The Tourist Trail Read Free

anthropomorphize the penguins, but she could not help projecting her attraction onto Doug. That he was simply an early riser did not dampen her belief that he had developed a crush on her, that perhaps when he no longer needed her, he would still accompany her. A comforting thought, particularly since they had indeed discovered a red-dot bird.
    She looked at Doug and nodded.
    â€œKick ass!” Doug leapt to his feet and unloaded his brown backpack of a caliper, hand-held scale, and nylon strap.
    This one had been tagged five years ago. Finally ready to breed, this penguin was probably in his second season at Verde—returning to his natal colony to make a nest, find a mate, and begin a ritual that would last another two decades, if he was fortunate.
    During Doug’s first week at Verde, against her better judgment, Angela had let him extract a penguin from its burrow. He had only just figured out how to handle the goncho correctly, and she had been giving him free reign with the birds. He was so passionate that she could not have refused him the opportunity. The scrubby hills were like a playground to him, and she enjoyed looking at the world through his sharp blue eyes, eyes that would wink at her on occasion across the dining room, a wink that took a few years off her life. Sometimes she imagined herself his age again, not yet jaded by the drudgery of Ph.D. politics.
    She never doubted her ability to attract men, only her ability to keep them around. Her life was a migratory one—six months here, six months in Boston, the cycle repeating over and over again. While most women her age were now cuddling their newborns, she was crouched over burrows in the relentless southern sun. Her face had begun showing signs of the mileage, wrinkles to the sides of her eyes, ridges that caught the dust like snowdrifts.
    She remembered the first time she’d held a penguin in her hands, a fierce little lapdog, all muscle and motion, felt the tightly woven feathers, gripped that firm, fibrous neck as its beak thrashed dangerously about. She remembered the joy of holding this creature that spent most of its life in the water, that only for the sake of raising its young bothered to set foot on land, that this gorgeous awkward creation was now between her two straining hands. She never forgot it. Her teacher was Shelly Sparks, the director of the research camp, who had later recruited her for the job Angela had now: teaching Doug.
    Shelly had waited four weeks before letting Angela handle a bird, but Angela was not as patient, not as thick skinned, and when she first began working with Doug, she was quietly pleased to have a handsome young man spending the day with her. She wanted to be the person Doug would remember for the rest of his life. The woman who taught him everything. The woman who said yes.
    Hold the bird , she’d told him that first time. Firmly. Mind the beak. Grab the neck.
    Doug had been bitten so badly he had to be driven to Trelew for stitches. His natural instinct had been to pull away, but the penguin’s serrated beak had hooked his flesh tightly and held fast as Doug tore what was left of his hand away. It was like a Chinese finger prison , he joked as the doctor sewed together the sinew of his left hand.
    But Angela got what she wanted. He never forgot that day.
    Now Doug used the goncho to pull the bird out of the hole by his feet, then clutched him swiftly by the back of his neck. He clasped the neck with unflinching confidence, ensuring that the bird could not swing around and bite his arm. Angela slid the strap around the bird’s waist, cinched it, and attached it to a hand-held scale. Then Doug let go.
    The bird flapped its wings and snapped at the air as it twisted in circles. Angela read the weight aloud; Doug entered it into the notebook. Then Angela grabbed the bird and held him between her legs, to measure the feet.
    The wind shifted. Angela heard an engine cough, coming up for air