It’s a cool morning on the outskirts of Santa María Huatulco, Oaxaca, Mexico. The streetlights are still glowing in the waning darkness, illuminating the road and the bridge where the trucks and motorcycles cross the Huatulco River. But to the east, the clouds are pink, anticipating the sunrise.
The soundscape of this hour and this place is dominated by roosters and the burbling of water. In the distance, the great-tailed grackles (Quiscalus mexicanus) are giving their sharp notes. A rufous-backed robin (Turdus rufopalliatus) perches among the gravels of the river and whispers a melancholy whistle. And a spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularius) gives its rapid “pidip,” rocking its tail above the ripples.
Listening to the Huatulco River
The Huatulco River has many voices—and infinite stories. The water converses with the stones, burbling and gushing, always flowing towards the ocean. Sometimes the water roars horribly, like it did two years ago. Hurricane Agatha arrived with fury, carrying away bridges and great trees, leaving behind a rocky, open riverbed.
I imagine that the voices of the river were different before the hurricane, though I didn’t know them then. Now the plants are recovering, step by step, filling the river’s sunny course. It’s a process that will take decades before there are big trees at the river’s edge once again. But in the meanwhile, life in its diversity continues. And the river continues, speaking to us in the voices of water and stone, of cicada and cricket, of bird and squirrel, of the breeze through the forest canopy.
The stories of the river
Listening to the river, maybe we can sense the innumerable stories that it could tell us. There are stories of the importance of water, of how fundamental it is for life, of how we suffer when we lack it. There are stories of connection, of how there’s water in every living thing on the planet, of the abundance of life that lives here at the river’s edge. And there are stories of sustainable agriculture, of the coffee and oranges, the bananas and guanábana trees, of such a diversity of foods that grow here, in the midst of the forest.
But among the infinite stories the river could tell us, this time let’s focus on the voices themselves. Like last fall’s episodes along the Niobrara River in the United States and in Canada’s Kokanee Glacier Park, let’s get to know the Huatulco River through a portrait of its beings and its sounds.
The kapok tree and the kiskadee
I’ve followed the road upriver for forty minutes when I arrive at another bridge. I’m along a section of the river where the houses and the roosters are scarce, and the morning is flooded with the voices of the birds, a celebration of song.
A hint of mist rises slowly from a pool in the river, the vapor dancing in the morning light. In front of the bridge is a great kapok tree, its leafy canopy touching the sky. The change towards spring is evident in its tender new leaves, the color of copper. And there among the branches, a great kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus) is singing, the most conspicuous voice in the songbird chorus. Do you hear it, this repeated, insistent “kis-ka-dee”?
I follow the river downstream now, passing a patch of bamboo with elegant golden stems. A papaya tree at the edge of the forest has many immature, green fruits hanging on its trunk. One of them already has a hole where some bird, perhaps an oriole, was feeding.
A robin and a motmot
A rufous-backed robin is perched in a tree at the river’s edge, giving introspective whistles. In the distance we can hear other birds—yellow-winged caciques (Cassiculus melanicterus), cinnamon-bellied saltators (Saltator grandis) and black-headed saltators (Saltator atriceps), a white-tipped dove (Leptotila verreauxi), a handful of West Mexican chachalacas (Ortalis poliocephala). We’ll return to a few of their voices further along in the story. Another rufous-backed robin is answering the closer individual with the same type of whistle.
Suddenly, a slender form glides across the river and lands on a branch. It’s a rufous-crowned motmot (Momotus mexicanus), a bird dressed in the soft colors of the forest. His back has the greens of banana leaves and of the guarumbo tree (Cecropia sp.); his head is painted with tones of clay. Behind his eye is a patch of black and deep blue, of nighttime shadows surrounded by the sky at dusk.
The motmot moves his tail from side to side. The rufous-backed robins continue calling. And then the motmot begins to sing, a rough, deep syllable that he repeats every few seconds. Around here, the motmot is known as the pájaro burro for this song, deep like the voice of a burro.
Although I’ve seen motmots in this area all winter long, I just began hearing their burro-like song a few days ago, now that we’re in mid-March. Like the new leaves on the kapok tree by the bridge, this song seems to be a sign of spring.
The conversation of the birds, here and now
I follow the river, passing a curve, and arrive at a place where a palo mulato tree (Bursera sp.) spreads its reddish branches. The tree appears naked without its leaves. Its bark is peeling in rusty flakes. And here the voices of the birds are a racket, an intense cacophony of sounds that join the quiet conversation between water and stone.
The conversation is always unique, the signature of this place on earth at this particular moment. It makes me think about something that my friend Mayuko Fujino wrote recently. Mayuko, an amazing artist and nature-lover, grew up in Japan and now lives in the Hudson Valley of New York State, USA. Thinking about the birds and how every moment in nature is unique, she recently wrote about the Japanese concept of ichi-go ichi-e, the idea that every moment in life is unrepeatable and special. I couldn’t think of a better way to describe the soundscape of this place.
Getting to know the voices of place
At the same time, the unique voices of here and now form part of something universal, a sound signature of every place in nature made up of the voices of wind and water, bird and insect, coyote and puma. Sometimes it can be subtle. In the cold winter of my home landscape in Montana, USA, perhaps it’s nothing more than a lonely magpie among the sighing of the wind. But on a morning in May or June in that far-away northern place, it’s impossible to ignore, an upwelling of music orchestrated primarily by the breeding birds. They sing in the mountains, in the riparian cottonwood and willow forests, throughout the prairies where the western meadowlarks (Sturnella neglecta) and the vesper sparrows (Pooecetes gramineus) nest.
Here in Oaxaca, most of the breeding birds are different, but the voices are part of this same conversation, this upwelling of song and sound that defines and connects each place on earth. You can hear it from the capulines and guanacastles along the rivers, from the nopales and mesquites in the deserts, from the incredible diversity of treetops in the rainforest.
It’s a music that you can appreciate without understanding it. And even just listening like that, it’s beautiful. But it’s more than just a collection of pleasant sounds. The river, the birds, the insects: they’re our neighbors, and they’re talking with us. And if we get to know their voices, little by little, then these sounds become not just beauty, but also connection: a deep well of stories, a symphony of familiar voices. Each birdsong and each natural sound has a story.
The voices of nature
This episode marks the start of a new thread in the tapestry of stories, subjects, and connections that make up Wild With Nature. Along with each episode that I share with you here—episodes that celebrate the unique personalities of various places on earth, that speak of connection with nature, of birds and plants, of insects and migrations, of people and their stories—now I’m going to begin incorporating this theme of the voices of nature with more intention. It’s not something completely new. I spoke about it directly in last summer’s episode, Earth Song. And in many other stories I’ve woven in the voices of the birds and the sounds of nature. But from now on, I’ll be doing it more often and more intentionally.
Two great kiskadees have started to talk again now. Do you hear them, those noisy calls that stand out in spite of so many other birds? In the last few minutes, they’ve been quiet but busy, carrying twigs and filamentous flowers to a fork in the palo mulato tree. Here, they’re constructing their nest.
Getting to know the voices of the birds
Now I’m going to introduce you to a few more of the birds in this chorus. Let’s listen to the happy wren (Pheugopedius felix), with his beautiful whistle.
(14:37 in the podcast)
Note how he repeats the same phrase many times, one after another.
Now let’s listen to the other whistled song in this chorus, the cinnamon-bellied saltator.
(15:12 in the podcast)
This one doesn’t repeat the same phrase right away like the happy wren, and every phrase sounds like a question.
Let’s listen to another bird that was vocalizing at the start of this recording: the social flycatcher (Myiozetetes similis), a species that we got to know during February’s podcast in the city of Oaxaca. This bird looks like a smaller great kiskadee, but sounds very different. Here are the shrieks of the social flycatcher.
(15:59 in the podcast)
And now, to compare, let’s listen to the great kiskadee again.
(16:20 in the podcast)
Excellent! Now we’re almost ready to return to the whole recording from the palo mulato, to listen to it with trained ears. Let’s meet one more bird first, the black-headed saltator. It’s a relative of the cinnamon-bellied saltator, that bird that whistles a song that sounds like a question. But the song of the black-headed saltator is very different, a noisy chatter that accelerates.
(16:56 in the podcast)
The voices in the chorus
And now let’s return to the palo mulato tree where the great kiskadees are building their nest. Let’s listen once again. Can you hear the social flycatcher at the beginning of the recording? Do you notice the repetitive song of the happy wren? The cinnamon-bellied saltator is very distant, singing his questions from a sunny thicket beneath the guarumbos. But the black-headed saltators are just across the river, vocalizing noisily every little while. Do you hear other birds, as well?
If you didn’t catch the voices of all of the birds, don’t worry—it can be tricky at first, but with practice it will get easier. In the upcoming episodes, I’ll continue to explore this theme of the voices of nature. Sometimes I’ll focus on the details—and other times, I’ll just make space to feel the magic.
Magic along the Huatulco River
Because there’s magic here, without any doubt. Maybe we can find it in the conversation between water and stone. In the calls of the great kiskadees, talking to us from the kapok tree and the palo mulato. In the thoughtful whistles of the rufous-backed robins. The calls of the rufous-crowned motmot, the pájaro burro. In the screams of the social flycatcher. The song of the happy wren. In the questions of the cinnamon-bellied saltator. And in the noisy song of the black-headed saltator.
And so, I leave you with these voices of the Huatulco River, with this recording of a few unique, fleeting moments, this ichi-go ichi-e of nature’s universal conversation. When you’re done listening, go forth in the morning. Find a patch of trees or plants close to you, and listen. I hope you find the magic, too.