A Bird You Need to See: the Greater Roadrunner

I heard the sound first—a strange clattering. I hadn’t even been in Arizona for 24 hours, but I'd already learned enough of the soundscape behind our Phoenix Airbnb—the Verdins, the Cactus Wrens, the Abert's Towhees—to know this was something different, something new. Our rental backed up to a golf course, so from the fence I began scanning the brushy desert habitat that surrounded the lush green tee boxes nearby.

And then I suddenly saw it: A Greater Roadrunner zoomed into view and hopped on top of one of the tee boxes to survey its surroundings. I focused my binoculars to get a better look at the bird—a lifer for me—and that's when I realized that its bill was the source of the odd clacking I was hearing. As it stood tall and inquisitively cocked its head from side to side, the bird clapped its slender beak together quickly and repeatedly. 

I stood there astonished. First off, because I didn't know Greater Roadrunners rattled their bills to communicate. But also because, despite being a birder my whole life, I clearly was not prepared to see this bird. It was bigger than I expected—a lot bigger. I imagined something more the size of a Northern Flicker or even a Pileated Woodpecker, not the size of a bantam chicken. And the red and blue skin patches on this male were incredibly bright. From its jaunty tail to its mussy crest, this member of the cuckoo family was like nothing I'd ever seen. 

I tracked the bird as it raced off the tee box and through the chaparral and other shrubbery seeking its next meal—maybe a lizard, a snake, or even a scorpion. And that's when it struck me: Roadrunners look and move like dinosaurs, as if they are tapping into some long lost remnant of velociraptor DNA. Once I'd made that connection, the idea was impossible to shake as I watched this seemingly primeval avian disappear out of sight. 

Although the bird was a first for me, my excitement far exceeded that of seeing a new bird. Almost all of the birds I'd seen since getting to Phoenix had been lifers, and many of them had quickly become new favorites—especially the cheery Verdins, with their sunburst faces, and the Black-tailed Gnatcatchers, which are perfect birds as far as I'm concerned. 

But there's something special about seeing a roadrunner, and it's hard to put your finger on it. Maybe it's the fact that so many of us grew up knowing this bird from popular culture and cartoons, as inaccurate as the Looney Tunes version's purple plumage and car-horn calls might be. Or maybe it's just the sheer idea of them—that these speedy desert dwellers with undeniable dinosaur vibes exist in the first place. Whatever it is, the singular sense of awe they evoke is undeniable. 

It's been eight years since that encounter, and I haven't seen a roadrunner since. If I'm lucky, I'll see many more in my lifetime, but that morning will always stand out as one of my most memorable birding moments. Some of those memories are defined by the chase and the search. Others by who I was with. But this one neither—it all about the sheer awesomeness of the bird itself. And for that reason, the Greater Roadrunner isn't just a bird everyone needs to see once, but it's a bird I know I have to see again.