Thirty miles of lonely gravel roads out into the Sagebrush steppe, apparently is just the right number of miles of gravel roads to deliver you to that place where creation was putting on a birthing clinic yesterday morning. In the background, hundreds of Northern Shovelers were tipping on end and swimming en-masse in spirals to feed and squabble over the aquatic feast growing at this remote, desert lake’s edges, while far in the distance, maybe a hundred Canada geese were paddling about and fully immersed in their far less chaotic version of the rest-and-recharge migratory stopover. The principal music makers, however were the Western Grebes whose vocal compositions and occasional, courtship posturings filled the desert air, only occasionally punctuated by the much slighter, more elusive voices of migratory, Horned Larks and White-crowned Sparrows.