

 my binoculars, twice, and finally hit on a total that seemed rea- 

 sonably accurate: 610. Large, brilliantly colored birds often ap- 

 pear more numerous than they are actually. However, my com- 

 panions regarded me doubtfully, suspecting, perhaps, that I 

 couldn't count very well. 



After meeting a group of fishermen, from whom we bought a 

 fine mess of freshly caught shrimp, besides getting fresh direc- 

 tions, we wended our way back into the main channel of Rio 

 Jacaro again and at length, about 1:30 P.M., discovered ourselves 

 at the mouth of Gutta Nueces. We were back on the track once 

 more! One of the shrimpers had told us that it was too dry to ex- 

 pect our birds to be nesting in the Salinas now (it was early 

 March), but that a good rain and high water in the main river 

 would make conditions right. Near the head of the creek we left 

 our launch and paddled up a narrow, ditchlike stream to the very 

 rim of the big Nuecas Salina. Julio reiterated his claim that this 

 was the place where he had seen old nest mounds. It was a broad 

 V-shaped salt flat, now dry and the entire surface cracked open 

 by the sun, so that it was criss-crossed with little wrinkles and 



