ALONG THE WAY

When Spring Rolls Around, It's Time Once Again to Welcome Back the Buzzards

It was at the “Welcome Back Buzzard Party” at Boyce Thompson Arboretum near Superior that I learned the humiliating truth. My 11-year-old daughter, Jessica, watched a black buzzard slowly trying to amass enough energy to get moving in the morning and said sarcastically, “Mom, that bird reminds me of you.” I'd hoped to be compared to something a bit more glamorous, say, a graceful white swan, but the more I studied those birds, the more I could see it. Those ugly buzzards and I were definitely birds of a feather.

It is a pretty fair comment on my lack of a social life that I even attend buzzard parties, but invitations don't come my way too often, so I take what I can get. Every spring the arboretum throws an early-morning celebration to welcome the buzzards back from their wintering grounds in Central America, then each fall a “Bye, Bye Buzzard Party” bids them farewell.

Carl Tomoff from Prescott College escorted our little group around the arboretum, cheerfully pointing out the colorful birds flitting among the profusion of spring flowers. Meanwhile, the buzzards, officially known as turkey vultures, perched like a bunch of black blobs in a eucalyptus tree. Occasionally, one bird would slowly stretch out a wing, wait a few minutes, then raise the other wing.

Jessica commented, “They sure don't do much, do they?” I can understand that. I hate mornings, too. It takes me a while to get my joints unkinked and me mobile.

We watched three buzzards for about 15 minutes before they got enough motivation to flap the short distance to Magma Ridge, where they plopped down in the sun and spread their impressive six-foot wingspans. Tomoff explained that vultures depress their body heat during the night to slow their metabolism, then the next morning they warm back up. I could relate because it happens to me every morning. Those buzzards were just trying to remember what they were supposed to do today.

Meanwhile, tiny hummingbirds frantically dove into red flowers and swifts darted about, but no birds bothered the buzzard bunch. No one dares ruffle my feathers in the morning, either. Neither the buzzards nor I can stand anything that is bouncy and cheerful in the morning. The early bird may get the worm, but who wants a worm anyway?

Finally, the buzzard trio joined a small group of birds flying in slow circles. All the Buzzards were going clockwise except my three, who stubbornly spiraled counterclockwise. There was probably some logical buzzard reason for this, but I figured they were teenage boys who never wanted to do what the rest of the family was doing. I also knew from experience that the two latecomers were teenage girls who spent an extra 15 minutes preening their feathers. I spend my time going in circles trying to get the family lined out, too.

With the group together, they slowly glided off to look for breakfast. The buzzard was the original Spy in the Sky. He could spot a meal from as high as two and a half miles. When one bird pinpointed a likely morsel, they all swooped down to squabble over the find. Sounds like my house meals at random hours wherever you find them and with no leftovers.

Buzzards eat carrion, which means they eat meat that is already dead. Hey, I don't have a problem with that. I prefer someone else kill my dinner for me, too. Roadkill is considered gourmet lunch to the buzzard bunch. Toad a la Road, Snake on a Plate, and Foul Fowl are special treats. Personally, I draw the line at roadkill, but my teenagers regularly mention the resemblance between it and my tuna casserole.

I saw Jessica squinting up at a buzzard and then eyeing me, and I snapped, “Don't even think about it.” While that bird and I both might have red sunburned faces, wrinkled necks, and dark circles under our eyes, I didn't want to hear about it. Besides, he is bald and my current too-short haircut is a touchy subject.

Once high in the air, buzzards don't waste any energy flapping their wings. Gliding effortlessly, they ride the warm thermal air currents, spending their day soaring for leftovers. Toward evening the flock returns to the arboretum to roost. By dusk there is a bevy of buzzards clumped close together in the tall trees. Buzzards haven't quite got the knack of migrating. They summer in Arizona, when it's hotter than blazes, but as soon as the weather starts to get decent in the fall, they take off.

It is hard to admit, but Jessica called it pretty right. Those buzzards and I are alike - except for one important difference. Because buzzards are basically voiceless, their children don't make rude comparisons.