Hello! This is The Accidental Birder, an illustrated memoir where travel, birds, and love converge into illustrated essays. If you missed previous chapters, you can start from the beginning here.
The sun was beginning to rise as Steve and I hurried to meet our group. We’d overslept. By the time we reached the dirt parking lot outside the jungle eco-resort, the others were already in the van, buckled up and ready to go. Eric, our guide, leaned against the van, arms folded, waiting.
“We must hurry,” Eric urged as we climbed into the van. “We’re picking up security. It takes more time.”
I whispered to Steve, “Security? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Eric overheard us. “We need men with guns,” he said.
The palm-thatched retreat had been our basecamp in the mountains near San Ignacio, Belize. We had been there five days, trekking in the mornings through the heat of the jungle. By midday, even the birds had surrendered to the stifling heat, vanishing into the jungle’s shade. As warblers, kingbirds, and tanagers disappeared for their siestas, we took to the water. We’d float on inner tubes through cool, silent cave systems or plunge into the jade-hued waters of cenotes.
Each time, we’d visit a tiny tienda afterward, where we’d open the chest freezer and sift through cups of ice cream made by the local Mennonites. I was always looking for the coconut flavor. Everything felt carefree and safe.
This morning was different. Eric grumbled about lateness and timing. The words “security” and “guns” were a surprise.
Descending the mountain into San Ignacio, we pulled up in front of a yellow police building. Eric stepped inside briefly and returned with two young men, no older than 20. They gripped their assault rifles as they climbed into our van.
Where exactly are we birding? I wondered.
Eric drove about 12 kilometers north to El Pilar, a former Maya city center, once part of the ancient civilization that flourished across present-day Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala. Today, it is protected as an archaeological reserve. It’s a teeming rainforest of mahogany, ceiba, and sapodilla trees that form a lush canopy, drawing in birds like the Great Curassow, the Lesson’s Motmot, and Bat Falcon—species we were keen to see.
El Pilar sat on the border of Guatemala and apparently attracted not only birds, but banditos.
“We’re not going to be in the main area with the ruins. We’ll be on trails in the forest," Eric told us as he drove. “It can be dangerous. I know.”
The previous year, Eric had driven a van full of birders to El Pilar. As the road narrowed, machete-wielding thieves emerged from the thick jungle. They stopped his vehicle, climbed aboard, and ordered everyone off. They bound the birders' hands behind their backs then snatched money, jewelry, cameras, and binoculars – things they could easily carry and sell. Eric told us that they targeted birders because optics were more valuable than most jewelry and watches. I looked down at my bare finger, grateful I’d left my wedding ring at home.
“Now I hire security,” he said.
The rifle in front of me pulled my attention away from my hand. One of the guards clutched it as the van rattled over bumpy gravel in the shadows of the tree canopy. I couldn’t stop looking at the gun. It had been years since I’d seen one this close.
One night, twelve years earlier, I was single and living in the San Francisco Bay Area. My friend and I were in the city, having finished dinner in North Beach. In two days, I would leave for Utah, drawn by a great job and a lower cost of living. The future seemed bright, full of opportunity and the chance to buy a home, but saying goodbye left an ache I hadn’t anticipated. For nearly a decade, California had been home. Saying goodbye to my friends and the vibrant, eclectic city emptied me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m going to miss this place so much,” I said as we walked in the quiet neighborhood back to my car. When I saw a big sedan creeping alongside us, my first instinct was fear. Why is that car driving so slowly? I thought. Then I rationalized, “Oh, it’s okay. They’re probably looking for a parking spot.”
I never saw the sedan stop. Out of nowhere two men were right in front of us. One pointed his gun at my face, backing me up against a fence. I stared straight into the barrel. He held it sideways—gangster style. I had thought that only happened in the movies.
“Give me everything,” he said.
I glanced at the idling car, seeing a third person in the driver’s seat. Don’t get into that car, I thought. Give him the purse. Don’t get dragged into that car.
I held out my handbag, my arm shaking. My friend let out a loud, long scream as the other robber grabbed for hers. That was all it took; they ran to their car with my possessions, and the sedan peeled off. We found the nearest stoop and sat, shaken and breathless.
Neighbors who had heard my friend’s scream poured from their homes. “Are you okay?” “We’ve called the police.” “Do you want to call your credit card companies?”
The police report was filed, and no one was hurt. Still, it took years for the unease to fade. I had carried the weight of that night—the split-second calculation of survival, the way a slow-moving car could quicken my pulse. Over time, experience reshaped my instincts.
When I met Steve, I had come to believe I was bolder, braver, ready to step into adventure. Yet here, birding in a dense tropical forest with two men carrying rifles in my periphery, the unease returned.
At El Pilar, a network of trails winds through the site—three leading to archaeological ruins, two swallowed by the rainforest. We followed the forest paths, our security keeping their distance as they patrolled the area while we searched for birds. Their uniforms dissolved into the foliage, flickering in and out of sight. Every so often, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure they were still there. Leaves rustled, shifting in ways that should have been ordinary, only they weren’t. A bird? Something else?
It was quiet. Too quiet. No bird songs or trills. The heat had already silenced them, and our lateness didn’t help. Then—SNAP! My stomach dropped. I grabbed Steve’s hand. “It’s just a palm, see?” he said, pointing to the frond that had fallen.
My long-sleeve shirt and khakis, drenched from the humidity, clung to my skin. Clothing meant for protection added another layer of discomfort. With the sweltering air sapping my energy, I knew I wouldn’t be able to run if I had to.
Even the trees carried menace. Their thorns were more like spikes, warding off both me and the predators they kept at bay. Protection was their purpose, defense woven into their very design. I was still new to birding and two years into marriage, eager for adventure and the thrill of discovery.
I hadn’t accounted for the risks or the perils. Not in a way that felt immediate. I no longer felt bold or brave as I looked over my shoulder every few minutes.
The figures moved through the trees, rifles at their sides. I hadn't thought about it in years, but now the memory returned—a story of four abducted birders in Colombia.
In the early days of our marriage, I devoured anything written about birds and birding, eager to catch up on all I had yet to learn. One article in The New York Times stood out, detailing the 1998 kidnapping of four birders by FARC rebels in Colombia. Deep in the rugged, mountainous jungle, the captives were forced on grueling marches by day and handcuffed at night.
Reading about dangers in distant places was one thing. Yet here, in that moment, risk no longer felt remote.
As the rebels preached their political views, one of the birders countered with an endless stream of facts about the country’s rich birdlife. With one of the highest bird counts in the world, there was plenty to talk about. Maybe too much.
Anyone who’s spent time around serious birders knows how easily conversations spiral. Migration patterns, habitat discussions, the nuances of identification—all tumbling out, fact after fact, fueled by sheer enthusiasm. I doubt the captors were prepared for that.
After a month in captivity, the birders were finally freed.
“They just couldn’t get it into their heads that we weren’t receiving any money for looking at birds,” one of the Americans later told the Times journalist.
And then, with the weary self-awareness only a birder could muster:
“I think I bored them to death.”
After a couple of hours at El Pilar, Eric called it a day. “Too hot,” he said.
We did not find the Great Curassow, the Lesson’s Motmot, or the Bat Falcon. Birders say, “We dipped” when the birds we set out to find never appear. When anticipation turns into absence, when the search doesn’t end in reward. But dipping isn’t failure; it’s part of the pursuit. You scan, you wait, you adjust. You trust that if not today, then maybe tomorrow. And maybe that’s what courage is, too. The willingness to keep looking, even when you don’t know what you’ll find.
Near the end of the trail, the trees opened to reveal a vista from a cliffside perch—one of the highest elevations in El Pilar. I stepped forward, the openness unfolding around me. The dim depths of the trail fell away, replaced by a sudden burst of color—an iridescent, almost neon green of trees stretching across the vast canopy below. Eric had set up his scope and tripod. He sat on the ground, legs crossed, binoculars trained skyward, scanning for raptors.
The transformation was instant. Darkness, danger, and fear receded, giving way to something open, expansive, and full of possibility. Eric seemed at ease, his posture looser, maybe even forgiving our morning delay. I exhaled, tension draining from my body, releasing the last traces of unease.
That morning, I hadn’t just been looking for birds. I had been searching for the courage I thought I had already found. Courage isn’t static—it shifts, wavers, and needs to be reaffirmed. And in that moment, I sat on the dirt just like Eric, lifted my binoculars, and looked up. I allowed myself to step back into boldness, to trust myself again.
Wonderful, Lisa. I love the paintings. The tension and resolution is perfect. Brava!
Great storytelling, Lisa. My wife is from Venezuela and we used to go every other year. Security was a concern all the time. It's no joke, that kind of stress. The uniformed men with machine guns at road checkpoints were truly intimidating. Thanks for sharing this.