Christy and the Cliff Swallow

Under the eaves of my neighbor Bill’s garage, the brilliant face of an adult Cliff Swallow peered from the round entrance hole of her perfect mud nest at a little group of people peering back just a few feet below. Bill, in defense of his otherwise perfect driveway here in northeastern California, was preparing to knock the whole thing down with a broom.

“No,” I said, “It’s a Cliff Swallow.”

“Why not?”

“Because Terry [my wife] would disown you.”

No hint of lighthearted response, just deadpan looks and silence… Then another neighbor, Christy, asked a predictable question:

“What good are they?”

What good are Cliff Swallows?

“They eat mosquitoes,” I guessed. “We’ll have three percent fewer mosquitoes in the neighborhood.”

Mosquitoes, it turns out, are too small to figure strongly in the diets of Cliff Swallows, but I was desperate for something, anything, that would turn the tide of ambivalence.

I suppose I should have phoned Christy and owned up to my deception. Before hanging up, I might have tried to arouse her admiration by telling her that the little mom looking back at us spent the winter in Brazil or Argentina and intends to go back when her job is done. I mean, isn’t it wondrous?

And that’s just part of it: She and her mate built that architectural marvel without a trip to the hardware store, not to mention the sparkling aerobatics required to catch enough airborne insects to feed a family. And good looks? You bet!

So how is it possible to glaze over all that and come up with “What good are they?” Honestly, the Mona Lisa is an inert piece of canvas and some paint, and it sure can’t fly to South America, build a house, or catch a flying insect. All it does is hang there, but few would think it expendable. Is that because there’s just one, while Cliff Swallows are a dime a dozen?

Take a closer look
Come to think of it, the Mona Lisa has been copied, quite flawlessly, and photographed, and mass-produced, and that is how most of us know her without having been to the Louvre. But of course, no one would dispute that the copies are expendable, even though the marvelous Mr. da Vinci is apparent in all of them. No, but perhaps the Mona Lisa is beside the point.

It’s just that no one has yet convinced Christy that a Cliff Swallow — any Cliff Swallow — including that particular Cliff Swallow staring out at her, is as remarkable and worthy as anything she is ever likely to encounter.

Postscript: I do not plan to check whether Bill knocked the nest down. Its loss would not figure greatly in the scheme of things, and Bill’s hypothetical transgression remains just that.

But what does not remain hypothetical is Christy’s question. I guess I would prefer a world where such questions remain uncontemplated.

As a boy, I remember sad rows of Swainson’s Hawks hanging dead by their wings from barbed-wire fences along the Pinto Canyon Road in west Texas. September migrations from western North America to Argentina brought them by the place, and they rested tame along the roads in bunches, sitting in dry fields, partaking of the hordes of grasshoppers. Passers-by mistook the hawks for unsavory marauders and shot them from the windows of their trucks, probably thinking they were ridding the world of something awful. Such is the way of mistaken identity.

It was about this time, the 1950s and ’60s, that the energetic and talented Morley Nelson, the great friend of raptors, doubtless troubled by such scenes, set out to change the public mind. He filmed Golden Eagles and other avian superstars of southern Idaho. His close-ups transformed them from distant, wary, fleeing, unpleasant objects to respectable beings with purpose, depth, and mystery in their incomparable eyes, stunning plumage, and the grace of their aerial mastery.

Disney Studios joined Morley to produce a story of a boy who befriended a Prairie Falcon that, with characteristic dash, flew right into our living rooms and dazzled us with lofty brilliance.

The images were intimate and profound and compelling, and in a couple of decades of public exposure to an array of wildlife films, the idea of shooting a hawk became unthinkable. Even before laws arrived to fully protect raptors, most people were eager to share the planet with them, to marvel at their beauty and spirit.

So, Christy, take a close look at that real-life heroine looking back at you. Imagine she is you. Just take off anytime you want and jet around the neighborhood at a thousand feet, with handsome admirers in resplendent blue blazers and chestnut sideburns dancing alongside.

Turn south and follow earth’s verdant curvature all the way to another continent. Dodge that Merlin! Dodge that Bat Falcon! Get where you’re going and revel in the splendor of the tropics! Flit through the glorious rainbow mist of a great waterfall and partake of its myriad aerial offerings. Rest on a twig at the edge of a glistening green forest, busy with a thousand species, each as marvelous as your own.

After a while, let the spring tug of responsibility send you back across that impossibly vast landscape to beam confidently in on Bill’s minuscule garage. Imagine you and your husband diligently building a fabulous new house with the materials at hand, and then one day, peering out at the neighbors’ upturned faces. Do you like what you see?

Grainger Hunt is senior scientist for the Peregrine Fund’s California Condor and Aplomado Falcon restoration projects. Throughout his 40-year career as a biologist, he has conducted numerous field studies on the ecology of eagles and falcons. As a pilot, he has radio-tracked raptors on long-distance migrations and conducted aerial surveys of ranging, survival, and habitat selection.

Originally Published April 22, 2011