Best of the Year (A Rant)

The Best Novel of 2005, according to me, was:

CANAAN'S TONGUE

by John Wray.

Historical fiction, social commentary, horror and mysticism, to be read with a shot of bourbon in one hand and Sixteen Horsepower on the CD player.

This book sold zero copies at the Barnes & Noble where I used to work. That, in a nutshell, encapsulates for me what's wrong with the world of publishing. Lack of promotion by publishers. Lack of education among "readers". Lack of giving a shit about anything but the bottom line among the various elements of the book industry.

Nevertheless, the book is out there, and it is outstanding. Read it.

And the Horse of the Year should have been Afleet Alex. He did things that horses just don't do: win overwhelming victories at both sprint and mile-and-a-half distances; jump back up and win after being slammed and completely losing his action; accelerate away from his competitors in the Belmont as if they were standing still.

And that, in another nutshell, holds some of the problems in the world of horse racing. Saint Liam is a nice horse, but he's comparable to Ghostzapper last year and Mineshaft before that. Nice horses, horses who win some big victories and who have a good chance to be successful sires. Not horses who engage the national imagination, reaching beyond racing's usual fan base. Not horses who do things that horses just don't do. Money earned shouldn't be the deciding factor in a championship. The single most appealing thing about racing, the single thing that has the most appeal to the public, is its stars. Not everybody's a horseplayer, not everybody's a millionaire, but almost everybody loves to watch a great horse run. Afleet Alex was more than just another nice horse, because of his ability and his courage and his transcendent appeal, and that should have made him Horse of the Year.

Desert Birds

At 7 AM in January, Harper Dry Lake is cold. A sharp-edged cold that, unlike the wet cold of, say, a redwood forest, gives you the feeling that it could hurt you if it just tried a little harder.

Harper Dry Lake is also dry, except for a dubious-looking puddle here and there. This makes the BLM's interpretive signs a bit incongruous; the Black-Necked Stilt sign looks out on a sere salt flat that no stilt would ever come within a hundred miles of. There are no shorebirds and no waterfowl here, pamphlets, website and checklists to the contrary.

But that's OK. Those aren't really the birds I came here for. I make my way down the gravel paths, freezing, looking into the brush at "chip" and "tzeet" calls. First I see a Northern Harrier, a super-extra-jumbo-sized female looking easily as big as a Red-tailed Hawk, and then some of her family, a male and more females. A shy Loggerhead Shrike flutters around at the end of the trail, and I pursue him diligently, not realizing. . .but more on this later.

I see a Marsh Wren, my first, in a classic Marsh Wrennish pose, clinging to a stalk and calling. I also see a gray thrasher, just for an instant. Later I look up this bird and discover he is a Leconte's Thrasher, also my first.

I'm really looking for Sage Sparrows. I see scads of White-Crowneds, who seem a bit beige-er than those I'm used to. Then I see other sparrows. I try very hard to make them into Sage Sparrows -- they do have some gray on the head, and I can make those streaks on the breast into a spot -- I don't know how I would really tell them apart from Song Sparrows, but --

That's because they are Song Sparrows. Sometimes birds take pity on me. A gorgeous, unmistakable Sage flutters up: boldly marked, obvious eyering, clear dark spot on the breast, flicking his tail.

On the way out, I drive a few feet under two perched Turkey Vultures, who regard me with mild curiosity; one hunches its wings, heraldically. I also notice that I really didn't have to stalk that first Shrike. In Santa Cruz, to see a Loggerhead Shrike, you have to go in winter to Wilder Ranch and find *the* Shrike, who hangs out on a specific wire or a specific fence, if you're lucky. Here, I lose count. Five, six of the little gray assassins on the wires. Also, a male American Kestrel.

I drive back down 395 to Shadow Mountain Road and to Silver Lakes. Whoa! This is where the posh people live, an enclave in the middle of the desert. I want to move here. (Although I'm still puzzled about the contrast between the amount of money down here, and the lack of commensurate shopping and dining opportunities. Anyway.) There are two lakes. I think both are manmade, but the birds don't seem to mind.

Just to be thorough, I put the binoculars on a group of birds feeding in front of a strip mall, thinking they're probably house sparrows. They're -- the mind goes into frantic search mode, ploverkilldeer -- Horned Lark! Beautiful. Rose-tan, faces striped yellow and black.

On the lake itself are the ducks -- Scaup, Ruddy, Bufflehead -- and wigeons and mergansers I never expected to see here in the desert, including my first Redhead, a handsome male, red head and yellow eyes, totally distinct from a Canvasback, to whom he is superior in tone.

I get a mocha, and on my way out of the land of the posh I get lost, end up in a circular drive, but there's a wren on top of a No Trespassing sign. Gray. New. A Rock Wren. Upon looking away from my sixth new species I notice a guy in an SUV giving me the hairy eyeball. I guess my behavior and binoculars might seem a bit suspicious. That's OK. The invasion of the scruffy birdgirl has achieved its objective and is heading home.

New

New year, new job, new place. New environment. I'm moving somewhere where it never rains.

I usually look back at New Year's and think about the past year, but this one is strange, because I haven't moved yet (four days out), haven't started the new job yet (eight days out). I have some hope for my professional future at last, but when I moved back to the Bay Area from L.A. in 1999, I hoped I would never be forced to leave again.

I can't think about the things I won't have time to do one last time, the places I won't be able to visit, the song of a winter wren in the redwood forest dark. There are no redwoods where I'm going.

Coyote rocks in moonlight, here I come.