A Desert Dawn: Birdwatching at First Light

In the Lowcountry marshes of Hilton Head Island, mornings are full of life. Terns, gulls and shorebirds call out as the sun rises, and soon the egrets and herons follow, moving with purpose through the skies and shallow waters. There’s a rhythm here—familiar, almost predictable.

The high desert is a different story. The world is still. No calls of shorebirds, no sound of wings overhead. Just stillness. It’s a slower, quieter awakening, each movement deliberate and sparse.

In the foothills above Santa Fe, I wait for the sunrise. A light haze hangs over the Sangre de Cristo mountains. A desert cottontail darts across the field, quick and quiet. From the chamisa-filled scrub, a flock Canyon Towhees appear. They move through the grass, then hop around old farm equipment before settling on a patch of dying sunflowers. Once the sun is up, a group of Lesser Goldfinches arrives, chattering as they feed on the small sunflower patch.

In the Animas River Valley, north of Durango, the sunlight takes its time rising over the San Juan Mountains. There’s a stretch between sunrise and full daylight where everything feels paused. Black-billed Magpies start to stir first, flying low and landing in the willows before dropping into a farm field to feed. A Northern Flicker lands on a fence post, its usual spot, before joining the magpies in the high grass. Soon, Western Bluebirds and Yellow-Rumped Warblers (western species also known as Audubon’s Warblers )appear, adding flashes of color to the quiet morning.

Outside Moab, along the edge of Arches National Park, first light comes at 6:30 a.m., with the sun rising around 7:00. It’s a quiet, almost sacred time. The colors of dawn slowly spread across the sky, and the first rays of sunlight rise over the La Sal mountains and eventually peek through the four arches visible about 10 miles away. The wind rustles softly, adding to the stillness. Every morning, a pair of Common Ravens appear, greeting the day. They are solitary birds in a solitary landscape—what looks desolate at first is anything but.

One morning, during my walk, I spotted a piece of weathered, twisted wood lying on the ground. It resembled a conch shell, and for a moment, I was reminded of home. Another morning, the hushed landscape was briefly interrupted by the sound of a hot air balloon inflating and launching, its bright colors rising into the desert sky.

At an altitude of 8,000 feet and a few miles from Bryce Canyon, we camped beside a small pond and wetland, home to a variety of waterfowl—American Coots, Gadwalls, Pied-Billed Grebes and Canada geese. At dawn, the geese would descend on the pond, shattering the silence with their loud squawking and splashing. Meanwhile, a large raft of about a hundred American Coots floated quietly, both day and night, barely disturbing the surface of the water. Western Bluebirds and Pine Siskins awoke next and flitted among the tall pine trees.

In Kanab, nestled among the Vermillion Cliffs, dawn is once again quiet, something that’s become familiar after a month in the high desert. The birds move silently, blending into the stillness. I photograph a solitary Say’s Phoebe and a Brewer’s Blackbird perched on juniper trees. The vibrant reds, purples, and violets of the cliffs glow behind them, colors untouched by the harsh white light of day that will soon wash them out.

In Flagstaff, camping at 7,500 feet on the mountainside of Coconino National Forest, my pre-sunrise ramble takes me along the Flagstaff Loop Trail. The birdlife here at dawn is alive with sounds and activity. Boisterous Acorn Woodpeckers and Steller’s jays call to one another, crisscrossing the mountainside. The songs of pygmy nuthatches and mountain chickadees fill the air. It’s almost as if I’ve come full circle to home.