Headlight Pond, My First List, Guadalupe, El Tianguis, Mission Market, The Golf Course, The Sands of Pima Arroyo, Desert Varnish, Elliot and Cooper Roads, Desert Sushi, The Sudden and Mysterious Apparition of the Green Flies, You Run into Larry, Microsoft Poem, Gilbert and Riggs Road, Chandler Aiport, The Turkey Vulture and Convergent Evolution, Greenfield and Guadalupe Roads, Arthur Conan Doyle's Lost World, One Coyote and Two Raccoons, The Final List
 

Here's the game. You're going to take a day trip starting in Chandler, Arizona, and on the trip you will try to identify as many species of bird as you can. Don't worry; I will be with you at all times to help. At the end of the day, I will even help you make a Day List of all of the birds you have seen. That is how nice a guy I am.

Your trip is called the Day Trip Game because what you do is a game and nothing more, and, as with most games, you will keep meticulous score. The following will tell you how to play the Day Trip Game.

Your day trip is about to begin. You will go to a number of  birding areas within striking distance of Chandler, and I will personally give you directions every step of the way. I will also tell you which birds you will see and which you will not. This trip will not be especially rigorous physically, but it will be fast paced. You need to hit a lot of areas in a short time in order to add the greatest number of birds to your day list. You will go to the following places:

Pima Canyon (desert birds)
Elliot and Cooper Roads (shore birds, ducks)
Gilbert and Riggs Road (grebes, herons)
Chandler Airport (burrowing owl)
Guadalupe and Greenfield (sparrows, shorebirds)
Guadalupe and Power Roads (black-crowned night-herons)
The Boyce Thompson Arboretum (woodland birds, shorebirds, desert birds)

An important part of the Day Trip Game is the list you are going to make.  Before you start your trip, then, you need to know a little about lists. The story of my own first Day List is a good place to start. I'll make it brief.
On April 17, 1971, I was 19 years old, restless and pigheaded, and I walked up to my father and said, "Hey, why don't you take me bird watching today? I don't know diddle!" My dad was a premier bird watcher, but he didn't often drag me along because I was busy with other interests and he didn't think I'd want to go. On this day, however, for some reason I was determined to end my avian ignorance.

He took me to a place called Headlight Pond, so named by us because on a subsequent trip there some young toughs bashed the headlights out of our Ford 490 V-8 Station Wagon. The pond was on the north side of the dry Salt River down a sandy road somewhere within the Mesa city limits. It was bordered by cottonwoods and reeds.
Almost thirty years have passed, and from time to time I drive back out and look for the place. The landscape has changed so much with bulldozing and development that I'm not sure if Headlight Pond still exists although there is one wet and wooded oasis out there that I feel could very well be a candidate. The pond may be gone, but one thing does remain from that time, and that is my bird list for the day:

Day List April 17, 1971  Headlight Pond, Mesa, Arizona
 

1. Black-crowned Night- Heron*
2. Gambel's Quail
3. American Kestrel
4. Bald Eagle
5. Blue-winged Teal*
6. American Coot
7. Mourning Dove
8. Inca Dove
9. Rock Dove
10. Greater Roadrunner
11. Cassin's Kingbird*
12. Cliff Swallow*
13. Northern Rough-winged   Swallow*
14. Ruby-crowned Kinglet*
15. Yellow-rumped Warbler*
16. Yellow-headed  Blackbird*
17. Western Meadowlark
18. House Sparrow
19. Great-tailed Grackle
20. Green-tailed Towhee*
21. Brewer's Sparrow*
22. White-crowned  Sparrow*

As you can see, I saw just 22 species that day, but 10 of them I had never seen before. (Those are the birds with the asterisks.) If you're a bird watcher, you call such sightings "life listers" because it's the first time you have seen them in your life. Asterisked birds on the day list above go onto another list that you compile. It's called a "life list." For example, the Black-crowned Night-heron on the day list above is -- and forever will be -- on my life list too, with the notation of the date, April 17, 1971, and the place, Headlight Pond. There can never be another Black-crowned Night-heron on my life list because you can only see a bird for the first time once.  Each life lister is unique. Such is the nature of the life list.  But enough about my lists; it's time for you to make yours. The Day Trip Game begins now.
It's 6:30 in the morning. You get in your new Nissan Frontier truck with your little dog Noodles and head west down Guadalupe Road until you reach Avenida del Yaqui in the municipality of Guadalupe. You're going to Pima Canyon because you can pick up several species of bird there that you may not see elsewhere and every species counts when you play the Day Trip Game.

You pass the Tianguis shopping area wishing it were later in the day and you could stop and buy tacos, listen to the Mariachis, and drink beer. There's a three-beer limit, by the way, because it's a tough barrio. Once you went there and people came up seemingly to dance to the music. It was a dance of sorts. "El balet de los pinos blancos" (the White Pine Ballet) you called it because these people started hitting each other with two-by-fours. The merchants in the shops poured out and broke up the fight pretty fast, but you still get a little nervous when you go there.

 Now you drive past the Mission Market the only source of Castillo Brand Salsa Habanera in town and make a note to come back when they're open to restock your habanera larder despite the downright scary clientele.

Your truck rumbles over the freeway overpass and you follow the road down to the former site of a gorgeous desert that no longer exists. Ahwatukee's beige squalor mars the once beautiful scenery as you enter South Mountain Park's Pima Canyon. The obscenity of a golf course on the side of the road irks you. You remember once walking on one of the golf cart paths and how you were given the fish eye by the golfers as if they owned the place. Ahead, a man on the green attempts a putt, and you give him a little honk just to sharpen him up and keep him on the bounce. Then, instinctively, you accelerate to put some distance between you and him in case he gets it into his head to hop into his car and make something of it. He is armed with a club after all.

The beauty of Pima Canyon is like that of no other place on earth. It is a dust-dry, desert beauty with piles of gigantic, domed granite boulders for hills -- and arroyos that lead into gorges lined with saguaro and cholla and mesquite. The place smells of desert tree sap and creosote. When the summer and winter rains fall on the canyon, the water mixes with the carbon dioxide on the ground to make carbonic acid. The acid leaches the light feldspar in the granite and transforms it to clay which has more volume by far than the feldspar and thus causes the boulders to exfoliate in crumbling beads. Simultaneously, time has let the dew and the windblown dust stain the boulders with iron and manganese oxide that give the well-known purplish-brown "desert varnish" patina to the stones of the desert. There isn't enough rain in such dry regions to wash these accumulations away.

In the past, you have made a sport of choosing the hottest day of summer to hike the whole arroyo. Today you will not walk for long because time is short and the birds you need to see are not far down the wash. You grab your binoculars and birding notebook, leash your dog Noodles, and head on down the sands of Pima Arroyo together.

In only a minute, you and Noodles have a black-throated sparrow. You will likely not see this bird at the other sites you have chosen to visit, so you are glad to write him down in your notebook. You know that any birder from the east would jump at the chance to see this desert bird -- and not necessarily just to add him to their list as a trophy but because it is an especially attractive one. Its throat, as advertised, is black, but its face is too, and there are two bright stripes of white -- one above the eye and one below -- like some kind of wicked sparrow's war paint.

More birders are fanatical about warblers than about sparrows, but sparrows are a pretty good group. Their migrations aren't usually quite as dramatic and fascinating, and they aren't usually the multi-colored songsters that warblers are, but then again there are quite a lot of them -- about thirty in a pinch, and when you add their brethren, the towhees and finches and larkspurs and grosbeaks, etc. into the mix you've got quite enough to make a full-time hobby for yourself. Besides, after you see the black-throated sparrow, you realize that you just plain like these birds.

Not far in the distance you hear two bird calls: that of the cactus wren, one of the most common sounds of the desert -- like an uncooperative Volkswagen that doesn't want to start as you turn the key again and again and again -- and that of the canyon wren, which once heard is impossible to forget. The canyon wren's continuously descending notes are usually the only sign of the bird; that is, the bird is often heard but seldom seen. In Pima Canyon, however, they seem to show themselves more often, and on this trip -- even though you can legally add a bird to the list with a "heard only" notation -- I propose that you actually see one climbing furiously around the rocks well up a cliff face. That is how nice a guy I am.

It's a very small bird with a clear white breast, a brown back, and the typical short, cocked tail of a wren. You see the cactus wren as well and make a bit of a comparative study then and there: the cactus wren is a true giant among wrens; witness the difference in size between him and the tiny canyon wren you were just lucky enough to see.

Before you leave Pima Canyon, you identify a number of other birds that you write down on your list, but the most important of these are the curve-billed thrasher and the black-tailed gnatcatcher. You'll likely see the thrasher at the arboretum later today, but you never know -- and despite the fact that you have identified 112 species at Elliot and Cooper Roads, you have yet to see one there, so it's best to get him down on the list now. Why take chances?

The curve-billed thrasher is a robin-sized bird with orange eyes. It either likes to sit high on a saguaro or, conversely, root around in the brush. You always feel that thrashers and towhees and other ground-loving birds are the favorite prey of snakes. You worry about them a little when you see them kicking around on the rattlesnaky ground. You wouldn't stick your feet down under that bush would you?

Next to the curve-billed thrasher is a similar bird with a  lemon yellow eye and a shorter beak. You think to yourself that it's a Bendire's thrasher, but reconsider when you see how sociable it's being with the curve-billed. Young curve-billed thrashers look like Bendires with the shorter beak and the lighter eye, so you don't write Bendire's down in your notebook -- and I'll tell you in advance that you will see no Bendire's thrasher today. You could, of course, but your day trip has to have some realism to it, and I can't give you every bird that's possible. That's a fact of life in the Day Trip Game.

Black-tailed gnatcatchers are small, super active birds that climb all over the bushes and flick their tails. The underside of the tail is solid black except for the thinnest border of white. Since he is always flicking his tail, you get a good look at this, and it confirms that it is not a blue-gray gnatcatcher, whose tail is solid white underneath except for the narrowest line of black down the center. Chances are this will be the only gnatcatcher you'll see today.

You're happy now with your count at Pima Canyon, so it's time to head over to Elliot and Cooper Roads. On the way back, a golfer on the green is hunched in concentration just five feet shy of the hole. Oh, man! It's like waving a red flag in front of me, you think, but you hold yourself in check and forego another honk. (Discipline, after all, is an integral part of the Day Trip Game.) Twenty minutes later, you arrive at Elliot and Cooper Roads. The birding area is behind the fire station, and there is lots of room to park your truck.

Just pulling up you get a killdeer, a mockingbird, a loggerhead shrike, and an Anna's hummingbird. The loggerhead shrike is always a welcome sight because it is such a tough bird. If you were to describe it, you would say, "Imagine a stocky mockingbird with a black mask, a heavy, hooked beak, and a bad 'tude." The shrike flies low over the ground with rapid wing beats before it flies up to a perch from which it can hunt. You can't help but like shrikes because they impale their prey on barbed wire or thorns. How cool is that? In some places you have seen an entire length of barbed wire fence with a lizard, a grasshopper, or a mouse stuck on nearly every barb. Dogs bury bones. Shrikes make desert sushi.

You get Noodles back on her leash and step out of the truck. Your luck is running hot today and you see a mouse impaled on the chain link fence. Your camera is handy too and you snap a photo:

\

The Elliot and Cooper site is run by the Riparian Institute. It consists of a number of acres of land into which treated waste water is pumped to form ponds. The water percolates through the aquifer and is pumped back up from underground to be used again. The ponds attract a great number of shorebirds.

Groups from high schools and other organizations have come to help with the landscaping of the place. Along the cement trail that leads to the main viewing ponds is a nice variety of desert plants. You're weak on the names of desert plants and are painfully aware of it. For this reason, you are not especially critical of people who don't know birds. You can't be when you yourself are walking along saying, "Hmmm. That nice bush! Ugh! That nice weed..." One of the plants has a sign that reads "Lavender Sage." You break off some leaves, crush them, and give them a whiff. The scent of lavender is overwhelming. You make a mental note to get one of these plants for the desert yard you are creating at your Chandler home.

You tug on the leash but Noodles has stopped under the lavender sage brush plant and arched her little back. Her tail crooks. Noodles' habit, you see, is first to make a question mark and then a Tootsie Roll. Normal doggie behavior. And yet this common canine action is often concomitant with one of the most puzzling of nature's events: The Sudden and Mysterious Apparition of the Green Flies.

Many people throughout the centuries must have felt compelled as you do now to put the mystery to verse -- just light verse in your case, mind you -- nothing too high-browed. And at this yearning, this time, the words to express the enigma come to you almost all at once:

There's a certain kind of green fly
You know the ones I mean
The ones when doggie defecates
Come flyin' on the scene
They appear as if by magic
They appear as in a dream
With their emerald opalescence
And their iridescent sheen
When doggie doesn't defecate
These flies are never seen!
So where do green flies come from?
From some green fly machine?
From the carcass of a rotting steer
In some dried-up ravine?
Where do green flies come from?
Do they hatch from a green fly bean?
Or when doggie poops
Does someone somewhere open up a screen
And let the green flies fly about
To on her stool convene?
I'll never know the answer
But I judge from their cuisine
That the place the green flies call their home
Is a place that's none too clean!

After this muse, you head up the walkway. There is a stocky man in his sixties looking through a spotting scope. You realize that it is your friend Larry, who is a completely insane bird watching nut case. He's got the scope focused on the shallows on the other side of the pond. You walk up, look through the scope, and see a stilt sandpiper. "Holy cow!" you say. "A stilt sandpiper!"

"They were over at the water ranch yesterday," Larry says. Larry always refers to the Guadalupe and Greenfield site as the "water ranch."

Since you are something of a sandpiper nut, you are happy to see this bird. You like sandpipers because of the vicarious pleasure you get from watching them root around in the shallows. The stilt sandpiper is migrating south from the Arctic Circle where he spends his summers. Arizona is well west of this bird's typical migration path, and so you feel lucky that he has strayed this far. A greater yellowlegs is standing next to him, and you note the similarities between the two: both are grayish wading birds with long yellow legs. Yet they are easy to tell apart; the greater yellowlegs, a full eleven inches long, has a slightly upturned bill while the stilt sandpiper is almost four inches smaller from its tail to its beak -- and that beak is only half as long and has a gentle downward turn starting in the middle as if someone had reached out and bent it just a bit.

Wading in the shallows are more sandpipers, tiny ones whose catch-all name is "peeps." These tiny peeps you identify as Least Sandpipers because their legs appear slightly yellowish. Larry now has a western sandpiper spotted in his scope. You look and see the darker legs and the heavier bill with the distinct droop at the tip. It's good that Larry is here because you are never comfortable telling leasts from westerns. They look too much alike for you, and besides, sometimes you really need to have a scope.

Amid the peeps and other sandpipers is a group of fifty long-billed dowitchers. For some reason, these are just about your favorite birds. Something magical happens in your mind and in your imagination when you see long-billed dowitchers. Perhaps it is because you know that they have flown all of the way down from Alaska and yet in the late summer seem at home here wading in the boiling waters under a blazing Arizona sun.

Long-billed Dowitchers

Dowitchers are fist-sized, somewhat chubby wading birds with short tails. They have tremendously long bills with which they make a constant sewing machine motion as they probe for mollusks and insect larvae on the muddy flats. They look a great deal like snipes, but they tend to congregate in the open while snipes are more solitary and keep to the cover near shore. Today, you will not be awarded a snipe although they have been seen here on a number of occasions. Snipes just aren't common enough to reasonably add to your list. Sorry; maybe some other time.

You recall that one of your rare encounters with snipes resulted in a small contribution to literature -- if you care to call it that. Here's what happened: You were diddling on the e-mail writing a letter to Nancy, Larry's wife. You were using Microsoft Outlook and were vexed by its broken interface. You curse: "Microsoft: Milestones in Poor Craftsmanship!" Each paragraph return was dragging the left margin around  and refusing to wrap, so you got miffed and just started hitting the return key with each sentence or phrase, making breaks whenever you darned well felt like it. Then, you sent the message in a snit. Nancy read it and e-mailed you back. Could she send her friend your wonderful "poem?"  You responded, "Sure."

Here's the so-called poem:

Nancy,

You will be happy to know that driving home yesterday
I espied a Long-billed Dowitcher on the side of the road
Close to rush hour traffic.
I applied the brakes,
Immediately reassessing and realizing
That it was a snipe!
I swung around
And picked up Mr. Inland Sandpiper.
He was very pretty --
Very very pretty was he indeed!
With a chocolate back,
A rosewood beak, (a teak beak)
And a tail like a Texas Prairie Chicken.
Oh, he was a fine, fine -- and beauteous creature,
Quiet and reserved,
And headed for the last round-up too I should think.
I left him in some weeds
And drove away.
 

You never told her it wasn't really a poem.
Larry and you start identifying ducks and you get almost all of the most common ones here. That's the whole point of hitting Elliot and Cooper Roads; you'll get nine species of duck alone here -- easy: blue-winged teal, green-winged teal, cinnamon teal, shoveler, wigeon, pintail, ruddy duck, ring-necked duck, and gadwall.

We'll say that this is a good time of year for ducks -- it's not mid summer when the ponds are drab with just various shades of mallard, so I'm going to be generous and throw in the black-bellied whistling-duck and the bufflehead as well. That is how nice a guy I am.

The whistling-duck's nationality is basically Mexican. It's a tree duck with a bright orange bill and long legs, and it is as rare as heck around the Southwest except near Chandler. (I'm following the official spelling, by the way, with that ridiculous hyphen that messes me up in my database when I try to sort by "duck." I don't appreciate having to find this duck indexed under "Whistler's Mother" or some such heading instead of under "duck." I wrote the American Ornithologists Union and got word that they planned to fix these hyphen problems, but if anything they've put more in. They must have lost my letter and forgotten our agreement. Curses!)

"Hey, Larry," you say, pointing at a page in your bird book. "The whistling-duck's range doesn't come anywhere near here."

"Ah, don't look at those maps!" he replies. He doesn't like the book you use as much as you do.
The bufflehead is a diving sea duck that has stopped in to visit. It is a male and is snow white -- blindingly white. It spends so much time underwater that you don't ever get a very long look at him. You'll see him surface and say, "There he is!" to which Larry says, "Where?" and you say, "Over there -- oh, but he dived again!"  A minute later Larry says, "There he is!" and you say "Where?" and Larry says ....

Well, you get the idea.

Larry loves the day trip game and you invite him to join. You take your vehicles and drive all the way around the Elliot and Cooper site identifying birds. You write a lot of birds on your day lists. Then you drive over to Gilbert and Riggs roads.

The Gilbert and Riggs roads site is a large fenced-off pond that you can't get very close to. You know, however, that its deeper water is attractive to canvasbacks and redheads, two diving ducks you didn't see at Elliot and Cooper. You look through the fence with your binoculars and quickly identify those two along with a lot of grebes, herons and egrets, including the snowy egret, whose feet look as though the bird had just stepped in the brightest yellow paint. You find the snowy's feet somewhat gross.

Larry and you agree to swing by Chandler Airport simply to get the burrowing owl on your lists. It isn't very far out of the way and when you get there, two of the birds are there -- one standing on the ground and the other on the chain link fence. They are small, long-legged diurnal owls that prefer to live in prairie dog burrows or other holes in the ground.
You reflect that you are not particularly fond of owls. It is a personal, highly subjective feeling. For some reason, for all their interest and beauty, they just don't send you. People are surprised when you tell them that you feel the same way about hawks. You're happy to identify them, but it seems somehow a cliché to be heavily into* them. They look cheap  to you -- like velvet paintings of Elvis or scenic depictions on the sides of van conversions.

An apparent exception is the turkey vulture, a giant, voiceless bird, which you record with the simple abbreviation, "TV" in your notebook. The bird is nearly as big as an eagle and hangs now over the airport as if painted in the sky. Your book says, "Feeding vultures are soon joined by others flying in from beyond human vision." You find these words fascinating and you read a bit more and say, "Hey, Larry. The turkey vulture isn't even in the hawk family."
"Yeah, they're in the Carthartidae family," Larry says. "Closer to flamingos and storks."

You read in the book that hawks are in the Accipitridae family and that only Old World -- not New World -- vultures are hawks. It's an instance of convergent evolution. They've evolved separately and similarly to fit similar conditions.

Now you understand why you like the turkey vulture better than hawks; it isn't really a hawk at all, and instinctively you must have always known it. It looks like an Old World vulture only because of convergent evolution -- the same way Ichthyosaurus, an extinct sea-going reptile; the porpoise, a mammal; and the shark, a fish all have very similar shapes. That's also how saber-toothed tigers became completely extinct and "re-evolved" again much later.

There's a canal near the airport, and I will let you have a nice green-backed tree swallow soaring over it since there aren't many other birds around and since you had to drive out of your way. That is how nice a guy I am.

Larry suggests going to his house and picking up Nancy. That way the three of you can finish the day trip together. You caravan over to their house and Nancy and Larry get in your truck and you're off to Greenfield and Guadalupe, the "water ranch."

There is plenty of water in the shallow ponds at the water ranch and you are very lucky to get the Wilson's phalarope, a bird now classified as a sandpiper. It is the only phalarope that isn't pelagic; that is, it does not live most of its life at sea. The book calls him the "landlubber of the family." Phalaropes spin like toy ducks on still, shallow water. Their spinning causes a vortex that brings insect larvae and other food to the surface where they pick at it with their needle-like bills. Bird watchers say, "If it swims and if it spins, it's a phalarope."

Near the shore of a pond, on a sunflower, eating the seeds is a lesser goldfinch. Usually, they are much brighter yellow and prettier, but this one looks kind of ratty. You write him down on your list.

An American avocet, a rather large white, stilt-like bird with and upturned bill is high in the sky flying circles around a turkey vulture, harassing him. It always surprises you to see these waders get into the air and fly like jet fighters. You recall how you once had difficulty identifying a flock of birds that were flying like mad in perfect unison around the shore of Canyon Lake. It was only when they landed that you said, "Well, heck -- they're just white-faced ibises!" You never knew they could fly like that. And today at the water ranch, as if on cue, you spot a half dozen of them wading in the shallows a hundred feet from shore. You write them down on your day list.

By the time you leave the water ranch, you have also added a brewer's sparrow and a vesper sparrow to your list -- and a lot of other birds. The brewer's sparrow you identified by its unstreaked breast and clear, light complexion and the vesper sparrow was obvious by its white outer tail feathers as it flew away.

A black-crowned night-heron flies overhead and at that Nancy and Larry suggest skipping the site at Guadalupe and Power Roads. They only wanted to go there to get that one bird, so what was the point now? You agree somewhat reluctantly because the last time you went there you scanned the shore for peeps and saw instead two absolutely gigantic iguanas sunning themselves in the mouth of a storm sewer pipe. They must have been pet store escapees, but the view through your binoculars looked like a scene from Arthur Conan Doyle's Lost World. These were practically the size of Komodo dragons, and it wouldn't surprise you if they dined on the occasional stray cat.

You all get back in the truck and drive to the Boyce Thompson Arboretum just three miles south of Superior, Arizona. The arboretum is a spectacular mixture of canyon/riparian, woodland, and desert and it's enough for a decent day trip all by itself. The first thing you see is a cardinal, and in only a few minutes you've got two species of tanager, two species of cowbird, a yellow-breasted chat, a zillion Phainopeplas, a hermit thrush, a spotted towhee, a ruby-crowned kinglet, and a host of other woodland birds including the yellow-bellied sapsucker.

You aren't surprised by this; you knew you would get a lot of new species here. As you walk along the canyon walls, white-throated swifts rocket by chittering loudly. Among them are violet green swallows that look very much the same in color pattern and body shape, and they hang out together in the same habitat doing the same stuff. They belong to different families, so this is another case of convergent evolution.

A coyote steps out onto the trail and Noodles barks. Larry says, "Yah!" and the coyote prances away. A little later, the trail leads to a bluff, and looking down you see Ayer Lake. Two raccoons are walking into the reeds near the shore. You are surprised to see such nocturnal creatures out in the day, but there they are. Raccoons are known to kill little dogs like Noodles, and their presence bothers you much more than the coyote's.

On the shore of Ayer Lake is a sora rail. This is a small dark bird with a yellow chicken-like beak. It is surprisingly tame and you approach quite close to it. A pied-billed grebe paddles across the water along with a half dozen coots.

Larry and Nancy and you spend perhaps three hours at the arboretum before you feel it is time to leave. You've logged a good number of birds, and you all go to the picnic tables to figure out your day lists. You, of course, will have an advantage because you went to Pima Canyon. But that doesn't matter. It's only a game. Your list for the entire day is printed below. You have only to put an asterisk by each life lister. You'll find that I have been more than generous; I've given you 107 species in one day which is more than I ever got playing the Day Trip Game myself. Call me an old softy, but I really felt that I ought to spot you a few extras.

That is how nice a guy I am.

DAY LIST OCTOBER 29, 2000
1. Abert's Towhee Elliot and Cooper Roads
2. American Avocet Guadalupe and Greenfield
3. American Coot Arboretum
4. American Kestrel Gilbert and Riggs
5. American Pipit Elliot and Cooper Roads
6. American Robin Arboretum
7. American Wigeon Elliot and Cooper Roads
8. Anna's Hummingbird Elliot and Cooper Roads
9. Ash-throated Flycatcher Pima Canyon
10. Barn Swallow Elliot and Cooper Roads
11. Bewick's Wren Arboretum
12. Black Phoebe Elliot and Cooper Roads
13. Black-bellied Whistling-Duck Elliot and Cooper Roads
14. Black-chinned Hummingbird Arboretum,
15. Black-crowned Night-Heron Guadalupe and Greenfield
16. Black-necked Stilt Elliot and Cooper Roads
17. Black-tailed Gnatcatcher Pima Canyon
18. Black-throated Sparrow Pima Canyon
19. Blue-winged Teal Elliot and Cooper Roads
20. Brewer's Sparrow Guadalupe and Greenfield
21. Vesper Sparrow Guadalupe and Greenfield
22. Bronzed Cowbird Arboretum
23. Brown-headed Cowbird Arboretum
24. Bufflehead Elliot and Cooper Roads
25. Cactus Wren Pima Canyon
26. Canvasback Gilbert and Riggs
27. Canyon Wren Pima Canyon
28. Cinnamon Teal Elliot and Cooper Roads
29. Cliff Swallow Elliot and Cooper Roads
30. Common Merganser Gilbert and Riggs
31. Common Moorhen Elliot and Cooper Roads
32. Common Raven Arboretum
33. Common Yellowthroat Arboretum,
34. Curve-billed Thrasher Pima Canyon
35. Dark-eyed Junco Arboretum
36. Double-crested Cormorant Gilbert and Riggs
37. Eared Grebe Gilbert and Riggs
38. European Starling Pima Canyon
39. Gadwall Elliot and Cooper Roads
40. Gambel's Quail Pima Canyon
41. Gila Woodpecker Pima Canyon
42. Great Blue Heron Elliot and Cooper Roads
43. Great Egret Elliot and Cooper Roads
44. Great-tailed Grackle Pima Canyon
45. Greater Roadrunner Elliot and Cooper Roads
46. Greater Yellowlegs Elliot and Cooper Roads
47. Green Heron Elliot and Cooper Roads
48. Green-winged Teal Elliot and Cooper Roads
49. Harris's Hawk Gilbert and Riggs
50. Hermit Thrush Arboretum
51. Hooded Oriole Arboretum
52. House Finch Pima Canyon
53. House Sparrow Pima Canyon
54. Killdeer Elliot and Cooper Roads
55. Least Sandpiper Elliot and Cooper Roads
56. Lesser Goldfinch Guadalupe and Greenfield
57. Loggerhead Shrike Elliot and Cooper Roads
58. Long-billed Dowitcher Elliot and Cooper Roads
59. Lucy's Warbler Arboretum
60. Mallard Elliot and Cooper Roads
61. Mourning Dove Pima Canyon
62. Northern Cardinal Arboretum
63. Northern Flicker Pima Canyon
64. Northern Harrier Elliot and Cooper Roads
65. Northern Mockingbird Elliot and Cooper Roads
66. Northern Pintail Elliot and Cooper Roads
67. Northern Rough-winged SwallowElliot and Cooper Roads
68. Northern Shoveler Elliot and Cooper Roads
69. Orange-crowned Warbler Elliot and Cooper Roads
70. Peregrine Falcon Elliot and Cooper Roads
71. Phainopepla Arboretum
72. Pied-billed Grebe Arboretum
73. Red-naped Sapsucker Arboretum
74. Red-tailed Hawk Pima Canyon
75. Red-winged Blackbird Elliot and Cooper Roads
76. Redhead Gilbert and Riggs
77. Ring-necked Duck Elliot and Cooper Roads
78. Rock Dove Elliot and Cooper Roads
79. Rock Wren Arboretum
80. Ruby-crowned Kinglet Arboretum
81. Ruddy Duck Elliot and Cooper Roads
82. Say's Phoebe Arboretum
83. Snowy Egret Gilbert and Riggs
84. Song Sparrow Arboretum,
85. Sora Arboretum
86. Spotted Towhee Arboretum
87. Stilt Sandpiper Elliot and Cooper Roads
88. Summer Tanager Arboretum
89. Tree Swallow Chandler Airport
90. Turkey Vulture Chandler Airport
91. Verdin Pima Canyon
92. Vesper Sparrow Guadalupe and Greenfield
93. Violet-green Swallow Arboretum
94. Western Grebe Gilbert and Riggs
95. Western Kingbird Arboretum
96. Western Meadowlark Elliot and Cooper Roads
97. Western Sandpiper Elliot and Cooper Roads
98. Western Tanager Arboretum
99. White-crowned Sparrow Elliot and Cooper Roads
100. White-faced Ibis Guadalupe and Greenfield
101. White-throated Swift Arboretum
102. Wilson's Phalarope Guadalupe and Greenfield
103. Wilson's Warbler Arboretum,
104. Yellow Warbler Arboretum
105. Yellow-bellied Sapsucker Arboretum
106. Yellow-breasted Chat Arboretum
107. Yellow-rumped Warbler Arboretum