The prints were large, about four inches long and two inches wide. A series of them led off across the wet sand, disappearing over a hill. They were shaped like the letter ¨Y¨ with an extra prong in the middle, or like an upide-down peace symbol without the circle around it. Except, peace symbols didn´t usually have talon imprints at the tip of each line.
We followed the tracks over the hill and saw that they continued over the next crest. From my new vantage point I paused to look around, to see if any birds were yet visible. A warm gust of wind blew my hair across my eyes. The Rio Uruguay was slate-gray under a canopy of matching clouds. The beach was deserted this morning, all traces of yesterday´s beach-goers gone with the rain. They were all still sleeping, tucked into their tents back at the campsite. The only creatures awake at the moment were Kyle and me, and the birds we stalked.
Cresting the next sandy ledge, we were rewarded with the sight of four dark bodies standing near the water´s edge. I pulled out my binoculars and looked. Sure enough, they were Crested Caracaras, the birds we had been following. They were clustered on the shore, occipital crests blowing in the wind, picking around for leftover bait fish and scraps. Unlike most falcons, Caracaras were scavengers that rarely caught their own food. They also stood a full five inches taller than Peregrine Falcons, and had bare pink faces where most falcons had dark chinstraps.
As Kyle and I approached the birds for a better look, they took to the air, caught the warm river breeze and soared effortlessly to a point high above the beach. White wingtips and tails flashed in the flat morning light, and they called out with piercing cries before disappearing downshore.
I smiled as they winged out of sight. Five years ago I´d never have imagined I would someday track falcons across a beach in Argentina. "Well," I thought, "there´s a first time for everything."
