Editor’s note: Walt Amses is a writer and former educator who lives in Calais.
[W]hen I encounter a hummingbird in Vermont, I usually think it’s a big insect because the humming I presume provided its name is really more like a buzz, say of a gigantic bee. Listening to upwards of 50 at the same time is like being just the other side of the hill from a motorcycle race. Watching them flit about is even more intriguing, splashes of iridescence that can just as easily stop on a dime in mid-flight as they rocket by as nothing more than a multicolored blur.
We’re on a guy’s back porch in the Mindo Valley of northern Ecuador where he charges wanderers and serious birders four bucks a pop to hang out with probably more hummingbirds than I’ve seen cumulatively in my entire life, certainly more different kinds of hummers. Who knew? After a couple of hours of enervating mountain switchbacks through the Andes from Quito, we find ourselves in a soul-nourishing mountain valley with an extraordinary menu of things to see and do and a poor enough WiFi signal to offer little worldly distraction.
Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s the first anniversary of the biggest mistake Americans have ever collectively made, but I’m not listening or reading about it 24/7. Or depressingly writing about it myself. Instead, I’m watching hummingbirds, and later I’ll be heading for what has been termed a “frog concert,” and, assuming it’s not simply a derogatory description of migratory French musicians or amphibians sporting miniature Fender Stratocasters, I’m probably going to enjoy it more than “All Things Considered.”
I’m finding an awful lot to like about not very much these days. It seems a lot of boomers I know are paring down, unable to come to terms with their offspring sorting through their belongings when they join Jimi, Jerry and Janis at the celestial Fillmore. The thought that their kids will think years of acquisitions might amount to nothing more than clutter is hardly bearable.
Considering the options, I’m paring down too, but in my head rather than in my house — cluttered shelves are one thing but my cluttered brain profoundly alters my sense of reality, creating illusions of what’s important in life and what my focus should be at a given moment. I find a crummy WiFi signal to be an ally in this particular quest, taking one choice completely off the table, leaving me far less interference in seeking an effective mental floss.
Surprisingly, I find out birds help too. Quietly walking on a mountain road just past dawn, my eyes are scanning and my ears are alert. Although I’m not a birder per se, I do enjoy spotting and identifying them, and since Ecuador has something like 15 percent of the bird species on the planet, I imagine this can keep me occupied for the next 100 years without thinking about much else. We were accompanied by Eduardo, a 20-year veteran of Mindo’s incredibly busy birding culture, likely the small town’s biggest industry.
Although the Fish and Wildlife Service estimates there are upwards of 40 million birders generating billions of tax dollars, I’m finding you don’t necessarily need a safari jacket and a $10,000 zoom lens to become completely immersed in seeking out feathery creatures. It certainly helps that they’re beautiful, some incredibly so, particularly in a place like Ecuador. One highlight of our morning was watching a mama toucan feed her young through a hole in a tree while several other family members came and went. According to Eduardo, toucans are family oriented with brothers, sisters and even cousins sticking around for years.
The rest of the morning we spot everything from vultures to flycatchers; parrots to woodpeckers; and even a glorious golden tanager. Days later, after a quarter mile ride in a rickety cable car over the abyss, we took a cardiologist’s dream hike to an isolated series of waterfalls. Relaxing and snacking on baked salted lima beans near an emerald pool we spotted and identified a white-headed dipper — not a high degree of difficulty, but a cool bird to watch nonetheless as it nonchalantly walks in and out of rushing water gathering lunch. Our exhilaration at this mundane accomplishment was completely out of proportion, but only confirmed my suspicion that the best kind of joy may very well be rooting in simplicity.
But as time marches on so do we, landing at our next stop along the way, Banos, which sits literally under the volcano (apologies to Malcolm Lowry), a still active, 16,000-foot behemoth called Tungurahua, which loosely translated means something like “the gates of hell,” an apt description of reconnecting with the rest of the world. It’s not very pretty.
Although I already knew about Harvey Weinstein, I quickly learn that Louis CK, Roy Moore and Mariah Carey are also perverts along with half of Hollywood — Mariah Carey? Trump on a visit to Moscow reported Russian President Vladimir Putin denied meddling in the U.S. election and Trump “believed him.” So much for that. And how could I have missed Twitter doubling the number of characters allowable to express what passes for a complete thought these days? I can’t wait, even though I haven’t Tweeted since reffing elementary basketball.
I find it difficult to keep the information tsunami at arm’s length but more and more frequently I latch onto moments that have some inexplicable yet extremely satisfying meaning to me. This time it feels like it’s about birds or maybe singing frogs, but the truth is that it’s about silencing one thing and listening to another, bartering the dentist drill soundtrack of a civilization lacking civility for the rhythm of life itself.
