I waited until nightfall to buy lunch food and fill the car with gas, to avoid wasting even a minute of birdable daylight. The only way not to question what I was doing, and why I was doing it, was to do absolutely nothing else. At the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge, on a hot weekday afternoon, Manley and I hiked several miles down dusty trails to an artificial water feature on the far margin of which I saw three pale-brown ducks. Two of them were paddling with all deliberate speed into the cover of dense reeds, affording me a view mainly of their butts, but the third bird loitered long enough for me to train my binoculars on its head, which looked as if a person had dipped two fingers in black ink and drawn horizontal lines across its face. “A masked duck!” I said. “You see it?” “I see the duck,” Manley said. “A masked duck!” The bird quickly disappeared into the reeds and gave no sign of reemerging. I showed Manley its picture in my Sibley. “I’m not familiar with this duck,”
What do You think about The Discomfort Zone (2006)?
