Chasing the California Condors

Ted grabbed his camera and rushed out of the Grand Canyon restaurant where we were eating lunch.
I strained my eyes, caught a glimpse of huge black wings through the windows, and grabbed my own camera, leaving my puzzled mom alone at the table.
Once outside, Ted and I snapped photos of the California Condors, my heart racing as awe and adrenaline filled my body.
I’d never seen such gigantic birds. They had distinct white bands along the underside of their black wings which measured over nine feet wide, and, like turkey vultures, their bald heads were an orangey-red.
Riding wind currents, they floated effortlessly above us and then over the canyon.
Ravens also glided upward. Ravens are notorious for stealing precious condor eggs, but they also have a sense of humor. We called them condor wannabes and laughed at their antics.
Finally, the condors soared out of camera range, and we rejoined Mom.
After we’d eaten, we followed information signs to a cliff where baby condors waited while their parents searched for carrion.
It might have been a long wait. Parents sometimes fly as many as 160 miles in search of food.
As those little ones bumbled around the cliff, they were so ugly and ungainly they were cute.
We didn’t realize then what a miracle it was to see baby condors in the wild, albeit closely guarded by Grand Canyon rangers, since those New World Vultures still ranked on the critically endangered list and in 1987 became extinct in the wild.
The number of California Condors began to diminish as long ago as the last Ice Age, when their favorite terrestrial carrion — mammoths, ground sloths, and other huge mammals — disappeared.
The condors’ declining numbers grew more and more critical until 1987, when conservationists captured all of the remaining wild birds — some sources say 22, others 27 — hoping to breed them in captivity and save the species.
The strategy worked, and the first captive chick hatched in 1988, but releasing captive-raised birds into the wild was tricky.
Experts released the first in 1991 and continue the process today. The birds don’t have much privacy. They are tagged and wear GPS collars, so conservationists can track their activities and health.
In 2003, the first chick hatched in the wild, and by 2015 fewer wild condors died than babies hatched.
That was a great feat considering the females produce only one egg at a time and nest only every two years.
Although condors can live as old as 60 years, the species continues to face risks, including lead poisoning from ammunition, loss of habitat, and avian flu, with about 90 of the wild flock being inoculated last year against the disease.
Despite those threats, in 2025, 360 condors live in the wild while 214 remain captive for breeding purposes. The wild flocks live mostly in California, Baja California, Utah, and Arizona, with some now being bred in and released from Boise, ID.
We first sighted the Grand Canyon condors over ten years ago, and we hadn’t seen any since.
A few weeks ago, hoping to spot the gigantic birds, we left a few days early for family doings in St. George and drove to the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument in northern Arizona, where some of the wild flock winter until early spring.
We peered through our binoculars at the cliffs stained with white bird droppings, an obvious sign of condor nesting places. No luck.
We scanned the sky overhead, looking for the huge black wings. Still no luck.
Finally, Ted photographed the cliffs with his telephoto lens before we returned to the Jeep. Though disappointed, we enjoyed exploring the area, always scanning the skies and the cliffs for any sign of the majestic birds. Then, we headed to St. George.
In St. George, we attended my grand-nephew’s wedding reception. My brother, his wife, and most of the Austin clan were there.
The next day, little Gracie Elizabeth, my great-grand-niece, was blessed. We did lots of eating, hugging, laughing, and catching up, all of us recognizing the rarity of our time together.
The two celebrations marked one of the few times my family had been together since my niece, Elizabeth, died in October 2023.
I missed her. Her husband’s remarriage would take place the following Saturday.
From what he’d shared with us, I had no doubt Liz arranged the new relationship from the other side. Awed by the other worldly love, I felt deeply happy for him.
However, as Ted and I left the luncheon after the baby blessing, I mentioned how much I missed Liz.
My phone dinged. A text came from her husband, and I opened a video of Liz when she was well and happy, shining with beauty and love. As I watched and listened to her, I felt I had her back again.
After returning to Blanding, Ted uploaded our photos on the computer, including those we took at the Vermillion Cliffs.
When he zoomed in on the cliffs, we could see eight condors we hadn’t spotted even through binoculars. Wonder filled me again as it had the first time we’d seen them.
Not surprisingly, condors symbolize death being transformed into life, and, since they can fly up to 15,000 feet high, messengers which carry our prayers on their huge wings to heaven.
I couldn’t help wondering if those condors had carried my yearning to see Liz up to the divine court, and I realize my loved ones, even those on the other side, are as close as a prayer.