Reincarnations

Till you got here, you hadn’t thought they came to the tundra. They do, though. If anything, they’re commoner here in the summertime than in Los Angeles. "Sorry, Dad," your daughter says.

"You were right. Don’t be sorry for being right."

"Why not? Fat lot of good it’s ever done me."

You can’t find anything to say to that, so you look out over the river instead. An American golden plover in fancy black-and-white breeding plumage tiptoeing across a drift of pebbles makes a poor consolation prize. Your heart was set on a varied thrush, the way your stomach sometimes gets set on lamb chops. If the only thing in the freezer is ground round, you’ll be disappointed no matter how good it turns out.

More mosquitoes get into the car with you. Your daughter commits insecticide as you drive north.

Off to the west rise the Kigluaik Mountains, purple streaked with white. More snow lingers on the northern slopes than the su

The rental car bumps across the dirt airstrip to the lakeshore. Two orange plastic cones mark the end of the strip. You stop just past them and get off. A breeze off the water keeps the mosquitoes down. Ducks swim in pairs: greater scaup, red-breasted mergansers.

Then something screeches furiously, about two feet above the crown of your hat. You can’t help flinching. Graceful as a jet fighter, a black-capped bird with a red bill and feet rises and makes another pass at the two of you. Screech! You flinch again.

"Arctic tern." Your daughter does her best to sound matter-of-fact.

You manage a nod. "Sure is. We must be close to its nest."

Another furious dive-bomb, another skrawk from the tern. It doesn’t hit either one of you, but it does its damnedest to drive you away. When you don’t leave, it tries again and again. Other terns also screech, but only the one strafes you.

Your daughter is crying. You didn’t see her start. "Hey," you say uselessly-tears always leave you helpless. "Hey. What is it?"

"Stupid bird." She tries to pretend this isn’t happening, a losing proposition with wet streaks shining on her face. Almost too low for you to hear, she adds, "Families."

She and Dave had talked about starting one. They ended up talking to lawyers instead. It’s a shame; you would have enjoyed grandchildren. But what can you do? Not much, not when she’s so fragile that a bird defending its nest can set her off.

"Let’s get out of here," she says roughly.

"Okay." You were married to her mother for almost forty years. Sometimes arguing only makes it worse.

The tern makes two more passes at the car as you drive away. You fear it will slam into the windshield, but it doesn’t. You jounce across the airstrip to the road, which isn’t much smoother. The Arctic tern has the lakeside to itself again.

"Sorry, Dad," your daughter says after a little while. "I didn’t mean to drop that on you."

"Hey," you say one more time. Each of you should have had someone else. But there are no payoffs at the should have had window.

"I really thought-" Now your daughter breaks off. What did she think? That when she grew up she wouldn’t need to go places with her father anymore? Something like that, or she would have kept going. She could have; it wouldn’t offend you. Of course people expect to do things on their own, or with a spouse, when they get into their thirties. ‘

But life isn’t what you expect. Life is what you get. And what your daughter’s got is a birding trip to Nome with her old man.

Rattling up the Kougarok road would make anybody feel old. More scattered rocks off to the left give you another excuse to stop. "Let’s see what we’ve got," you say. "Maybe we’ll spot a wheatear."

Like the bluethroat, the northern wheatear is a Eurasian bird that visits western Alaska. It’s supposed to display on rocks like those. With its dark mask, it looks a little like a shrike, but its black-and-white tail makes a terrific field mark. If you see one, you’ll recognize it.

A cloud slides across the sun as soon as you get out of the car.

The breeze blows harder, down from the north. It may be summer, but you’re only a hundred miles from the Arctic Circle. You zip up your anorak and tug on your hat to make sure it doesn’t blow away, through binoculars, the rocks scattered across the tundra seem close enough to touch. Motion on one makes you pause. But it’s not a wheatear, only another American golden plover. You sweep some more.

Your daughter is looking toward the dwarf willows edging a puddle. Her scan suddenly stops, too. "What have you got?" you ask.

"Redpoll," she answers. "Just behind that little plant with the yellow flowers. See him? He’s on one of the top branches."

"I’ve got him," you say. Redpolls are tiny birds, related to goldfinches. "Common or hoary, d’you think?"

"Common," she answers confidently. "Too dark to be a hoary." And when the bird flies off a few seconds later, it shows a striped rump. A hoary redpoll’s rump would be white.

Along with the redpolls, white-crowns chirp in the willows and scratch under them. So do a couple of golden-crowned sparrows, white-crowns’ less common cousins. You’ve seen them before, in the California hills. Your wife spotted one in the yard a few years ago, but you never have. She was so pleased, she was in remission then, too…

The sun comes out. The breeze fades. "That’s more like it," you say, and unzip the coat again.

A moment later, you wonder how smart that is. As soon as he air grows still, the mosquitoes rise up around your daughter and you. Their hateful buzzing, like so many miniaturized dentists’ drills, fills your ears. The repellent does its best. Not many land on your face or the back of your neck or your hands, the only flesh you’re showing. But they perch in battalions on your hat and your clothes.

Your daughter, who is still sca

"Want to go back to the car?"

"Yes." She slaps at her calf. Maybe one got in under the bottom of her jeans and went up above her sock. Or maybe it bit her through the sock. You wouldn’t have thought a mosquito could, but you’ve never run into any like these before.

Your withdrawal across the tundra feels like Napoleon’s after Moscow. "Good God!" you say when you reach the rental. You open the doors and close them again as fast as you can, but you still need some time to get rid of the mosquitoes you let in. Even then, a couple hover against the rear windows. If they stay back there, you’ll let them live; going after them is more trouble than it’s worth.

You pull onto the road again. "Man," your daughter says. You nod. One of the mosquitoes from the back comes forward. She squashes it. You smile at each other.

Mileposts on the Kougarok road are white numerals, written vertically, on a traffic-sign-green background. They’re too small for plinkers to bother with. They’re also too small to be easy to spot. When you see one, though, you can read it.

Your daughter calls them out. Sometimes she misses one, but she always gets the next if she does. She’s reliable. If you say so, she’ll tell you it’s one more thing that doesn’t do anybody any good. You keep quiet, hoping she’ll know what you’re thinking.

"Mile seventy," she says at last. "Getting close."

"Uh-huh." Your hands are twinging worse now. You take the right one off the wheel and open and close it a couple of times. Then you do the same with the left. Maybe it helps a little.

"Mile seventy-one," your daughter says. Half a minute later, she points. "There!"