Three Days of the Condor at Pinnacles National Park
“Hello. I am a male California Condor. Lacking a syrinx, I’m mute, and cannot sing like your backyard birds. But if I could talk a human language, I would tell you that I was hatched at the Oregon Zoo on May 17, 2018. I was released into the wild at Pinnacles National Park on January 27, 2020. I’m a social and curious bird, which is the reason I landed on the boulder near you to take a closer look.”
We know this information about the condor pictured above thanks to ongoing captive breeding projects begun in 1982 to save the California Condor (Gymnogyps californianus) from extinction. The population had dwindled to a mere 22 individuals. Since they lay only one egg, and don’t breed every year, you can imagine the odds against the species’ survival. Left unaided, our condors were clearly on an express train to oblivion.
At one time, California Condors soared high in the skies across much of North America. Native Americans depict it in their art (pictographs, petroglyphs, and totems), and celebrate the spirit of this unique species in their legends. They call it Thunderbird because of a belief that it brings thunder and rain to the skies by flapping its wings.
Keen on insuring genetic diversity, biologists set out to capture all remaining condors and place them in breeding facilities at the Los Angeles Zoo and the San Diego Wild Animal Park. Other entities eventually joined the effort, including the Oregon Zoo, the World Center for Birds of Prey (Boise, Idaho), Ventana Wildlife Society in Big Sur, Ca., and Pinnacles. Eggs would be collected, incubated, and returned to adults for nurturing of the resulting chicks.
My interest in California Condors arose in the early 1990’s when I read an article about captive bred condors being released in Southern California, where exactly I don't recall. I took a very long, hope-filled drive from my home in Huntington Beach to a location somewhere in the wilds of Los Angeles County, I believe, where I might photograph one. I walked all around, did some hiking, looking for a trail sign or some other reference point. I peered high into the treetops with binoculars looking for a roosting bird, all to no avail. I was sure I was in the correct location described in the article.
Disappointment at having made such a determined effort to see a condor turned to irritation when I later discovered that the condor reserve location had been moved elsewhere, and was inaccessible to the general public. Either the writer of that article didn’t know condor poop about condors, or the article was sorely out of date. In any event, my curiosity about condors evaporated, and dreams of seeing one faded into the furthest recesses of my mind.
A turning point for that elusive goal came about in 2024 when my Sierra hiking group scheduled a trip to Pinnacles National Park in Central California. One of the official attractions of Pinnacles is the possibility of spotting wild California Condors soaring on thermals over the rugged, volcanic rock faces that give the park its name.
California Condor flies over face of Pinnacles cliff
Pinnacles is one of the few places where condors now breed in the wild, laying and incubating that single egg, attending to a chick for six months until it fledges, and nurturing it for an additional six months or more until it becomes fully independent. Five chicks successfully fledged there in 2024.
Condors have no need to construct a nest. An open cavity in a large diameter tree will do. A craggy ledge on rocky cliffs high above the valley is another preferred location, away from the clutches of land based natural predators, as well as biologists that have to rappel down the face of the cliff to do their scientific work.
A possible condor nest site
Remembering my first attempt at condor viewing many years before, I was reluctant to make the three hour drive from my home in the foothills of the Sierra, south of Yosemite National Park, without some assurance of seeing one of rarest birds in the world. After all, while they roost in Pinnacles, they might fly upwards of 200 miles on a single day looking for carrion to consume. Having a wingspan of almost ten feet, and riding on updrafts and thermals that increase with a warming day, it is not hard for them to do.
All things considered, I was doubtful of the prospect of seeing a condor in the wild, anywhere. My hiking comrades did their best to reassure me with highly qualified statements such as: “Oh, yes, of course, there is a chance you will see one.”
One friend even attested to having spotted a condor standing on a sign post near a parking lot. Eyebrows raised, I countered with unmasked skepticism: “Are you sure it was not a Turkey Vulture?” Both species have naked heads and black feathers on their body.
Seen from afar, and without binoculars, it can be hard to distinguish the two species as they fly high above the ground. Holding their expansive wings straight out, flat as a board, and rarely flapping, California Condors have very stable flight movement. On the other hand, the much shorter wings of the Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura) held in a shallow V position, produce a more tippy glide, and require more flapping.
All things considered, the white feather triangle on the underside of the leading edge of the California Condor wing clearly distinguishes it from the Turkey Vulture, whose wings are silver on the trailing edge.
I decided to make the journey, though. At the very least, I’d be visiting another national park and get a good hike under my boots as well. My expedition is a story unto itself, which you will read below. It was April 1, 2024.
There were a variety of routes our group could take. We set out on the High Peaks and Bear Gulch Trail Loop, 6.7 miles round trip with an elevation gain of 1,425 feet. “Strenuous,” the park brochure states. True to the nature of our group, we were all up for the challenge. The thought of seeing one of those elusive birds provided all the motivation I needed.
The most consequential choice we would make was whether to go into, or go around the talus cave section of the trail at the very beginning. Talus caves are not like what you might imagine a cave to be. They are created by the random stacking of massive boulders into a narrow space during a rockfall event. In the 1930’s, the Army Corps of Engineers cleaned out the rubble, making the cave passable.
The cave is open most of the year when the resident bats are hibernating, but not when they are “pupping.” Bats? Sleeping in the cave, hanging from the ceiling? Not a sight for the faint of heart.
About half the group took the bypass route. Those with bats in their belfry chose to enter the cave. That was my group. The map distance of either route was about the same. “See you on the other side,” we all cheered confidently.
It would be a long time before the two groups finally met up again near the summit of the High Peaks trail.
The park brochure recommends hikers going into the cave wear head lamps to safely navigate in the darkness; and to be prepared for low ceilings. No problem for us, we all had lamps or flashlights. And we could bend over and crawl if absolutely necessary.
It had not rained recently. and the water flowing through the cave didn’t look at all problematic: just a trickle at the entrance, which was high and wide. No risk of a flash flood, then. Enter we did, full of enthusiasm, prepared for anything, with hardly a care.
Colin, a Welshman who, if asked, will attest to having lineage to Merlin the Magician of Arthurian legend, took the lead. He is a hiker with the stamina of a trail mule and will often be one of the leaders of our pack, defying gravity on some of our steepest Sierra trails. Colin is an octogenarian. He is not good at reading maps, particularly in low light.
As we penetrated deeper into the talus confines, the ceiling remained above our full stature, boosting our confidence for an easy passage. Further inside, though, the stream gained width and depth. Still, a berm that had been constructed provided sufficient clearance to keep our shoes dry, and a gradually lower ceiling allowed our hands to maintain our balance as we maneuvered our way along in the growing darkness.
By the time the ample overhead clearance had disappeared, and we progressed inch by inch by hunching down, bending our knees to avoid scraping our head on the ceiling, the water had risen above the ever-narrowing berm bridgework. Do I need to mention that we inevitably had to either step fully into the water, or reluctantly retrace our steps all the way back to the entrance?
As I sloshed my way into the water, childhood memories of parental admonishments to not play in the rain, to not get my shoes wet, to not get my feet wet, rushed to the fore. Oh my! Here I was in this ever-darkening cavern, walking in this stream, occasionally scraping my head on the overhead rocks because the extra wide brim on my hat blocked my view, laughing along with my companions at our fateful decision.
While my parents (bless their souls) would certainly not have approved of my reckless behavior, I did learn, belatedly, that my feet would not rot if they became wet and I continued hiking for a couple more hours with soggy shoes and socks.
Upon finally making it out of the cave (after not seeing a poorly posted exit sign, thus taking a longer route), we continued up trail to a viewpoint where we could see out across the valleys on both sides of the spine of the Pinnacles boulder chain. With my companions and I having finally arrived at the designated lunch rendezvous, the first group (who had already long before finished their meal), all rose in chorus and shouted: “Where have you all been? Lost in space?”
The Pinnacles National Park website advises visitors who come to see condors that the optimum times are early in the morning, or in the evening when they return to roost. There is no guarantee that a condor will be in view, in either case. I missed the morning opportunity by several hours. And now, it being mid-afternoon, I figured that seeing a condor could only happen on a wing and a prayer.
I nevertheless remained hopeful, and told my companions I would lag behind to take photographs along the remaining section of the High Peaks before descending Condor Gulch Trail to the parking lot rendezvous for our regular after-hike social gathering.
Slowly, and very carefully, I traversed some of the more difficult parts of the trail. Tiny steps have been carved into the face of house-sized boulders, and never before did “toehold” have as much meaning to me than it did then. Thankfully, a metal hand rail in places offers some stability, provided you actually hold on to it.
On a flat, but very narrow part of the trail I stopped to take a breath. And there, right alongside the trail, about 100 feet ahead, sat a lone bird on the branch of a Gray Pine. My heart skipped a beat as I hurried to remove my camera from my backpack before the bird took off. Was it a Turkey Vulture? No, it was a California Condor, front and center. Eureka!
Black head and feathers identify a juvernile California Condor
Part of the rehabilitation process of the California Condor population is the maintenance of a studbook registering the parentage of all the birds hatched at various locations to insure that the breeding program maintains genetic diversity. Birds born in captivity are tagged before being released, while attempts are also made to eventually tag all individuals that are born in the wild. A colored GPS tag with a number is attached to one or both wings and identifies the bird’s origin. A transmitter is is also placed on the wings to follow their movement and well being. The website condorspotter.com is the place to go to learn the history of any condor one might observe.
My condor had no tags, which makes it very special to me. The lack of tags suggested that it hatched in the wild. Condor chicks generally emerge from their eggs in the March-May time frame. They don’t fledge for six months, and still remain under the watchful eye of their parents for another six months or so. The gray skin on this individual’s head told me it was a juvenile, scarcely a year old, and still learning how to be an independent member of the Pinnacles flock. I wondered if an adult with something to eat might arrive (that would have been epic), but not this day.
Condor and I studied each other for several minutes. At one point, it extended one of its wings, as if stretching. It did some other yoga poses, and I continued on my way.
During the late Pleistocene, some forty thousand years ago, condors fed on the carrion of a variety of large mammals, including mastodons, camels, giant ground sloths, and big cats.
Today, that diet has been replaced partially by carrion of large mammals such as cattle, horses, and sheep they scavenge on the ranch lands of their foraging range. Along the coast, they may even feast on the remains of whales and sea lions that wash ashore. The condor diet is rounded out by a variety of smaller animals, such as mule deer, coyotes, fox, rabbits and squirrels. It is the flesh of this latter group can be problematic for condor health due to lead contamination.
Lead poisoning from hunter ammunition is the leading cause of premature death of California Condors, and poses a constant threat to the existence of these vulnerable birds. It doesn’t take a large bullet, either. The Yurok tribe of Humboldt County in Northern California recently announced the death of juvenile condor due to the ingestion of a tiny lead pellet from an air gun, according to a toxicology report (https://www.ktvu.com/news/young-california-condor-dies-from-lead-poisoning-tribe-confirms). Fragments of ammunition that radiate beyond the entry wound may also cause serious illness to any animal that consumes it.
While education efforts encouraging hunters to use non-lead ammunition has helped, it is not enough. So biologists monitoring the various condor populations fall back upon a fail-safe supply of proffered food at their release sites. As a result of these efforts, California Condor populations are steadily increasing.
Day Two
I won’t be shy in attesting to the jubilation I felt at having photographed, against all odds it would seem, this juvenile condor. The memory of that encounter would not subside, and set in motion the planning for a return to Pinnacles for a second pass at spotting condors.
Michael, a member of the Sierra hiking group, and I share a trifecta of interests: hiking, photography, and birds (he is a life-long birder). Not only did we eventually manage to sync our mutual calendars (not an easy task), but he was able to secure a campsite in Pinnacles for two nights.
Many years had gone by since I’d spent the night in a campground, but it made sense to do so now. In theory, being in the park overnight (instead of a distant hotel) would permit a sunrise start along the High Peaks Trail in search of our target species before they left their roosts. Nothing would put us off track.
Michael took charge of provisioning. Each evening, we had a leisurely dinner entirely prepared by Chef Miguelito. My only task was to set some wine glasses on the table, help with washing / drying dishes, and empty the trash.
Before retiring for the first night, we made sure all our equipment (batteries, cameras, hiking poles) was sorted out and placed in backpacks. The early morning air would be quite cold, so warm clothing was pre-selected. A wake-up time of 5:00 a.m. would allow us to be on trail for sunrise at or about 6 a.m. Ready for a motivated trek up the steep trail, we would be in the high peaks area by around 7 a.m. With all that meticulous advance planning, what could possibly go wrong?
I can imagine what you are now thinking. No…the alarm went off at the appointed time; the pot of coffee perked just as it should; breakfast was consumed at a leisurely pace and lunches prepared as allowed by our wake-up time. Gear that had not already been put into the vehicle for the drive to the trailhead) was loaded up.
It was now time to double check everything. And that was when the unexpected fog of early morning muddle rolled in. Anyone who could not find a boarding pass when they reached the TSA checkpoint (before cellphone boarding passes, of course), or forgot where they had tucked away a passport on an overnight flight, and could not find it just as the plane is landing at the final destination, will fully understand understand. The big question that weighed on our minds was whether we would see any condors warming themselves before taking flight.
I suppose I was expecting to see condors sunning themselves on boulders, like pigeons on skyscraper window ledges. As we reached the summit area, though, it appeared that we had arrived too late; no condors were anywhere in view.
We continued on to another viewpoint that looked out over a vast valley, and off to a far horizon of hilltops to the east. That was when the action began.
California Condor soaring over Pinnacles valley
There were several birds soaring below, above, and in-between the various volcanic spires, whizzing across the sky at tremendous speed (condors can soar 30-40 mph). The low sun reflecting off the back of their wings created specular highlights that made it difficult to identify the species: were they Turkey Vultures or California Condors? Harder still to capture a photograph. If only they would come closer and above us, or turn the underside of their wings upward, we would then be able to sort them out.
Adult California Condor with transmitter and tag on wings
On a distant ledge, whitewashed with bird droppings, there sat two juveniles. That, in itself, was exciting. They, too, would eventually take flight. For an extended time, an adult and one juvenile seemed to be playing chase, rising on the uplifts and racing downward towards the trees without the slightest hint of hesitation at their speed of approach.
Juvenile California Condors
A Peregrine Falcon (another endangered species) joined the mix. It did not dive after prey as we might have expected. Instead, it circled around, above and behind various boulders, disappearing over the far side, and soaring back, only to repeat the same routine again and again. What a surprise.
Peregrine Falcon in fllight
Watching these birds glide across the wild blue, with wings widespread, reminded me that the law of gravity only tentatively held me to the uneven trail ledge upon which I was standing. Better to sit down, I thought, as I attempted to track my subjects with my camera in hand. The sharply pointed rocks were not particularly comfortable.
When condor #89 launched itself off a pinnacle into the weightlessness of its airy domain, I followed it as best I could, while memories of the glider scene in “The Thomas Crown Affair” with Pierce Brosnan played in my head.
California Condor takes flight from pinnacle
Spectacularly, the ground beneath me seemed to slip away and I, too, began soaring in sync with the condors wherever the wind might carry us. I was enraptured by their speed and effortless change in direction by simply altering the angle of a wing, or the position of finger-like feathers at the wingtips. Such freedom, such exhilaration, such rapture. Oh, to fly like a California Condor in the wild!
Adult California Condor soaring over valley
All in all, Michael and I observed at least eight individual condors that day. Considering that, as of 2024, there are only 113 condors foraging in the wild between the Big Sur and Pinnacles flocks, our efforts seemed to have been richly rewarded.
The next morning, our thoughts of condors would turn to the business of getting ready for the return home. Unknown to me, Chef Miguelito had a surprise in store: for breakfast there would be fresh, hot biscuits, slathered with butter and jam. Second helpings, please!
Now, with breakfast over, all we really had to do was to hitch Michael’s truck up to his 26 foot Airstream trailer, and get back on the road. Roughing it in a national park campground is something I could get used to.
Day Three
After returning home, I could not make condors soar away and out of my thoughts. I kept wondering how I might make another trip very soon, before the heat of summer spread across the landscape and made a strenuous hike unadvisable.
Having learned something about the life history of the individual condors we had seen, I was hooked on wanting to see them again. After all, these were individual birds I now knew and could recognize. That is a very unusual circumstance for a birder, and these birds are among the the rarest in the world. I did not want to let this prospect linger for another year.
It looked as if I would have to go it alone, though, since Michael would soon be departing for an extended trip. My psyche worked its wonders, convincing me that since I knew the trail the risks were small, that all would be okay. Michael disagreed. We’ve all read stories about troubles that happen to people who go into the wild, even with a companion and lots of planning.
It was when I looked at the upcoming hike calendar that organizers post two to three weeks ahead of time, I saw an elegant solution. There was an encounter scheduled on the historic De Anza Trail, only about an hour’s drive from Pinnacles. I could easily do two hikes over the course of two days, and eliminate a lengthy roundtrip drive. I’d spend the night in a Hollister hotel.
But who in the Sierra hiking group might I persuade to join me for the night in Hollister and the following day in Pinnacles, all just to see a flock of birds? The answer to my question was obvious, but would he agree?
Steep climb at Pinnacles National Park
It was a big ask. Honesty required me to unequivocally state that: it might require sitting in one spot, on hard rocks, in full sun, after a strenuous climb; we might have to sit there for a couple of hours waiting for California Condors to appear; and, worst of all, the birds might be a complete no-show. For anyone who is not a birder, or even a bird photographer, that sounds really crazy, doesn’t it?
Steve is the kind of guy who never met a trail he didn’t want to tackle. He’s put more miles of hiking / backpacking under foot than he can possibly recount, or even remember. In our Sierra hiking group, he organizes more hikes than anyone else. He’s the go-to guy if you need water, a poncho, hiking poles, a sun cap or bandana. He always has extra in his backpack or SUV because he’s learned over the years how forgetful our unruly group can be. Once on trail, if a selected route fades away due to infrequent use, he will bushwhack a path for others to follow. We all go at our own pace, and Steve manages to keep a eye on everyone. He is a Good Shepherd.
Steve didn’t hesitate to agree. Everything was set, then. We would haul ourselves out of bed at 5:00 a.m. on the appointed day and be at the trailhead around the break of civil dawn, before sunrise, when there would be sufficient light to navigate the trail. As we drove towards our destination, a rising moon hung low in the sky, a beautiful golden crescent offset by the dark sky. Could this be an omen?
High Peaks area of Pinnacles National Park
I chose an alternate direction from the one I took a month earlier..The Condor Gulch Trail has a steeper elevation gain, but the path would provide a clear view of the High Peaks area where the condors (and Turkey Vultures) might be roosting. About one hour up the trail we could see a couple of forms on one pine tree, and another on a nearby boulder. Condor or Turkey Vulture, we could not tell because of the distance. Another hour of hiking would provide the answer.
Having arrived at the optimal viewpoint (the large u-shaped notch in the rock face on the left of photo below) of the High Peaks Trail about 8:45 a.m., the only birds we saw were Turkey Vultures already soaring on the air currents (I counted fifteen), as well as White-throated Swifts whose cheerful chirps resounded off the boulders. No Condors, anywhere.
Pinnacles High Peaks area
“Well, it looks like we got skunked,” Steve observed.
“This is where we wait; make yourself comfortable,” I replied.
The warming morning sun was wonderfully soothing, and Steve soon relaxed into a light slumber. Good for him. I did not have that luxury.
The silence was broken at 9:30 when a group of hikers appeared nearby and asked, “Have you seen any condors?”
“Not yet,” I suggested, hopefully.
Steve, having been aroused from his repose, joined the conversation. Coincidently, that was when the action began.
“Over there, against the cliff, there’s two,” Steve interjected enthusiastically.
Two California Condors flying in tandem
For the next 90 minutes, Steve acted as my spotter, alerting me to action that I had not seen. In all, we spotted four, perhaps five California Condors, three of whom were adults with tags: #38, #26, and #19 whom I had photographed a month earlier. Condors #19 and #26 flew side-by-side, up, down, and across the face of the cliffs incessantly during much of that time. They seldom landed, and were hard to photograph because their speed and distance from my location.
California Condors cast shadows on the boulders
Juvenile California Condor soaring on updraft
“Was our effort successful?” Steve inquired, as we ate our lunch before descending the trail we came up. I wouldn’t know until I processed the images on my computer. “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I assured him.
The next morning I texted a simple message: “Success.”
“Great. Looking forward to seeing your blog,” he wrote back.
Postscript:
By 1987, all 22 of the remaining California Condors had been placed in captivity. Five years later, in 1992, a milestone was reached when two of their offspring were set free. Would the program succeed?
Fast forward now to the beginning of 2025. The population has slowly increased to 565 individuals; 368 live free in the wild, and 197 are in captive breeding facilities. In addition to Central California, California Condor populations have been established in Baja California, Southern California, the Pacific Northwest, as well as in Arizona / Utah.
The two Central California flocks (Pinnacles and Big Sur) total 113 individuals soaring in the wild. I’ve now photographed ten percent of those birds.The California Condors I saw and photographed have the following bios:
• #19 orange tag, “Jane,” named after Jane Goodall, hatched 4/9/2020 at World Center for Birds, member Big Sur flock.
• #26 green tag “Little Stinker,” female, hatched 3/18/2014 San Diego Wild Animal Park. Named after the plane that won the US Female Aerobatic Championship in the late 1940s.
• #29 yellow tag, “Penny,” hatched 4/9/2023 in the wild, member Big Sur flock.
• #36 orange tag, “Rosalie,” hatched 5/8/2020 at World Center for Birds, member Big Sur flock.
• #38 bio unavailable
• #43 yellow tag, hatched 5/7/2018 Oregon Zoo, released at Pinnacles 1/27/20, member Pinnacles flock. Survived three weeks with an aluminum can stuck to its beak.
• #75 red tag, male, hatched 5/27/2022, born in the wild and first seen by a biologist only after fledging, member Pinnacles flock.
• #89 black tag, male, born 6/13/2010 World Center for Birds, released at Pinnacles in 2011, member Pinnacles flock. His mate, #86 “Phoebe the Forager,” hatched 4/28/2010 at Los Angeles Zoo, member of Big Sur flock. They have raised offspring four years in a row 2020-2024, which is very unusual.
• an adult whose tag was unreadable #80 /86?
• two, perhaps three untagged juveniles
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Footnote: This post is dedicated to my friends in the Sierra Hiking Seniors, without whose camaraderie and enthusiasm for the outdoors this story would not have been written.
