American Robin: Desert Thirst
Bird photography sounds peaceful. You picture me quietly communing with nature, sipping coffee while majestic creatures flutter by, posing politely like they’re in a Disney movie. That’s a lie. The truth involves hauling lawn chairs, tripods, and a camera bag that weighs more than a third grader across the desert before sunrise—all to sit motionless next to a glorified livestock trough filled with water I wouldn’t let my enemies drink.
This cattle tank, which I have gentrified into a “desert oasis” (by tossing in a stick), is now a fine-dining establishment for birds. The stick is important. I found it on the ground, which makes it natural, and I chose one with bark and lichen because birds don’t like muddy feet—and I like a pretty perch.
Birds don’t just fly in, though. First, they land about twenty-five feet away in what I call the staging area, where they scope things out and decide if it’s safe to drink. Just as I know birds come here for water, they know hawks come here for birds. If it seems risky, they vanish into the brush to post angry tweets about predator privilege.
This time, an American Robin decided to play along. He glided down to the branch, dipped his beak into the water, then raised his head to swallow—because robins, like most birds, can’t gulp. They rely on gravity to get the water down. No swallow muscles. No peristalsis. Just tip and pray.
As he tilted his head back, water spilled from his beak. I fired off a burst of photos. In this frame, he’s in perfect profile, water spilling from his bill, with a few droplets stopped in mid-air and a few reached the surface, sending delicate ripples across the pond.
His reflection was beautiful and haunting, like a bird pondering the mysteries of hydration—or maybe just wondering why some guy shoved a branch in his drinking fountain.
In the desert, water is liquid gold. To birds, cattle tanks are survival. To me, they’re proof that lugging heavy gear into the wilderness to photograph a robin mid-sip is a perfectly reasonable way to spend retirement.
Especially if you're trying to avoid housework.
He lifts his head to the sky—a gravity feed,
’Cause evolution said, “Nah—gulping’s not a need.
American Robin: Desert Thirst
Bird photography sounds peaceful. You picture me quietly communing with nature, sipping coffee while majestic creatures flutter by, posing politely like they’re in a Disney movie. That’s a lie. The truth involves hauling lawn chairs, tripods, and a camera bag that weighs more than a third grader across the desert before sunrise—all to sit motionless next to a glorified livestock trough filled with water I wouldn’t let my enemies drink.
This cattle tank, which I have gentrified into a “desert oasis” (by tossing in a stick), is now a fine-dining establishment for birds. The stick is important. I found it on the ground, which makes it natural, and I chose one with bark and lichen because birds don’t like muddy feet—and I like a pretty perch.
Birds don’t just fly in, though. First, they land about twenty-five feet away in what I call the staging area, where they scope things out and decide if it’s safe to drink. Just as I know birds come here for water, they know hawks come here for birds. If it seems risky, they vanish into the brush to post angry tweets about predator privilege.
This time, an American Robin decided to play along. He glided down to the branch, dipped his beak into the water, then raised his head to swallow—because robins, like most birds, can’t gulp. They rely on gravity to get the water down. No swallow muscles. No peristalsis. Just tip and pray.
As he tilted his head back, water spilled from his beak. I fired off a burst of photos. In this frame, he’s in perfect profile, water spilling from his bill, with a few droplets stopped in mid-air and a few reached the surface, sending delicate ripples across the pond.
His reflection was beautiful and haunting, like a bird pondering the mysteries of hydration—or maybe just wondering why some guy shoved a branch in his drinking fountain.
In the desert, water is liquid gold. To birds, cattle tanks are survival. To me, they’re proof that lugging heavy gear into the wilderness to photograph a robin mid-sip is a perfectly reasonable way to spend retirement.
Especially if you're trying to avoid housework.
He lifts his head to the sky—a gravity feed,
’Cause evolution said, “Nah—gulping’s not a need.