Читать книгу Shaped by Snow. Defending the Future of Winter онлайн

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Mohawk, I thought as I stared into its beetle eyes, trying not to blink.

The bird ruffled its feathers once, twice, then took flight, leaving the pine branch swaying from its departure.

I left the cover of the trees and walked to the edge of the lake where my family was eating lunch.

“What kind of a bird was that, Baqui?” I asked. I don’t remember how I gave my grandpa that nickname. He doesn’t know either. It just emerged from my toddler lips one day, barely more than a babble. But it stuck. From that moment on he was Baqui.

My grandpa looked up from his sandwich.

“What did it look like?”

“Blue and black. It had a mohawk.”

He chuckled. “Steller’s jay.”

I had seen plenty of those birds in my life, but never thought to ask its name until I was eight years old. It was a bird I associated with the mountains, one that could always be seen perched on the branches of pine trees.

We were hiking near Sundance Ski Resort with my father’s side of the family. The broad shoulders of Mount Timpanogos, the second-tallest mountain in the Wasatch Range at 11,752 feet, towered above us, blocking the afternoon sun. The adults of the family, my parents, aunt, uncle, and grandparents, were lounging on the flat granite rocks near the shore of a small mountain lake. I had been playing hide-and-seek in the trees with my sister and cousins when I saw the bird. For whatever reason, I decided at that moment that I needed to know its name.