San Luis Valley twilight

Rio Grande among the mountains

The glowing Rio Grande 

Swainson's hawks watching me.

Even close to its source in the San Juan Mountains, the Rio Grande feels precarious. Running through downtown Alamosa in early September, the river had the braided look many western rivers get in dry times, more a series of overlapping stream. 

South of town, where the U.S. Department of Agriculture has water rights, the Rio Grande is a sturdy ribbon, but not appreciably larger than some of the agricultural canals that cut across the high-altitude farm country. At twilight, with a western rainstorm stretching down from the clouds, the palette of colors on its placid waters never fail to stun. 

This seldom-seen tract of public lands lies with Alamosa National Wildlife Refuge, part of the San Luis Valley Wildlife Refuge Complex. Further west lies the Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge, where one can see giant flocks of yellow-headed blackbirds and Sandhill cranes depending on the season. 

Alamosa's hawk tree

The Alamosa NWR starts innocuously with a city street crossing the railroad tracks before the road turns to gravel. Then comes the tree with the hawk nest. These are Swainson’s hawks, about the size of red-tailed hawks but a species that looks different enough to draw attention. 

At first glance, I thought it might be a golden eagle. Then a raptor that didn’t look so eagle-like landed next to the other one. I wouldn’t expect different raptor species to share space and confirmed the pair as Swainson’s hawks. 

These majestic hawks breed across the northern prairie, then migrate to Argentina for the winter. Every year hawks return to this tree, one of the few of any size along the Rio Grande. I could hear their non-cinematic cries as I took pictures. All movie birds of prey are portrayed by red-tailed hawks, so hearing the other cries was welcome. It also reminded what a wild land sat just off the main road in the San Luis Valley. 

The former visitor center had an unusual amount of activity this evening. I signed up for a twilight hike in the refuge, sponsored by SLV Go, a local outdoor organization, and advocates for the Sangre de Cristo Dark Sky Reserve, which would exist on both sides of the Sangre de Cristo Range from Westcliffe down to the New Mexico border. The Great Sand Dunes National Park already achieved the designation, as has the town of Westcliff on the mountain range’s east side. 

Great horned owl in the twilight

The porcupines never arrived although the ranger pointed out the general area where they den. A native toad hopped across the path, barely visible in the underbrush. On a distant fencepost, a great horned owl stood sentinel, waiting for prey to emerge in the twilight. Birds and insects chattered from the thicket. At one point, a mule deer snorted. We lost light quickly along the trail. 

We returned with daylight running out. The local astronomers had set up their telescopes. For the most part, we did not need them. 

The stars were spectacular. The moment brought the universe into view in this dark sky zone. What little light emanated from Alamosa seven miles away could not blot out the galactic core of the Milky Way and dozens of constellations I had never seen before. 

As exquisite as it all was, I had to leave due to Saturday commitments across the mountains. Next time I would stay overnight in the valley. But this time I had to make the journey back across La Veta Pass then up the interstate to the Springs. 

The stars would stay alight above me, but I would only remember the ones that popped into view above the valley and its fragile river.

White-face ibis flock