By Sarah Winnicki

Not many North American birders can seriously say that they have not heard of California Condors.

The condor is a New World vulture, more closely related to storks than to other hawks. California Condors are birds of astronomical proportions, more easily misidentified as small planes than as other birds. With an amazing 110-inch wingspan and a body the size of a kid, these birds are some of the biggest in the world. In fact, the largest known flying bird in the history of this planet was a fossilized New World vulture found in Argentina.

The condor's plumage is not anything to marvel at, at least not when compared to a Painted Bunting. The bird is black, with large, square black wings that hide white under patches. The condor’s head, like that of other vultures, is bare and featherless, so that any bacteria left over from their favorite meal—carrion—burns on the spot.

The head is orange, pink or yellow, depending on the bird’s mood, and is often bunched with stored food. Around the bird’s long neck is a necklace of downy black feathers. On its chest is a bare pink spot (not shown in the Sibley’s guide). They constantly pee on their legs to cool themselves down.

The California Condor is the rarest bird of prey in the world, with a population—captive and wild—of fewer than 400 birds. Vultures are often wrongly accused of killing the livestock they eat and have been persecuted for centuries.

All birds face habitat loss and destruction. Golden Eagles compete with the less aggressive condors for food and habitat, often with horrifying results. Power lines, hazards to all large birds, zap condors every year. However, the largest threat to condors is lead shot. The lead is ingested through carrion killed by lead bullets, and the bird is poisoned, along with any potential eggs. By the time the 1970s rolled around, only 22 birds were still alive.

These 22 birds were taken into various sanctuaries in Utah, Arizona and California, where they were bred and puppet-raised to fear humans, power lines and other dangers. By the mid-1990s, the birds were slowly being re-introduced into the southwest corner of their former habitat, which once stretched as far as Florida. However, the same dangers still threaten condors. More than 40% of the population has died, and many of the new releases don’t make it. The program still has a long way to go.

The biggest threat to condors today is still lead shot. Why, you may ask, has lead shot, which can be dangerous for hunters as well as wildlife, and easily replaced with copper, been allowed in the United States? It was not until July 31, 2008, that lead shot was outlawed in condor territory. However, condors have been known to travel hundreds of miles within a few days, searching for food. How much good will the ban do them then?

And shooting a condor will only bring probation and a $1,000 fine. Why not protect such an amazing bird that does nothing to harm us at all? Surely such a bird is a symbol of the Southwest. Look in your pocket right now. A California Condor soars on the California state quarter.

With only about 150 individuals in the wild, they are rarely seen. Truly, they are a dream, and my chances of seeing one seemed about as good as my chances of seeing an Ivory-billed Woodpecker.

The date was August 3, 2008. I woke up that day on a squishy old bed in a scary little motel in the town of Williams, Arizona. Williams is set on Route 66, a few minute’s drive to the Kaibab Plateau (known for its famous squirrels that seemingly prove Darwin is a genius) and a 45-minute drive to the Grand Canyon.

The little town features a couple museums, neat little window shops, a log cabin church, and nightly cowboy reenactments that happen all year on the main street: Route 66. (I was kidnapped and shot by cowboys here, but that’s another story.) It is a cute little town in the desert, in a valley a little bit sheltered from the heat.

Outside of my window I watched the Western Bluebirds, Ash-throated Flycatchers and Lazuli Buntings in an abandoned farm field. Then I packed my backpack with my handy dandy bird book, my pencil, my journal, a water bottle, some snacks, and my Grand Canyon Field Guide (trust me, that got a little heavy after the second mile in 100-degree weather).

We packed up and drove off to the Grand Canyon, and I re-read my field guide as we went. By now I was an expert at the whole Canyon thing. I re-read that book constantly all summer. The birds there were neat western birds, but nothing extraordinary. When I had first opened my field guide, I was disappointed to find that there were no condors listed at all in the entire book. They covered every bathroom in the whole park and every single possible kind of fly, but they could not note the one thing I’d had a secret burning passion to see. I hadn’t mentioned it out loud or even admitted it to myself. I wanted a condor. I told myself I couldn’t get my hopes up, but my heart was crushed when I had first opened that guide. Not a word.

We arrived at the Canyon, in the National Park. We got out on the South Rim trail, the biggest tourist destination in any park in the United States. By the way, that means it’s crowded. I raced out, stopping myself right beside the fence-free, two-mile drop. It is amazing. There is no way I can describe it.

More than 188 square miles of virtually undisturbed and terribly dangerous wild land supporting countless ecosystems, from lodge-pole pine forests to sweltering deserts. The Colorado River, more than a mile across in some parts, looks smaller than a creek. The few pathways that claim tourists every year are not visible from the top, though they are home to lookout stations and cabins. At least 600 people have died at the Grand Canyon since 1820. They have drowned, fallen, and dehydrated in the bowl, on the river, or on the rims. In fact, a week after I went, a tourist fell to his death from the point on which I stood. It’s an amazing, unconquered place that I could not have imagined in my wildest dreams.

I looked out off the point, and my eyes suddenly caught upon a dark bird soaring level with the rim. It was large, and gray. I raised my bins. There were no real field marks, and it was too far away to see anything but a white under-wing. I marked it down as an immature “baldy.” It flew around the curve. Suddenly, my height-scared, white-faced brother was there. “Sarah,” he said, “come here, there is a weird vulture over here with an orange head.” Orange head. Orange head! My brother started to hobble away on weak knees, happily oblivious to the fact that my heart had just exploded and my knees now rivaled his.

But I could run, and I sprinted after him, around the curve. As the sweat evaporated off of me in the killer heat, I saw it. About the size of my brother, bright pink head, perched on an outcrop 2 feet wide, 100 feet long, hanging over the canyon. I didn’t even need my bins. It was a California Condor.

Just as I handed the bins to my brother, the raptor floated lazily by. It was closer, and I recognized the “fingers” on the wings. An immature. That made two condors. As we watched, two young tourists decided they were going to mess with death and walk out to the bird—an inch away from a drop that could hold more than three World Trade Centers. They walked out to within four feet of my bird. It didn’t move. They took a few pictures, and nonchalantly walked back. I watched some more. My dad had to pull me away.

The Rim Trail is adorned with many birds. White-throated Swifts, Western Bluebirds, Pygmy Nuthatches, solitaires, scrub-jays and Ravens sat on the shrubs that hung over the cliff face. I tripped on a cactus trying to identify some quick little Mountain Chickadees in a tree. Bald and Golden eagles, Prairie Falcons and Turkey Vultures soared below us. That is one of the cool things about the canyon. All birds of prey have to be identified from above.

Along the trail, we came upon one of the countless museum/gift shops along the multiple-mile hike. I learned a little bit more on geology, asked the Ranger about falcons, and then hiked over to the gift shop. There, on a shelf, sat a stuffed condor. $15. Above my budget, but I wanted it. What more could commemorate this day? I left empty-handed.

Along the trail we met a man with a big receiver, picking up beeps from Condors all over Arizona. He let us try, and pointed us down the road where, supposedly, two miles down into the canyon, set a dead cow. Condors are roosting there, he said. We walked on.

All the while, I looked into gift shops for my condor. However, none of these had the one I wanted. By halfway through the day, I knew that my time was starting to run out. “Oh, well,” I told myself, “you’re too old for a toy anyway.” But I still kept looking.

We ate lunch on the rim, watching random tourists scurrying by, acting stupid by the rim, and standing in awe of the wonder of it all. When we were done, we looked over once again. Here was the dead cow area, and below us were all sorts of ridges and roosts, but nothing was there. Instead, a little yellow- looking squirrel scurried. I yelled for my dad to get a picture. The lady next to me, who I noticed for the first time had binoculars looped around her neck, rounded on me.

“Squirrel?” she shrieked, “who cares about a squirrel when there’s a condor right there?” I was taken aback by her rude tone, but awed all the same by the idea of another condor. There it was, a small immature, totally overlooked by me. We showed the lady the picture of our first condor-—she was impressed, and waddled off to see if she could find it too. That was three.

My sister had read the story Brighty of the Grand Canyon, a story of a little burro that had cleared the way for Bright Angel Trail, so we set off to walk a little bit of it. Right at the trailhead was a museum, complete with a gift shop. There, on the shelf, was my condor . . . I bought it and stuffed it in my bag.

The only thing I disliked about it was the band on its wing-—the number 19. I told myself I’d try to cut it off, so that it would represent any condor. Then I read the swing tag. It said, at the end of an explanation about California Condors, “Condor 119, which wore the tag number ‘19’, was one of the most beloved Californian Condors in Grand Canyon National Park. Condor 119 and her mate 122 parented the second condor to fledge in the Grand Canyon backcountry.” I decided to leave the number on for now.

We set off down the trail to find the cave paintings that the cashier had told us about. We found them. They were hidden because of vandalism. The trail is a three-day trail, so we walked about a half of a mile in and went back up. We walked a little bit more of the Rim Trail, and set off for our rental. However, from the transport bus, we saw a dark shape in the tree. We got out at the next stop, and I raised my bins. Yep, a pink head. It was a California Condor in a tree.

I asked a ranger about the bird. He told me that it probably was a condor because there was a dead elk under the tree. We walked over. Sure enough, there was another brilliant adult in the tree, preening itself above a dead elk that was easily located by its stench. It dropped huge black feathers on us as we wandered around under it for the perfect view. That was when I saw its tag: number 22, the mate to number 19, the bird that my toy portrayed. I was so excited, and I expected the real 19, short for 119, to arrive at any minute. After observing the magnificent bird for a few more minutes, we moved on, back to (imagine that!) another gift shop/ museum.

I bought two postcards there, one of 119, and one of 122, but I couldn’t find a picture of them together. I read the tag on my toy again. It was all in past tense. I got an ominous feeling. I had become attached to the two birds in a few hours, and so I asked the ranger in the museum where 119 was. Of course, she broke the news that the bird had died on the nest due to lead poisoning in December 2006.

Number 119’s first egg, she told me, was the first egg laid in the wild after the birds were released, but was crushed the next day. She said the first fledgling had died of starvation. She pointed to the stuffed carcass hanging on the wall. 122 was all alone, shunned by the rest of the birds in the area, and no longer the dominant male. I was crushed, knowing that the birds I had come to love in the last few minutes were just numbers on a piece of paper. Just statistics.

Far from putting a damper on my first (and so far only) condor experience, the knowledge of 119’s fate lit me on fire. I vowed then and there to work for conservation harder than ever, and I now, months later, have found links to websites that get me onto condor blogs, and get me to reports from the day my beloved 119 was born in San Diego until now, as more condors fight for life in their native land.

Now, when I’m in the field, I generally have a stuffed condor on my windshield— Numver 19, to stand for what still needs to be done, even in parks, to help everything and everyone. My condor saga was delightful and has reinforced the need to make a difference, whether it is through donations, Christmas bird counts, bird banding or just sharing the birding with others, so that in the years to come, the birds will still be here.