Life After Death
The circle of life is an elegant way to describe nature’s resilience and reinvention. Every living organism grows, reproduces, and eventually dies. And when wild things pass, their remains typically fertilize the earth or directly nourish other creatures, reminding us that every ending promises a new beginning. The process is cyclical and helps explain how all living things are dependent on one another for survival. It’s not always pleasant, but as a result, life goes on.
This is the story of my search for a creature that embodies this relentless cycle. A bird that spends its days on a scavenger hunt, looking for carrion—the remnants of life necessary to sustain itself. They exist at the very point where life begins to loop back on itself and remind us that in nature, endings often give way to new beginnings; the California Condor (Gymnogyps californianus).
Condors are the largest raptors in North America, but that doesn’t mean finding one would be easy. To narrow the search, my friend Ryan and I headed to Pinnacles National Park. As the sun rose, the drive through gently rolling hills gave way to a landscape defined by dramatic geological forces.
Millions of years ago, volcanic eruptions forged the terrain, sculpting rugged crags, spires, and deep canyons that were later reshaped over time by the shifting plates of the San Andreas Fault. This ancient, ever-changing topography struck me as a fitting backdrop for a species that has witnessed the grand passage of time, from scavenging the remains of woolly mammoths to enduring modern challenges. They, too, have seen some things!
We set out on the Bear Gulch Trail, where thousands of years of water erosion have left a scenic obstacle course of boulders to navigate, ledges to duck under, and tight passages to squeeze through. We took our time, knowing that condors aren’t early risers. They cruise on thermals, rarely flapping their giant wings, so we figured they’d be waiting for the sun to warm the ground and create the necessary upward currents.
At the end of a long flight of steps, we emerged into the light, rewarded with stunning views of the Bear Gulch Reservoir. It was a beautiful place to catch our breath. Still, with the real work ahead of us and the sun illuminating the cliffs above, there was motivation to keep moving.
As the day warmed and our path merged with the High Peaks Trail, we caught our first glimpse of a condor soaring high above. It was a juvenile, distinguished by its gray head and lack of wing tags. As an endangered species, wing tags are found on most wild condors. Their decline as a species started with modern settlers and escalated in the last century due to factors such as lead poisoning, illegal shooting, and habitat loss.
By the end of the 1980s, they were technically extinct in the wild, when conservationists rounded up the last remaining individuals for a breeding program designed to save them. In the following decade, however, they began reintroducing condors into the wild, and so, just as the condors thrive by embracing the natural cycle of decay and renewal, their own story is one of rebirth. Once teetering on the brink of extinction, relentless conservation efforts have pulled them back from the brink. Now, seeing a California Condor born in the wild, I counted myself lucky. It felt like I was witnessing life after death.
The further we climbed, the more dramatic the hike became—navigating tunnels, overhangs, and near-vertical drop-offs to incredible panoramic views. Pinnacles is one of the few release sites for captive-bred condors, and I began to see why. The high peaks are well suited to these giant birds. It took us a while to locate more, but eventually, Ryan spotted some in the far distance where the condors make their homes in the cliffs and cavities.
They looked like turkey vultures from afar, but when they took flight, they were clearly much larger. With wingspans of almost 10 feet and stylish white accents, they were a sight to behold. I’d read that they could glide to the coast in an hour, barely flapping their wings, and now I could believe it. We spent a long time watching them effortlessly soaring above and then socializing on a distant rock formation.
It was possible to identify individual birds by their wing tags, too. There was Kun-Wac-Shun, a twenty-year-old male, and Rachel, a four-year-old female originally released near Big Sur. The highlight, though, was number eighty-nine, a fourteen-year-old male who flew by for a close-up, giving us an intimate look at his bald head, red eyes, and powerful beak.
As the afternoon wore on, we began our gradual descent along the Condor Gulch Trail. Completing a loop trail felt appropriate as my mind wandered back to the circle of life, and I thought about the parallel between a condor’s ecological role—feasting on carrion and turning death into new life—and their own revival as a species.
And then, as if nature were winking at us, we noticed something special. Glancing back at the towering rocks behind us, we spotted two condors high on a ledge, engaged in a breeding program of their own. In a fitting end to the day, we may have witnessed the further preservation of their species and the exact moment when the circle of life began to revolve once more.
