What We Left Behind – Farmington Bay Waterfowl Management Area, UT
My son used to cry when he saw me first thing in the morning. I like to believe that his tears were simply a reaction based on the fact that I am the one that takes him to daycare. On the other hand, sometimes his actions make me wonder if there is something deeper going on. For example, he once took a wooden sword I have in my office, snuck up behind me while I worked on the computer, and with the power of a three-year old Conan tried to split my skull. Yes, I have a wooden sword, but that isn’t the point. The point is that I have one child. I have put all my eggs in one basket, and one day he will pick my nursing home.
Tears and acts of violence aside, we can have a good time. One of my favorite father-son activities is road tripping to new and interesting places. Living in the Mountain West provides a lot of opportunities for photography, hiking, or any manor of outdoor activities within an hour’s drive, and when needed also provides the opportunity for some relief by legally restraining a hyperactive child in a car seat. On a recent and memorable trip, we went to the Farmington Bay Waterfowl Management Area. Farmington Bay is located on the Great Salt Lake about 30 minutes north of Salt Lake City. The Waterfowl Management Area is a largely flat stretch of wetlands and water divided up by manmade dikes and diversions, and peppered with birdhouses and roosts. The primary draw is the wide variety of birds one can see while driving down the road. Over the years, I have seen pheasants, owls, bald eagles, kestrels, hawks, ducks, and cranes.
The first time I went to Farmington Bay unrealistic expectations were established. The road was literally filled with birds asking to get their photos taken. There was a huge golden-eyed eagle finishing off a rodent in the middle of the road’s hard packed snow. A barn owl sat a foot off the road and was posing for me like I worked for National Geographic, and another owl was literally perched and resting on a sign that read “Bird Rest Area.” Each subsequent trip has been a slight let down, in that I have to actually get out of the car to get a good photo. The most recent trip provided ample opportunities to take pictures of all manor of water birds. Tall cranes stood like sentinels on the frozen grey water of the Great Salt Lake. You could hear the whoop, whoop, whoop of their wings from yards away anytime one of them took to the air. Little black ducks darted around everywhere ice gave way to open water. But let’s face it; getting photos of these birds is like getting a kiss from you mom. (I heard this phrase “like getting a kiss from your mom” in reference to something that was easily accomplished, but I always feel weird when I use it, because it could mean so many different things.) We want photos of the predator, razor beaked killers in the sky, circling the killing plane or finishing off its prey. And on this day, those birds were not feeling photogenic, that is with the exception of a lone kestrel.
For those of you that don’t know, a kestrel is in the falcon family. It’s a smaller bird of prey that is brown and white with a spotted breast. This particular kestrel came with all the prerequisite tools of a bird of prey: hooked beak, sharp talons, bright yellow eyes. The only problem was, when it puffed up to ward of the cold, I would dare to say it was cute. Almost like a stuffed animal. The other problem is that the bird was a tease. I first spotted it on a metal post sticking out of the snow. It was just close enough for me to know I wanted a photo of it, but just far enough that my camera couldn’t zoom in for a great photo. So I hopped out of my car, rumbled, bumbled, stumbled through knee high snow, and just as I was about to take the photo, the bird flitted into the air and flew fifty yards down the road and landed on another post. So I jump back in the car, made sure my son was ok, and drove down the road fifty yards and life repeated itself. Bird close enough to see, to far for a photo. Rumble, bumble, stumble through the snow, and whoosh, whoosh, whoosh the bird flies down the road. I am not above swearing, and I am pretty good at it. There in the snow, with wet jeans, and camera gear in tow, my swearing was inspired. I repeated this exercise no less than three more times. Stop car, walk through snow, swear, walk back to car, ask son if ok. On literally the sixth time trying to photograph the cutest killer on the bay my luck took a turn for the worse.
I’ve heard over and over again that parenting isn’t friendship. I understand what that means, but at the same time I want my son to be my little buddy, future therapy sessions be damned. In my effort to bribe my way to my son’s adoration, I let him get away with things on our father-son trips that would not fly if his mother were around. We eat a little more junk food, listen to the music a little louder, and, when traveling at bird watching speed, I let him sit in the front seat. My son is my co-pilot. Look, other than having a different taste in music, he likes Pitbull and like the melodic musings of Terry Gross (I know not really music), its fun having him up front with me. He has even taken to grabbing my phone and using it to take pictures with me. I realize I just keep digging myself into a parenting hole with some of you that are reading this, but seriously those of us born before the 1990s were in constant sanctioned danger, and turned out just fine, or at least fine-ish. Remember the old days when kids sat on parent’s laps or in truck beds. I’m not condoning this behavior; my son wears a seatbelt. I’m just saying four-year olds used to fix machines, because it was too dangerous for adults, and now we are to scared to let them spend the night at their friends’ houses.
So there I was, 20 feet from the only bird I had seen that day that was worth photographing. I was cold, wet, and about to finally achieve my objective. I brought my camera to my face, adjusted the focus and my son, my adventure co-pilot, blurted one of his colorful phrases, “Dad, I have to poop it.” I turned to see my son jump out of the car into the freezing snow with no jacket, hat, or gloves. I quickly rationalized that kids used to fix machines too dangerous for adults, so he would be ok, and turned to get my photo, but only found a metal pole.
My query once again having taken to wing, I trudged back to the car to help my son “poop it.” Luckily he refers to all forms of bathroom activities as “poop it,” so I felt pretty confident that he was just going to turn this lemon of timing into lemonade colored snow. My son has only recently taken to peeing outdoors, and it has gone from novelty to adventure for him. When I got to the car he was already assuming the position at the ditch by the rear of the car. When I got to him he was already making abstract art in the snow. He finished up what seemed like a relatively efficient operation and I went to help him get his jeans back up he started shaking his head. As I looked him in the face, I could only imagine that his look of concern was merely a reflection of the look of fear that I must have been giving him when I realized what was about to happen. My son let nature take its course without bending or squatting. The combination of smooth muscle movement and gravity created a scatological nightmare before my eyes. My son, his cloths, and the pure driven snow were all sullied in one ugly moment.
Here’s the thing, I panic and create bizarre narratives to support my panic. As my son stood half naked in the freezing air, I bounced from foot to foot trying to figure out how to clean the mess and get my son in the car, without bringing biohazard material with him. My panic wasn’t necessary. Crap happens, but in the distance I could see a car approaching slowly, so I created this narrative where the car will reach us and they will see my half naked child standing in the freezing cold and they will, what, judge me. I don’t know, but at the time it seemed serious. So I ransacked my car looking for something to clean my child up with. As a good parent, I had a big package of baby wipes in the car. As a bad parent, I left them in the car over night and they had become a brick of ice. In the end, I found a partially used brown napkin, a lone sock, and a paper bag. Like a parenting MacGyver I used these items to quickly clean off and strip naked my child in the frozen tundra of Farmington Bay. By the time the car reached us, I had put the dirty clothes on a plastic sled in the back of my car and my half naked son in his car seat, which he found to be novel. My one regret in the whole situation is what I, or rather my son, left behind.
In what felt like karmic balance, as we left the wildlife refuge I came across the kestrel, once again sitting on a pole. This time the bird was only a few feet from the road and, in an act of mercy for what he had probably just witnessed, sat scanning the frozen plain letting me take all the pictures I wanted.
In the end I think we had a good time. I just wish my son will remember our time at Farmington Bay, because someday, hopefully decades from now, I may be the one that has to “poop it” on the side of the road.
Event Photos: http://www.peakedinterestmedia.com/photos/
Where: Farmington Bay Waterfowl Management Area - Open year round 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. seven days a week at the main entrance south and west of Farmington at 1325 W. Glover Lane (925 S.).
Website: http://wildlife.utah.gov/habitat/farmington_bay.php