The Hot Springs

The decision to leave Central Oregon was unanimous.

It was the first thing the two flamingos had agreed upon since arriving, although the taller one insisted that their previous disagreements had been largely the result of misunderstandings.

Three days of snow had convinced them that Oregon was not a suitable destination for creatures accustomed to palm trees, warm breezes, and the occasional compliment from passing tourists.

"We're leaving," announced the shorter flamingo.

"Excellent idea," replied the taller one. "I was just about to suggest it."

"You suggested we wait until spring."

"I was reconsidering."

Their departure was delayed by the practical difficulty of being lawn ornaments. Neither possessed wings capable of flight, and their long metal legs, while excellent for remaining upright in a flower bed, were poorly suited to traveling any meaningful distance.

Fortunately, the humans who owned them had apparently reached the same conclusion about their suitability for winter landscaping.

On Saturday morning, both flamingos were pulled from the frozen ground, shaken free of snow, and placed in the back of a pickup truck.

"Transportation!" exclaimed the taller one.

"Deportation," corrected the shorter one.

They traveled east through the high desert, past sagebrush, distant mountains, and small towns where nobody appeared to appreciate the presence of two distinguished tropical birds.

By the following afternoon, after a series of stops and transfers they couldn't entirely explain, they found themselves in a gift shop near Yellowstone National Park.

The taller flamingo was delighted.

"Look at this place! Mountains, forests, wildlife. Clearly an improvement."

"It's colder than Oregon."

"Only temporarily. I've heard there are hot springs here."

The shorter flamingo considered this.

"Hot springs?"

"Naturally heated water. Steaming pools. Warm ground. It's practically Florida with mountains."

For the first time in several days, the shorter flamingo appeared interested.

They were purchased that afternoon by a cheerful couple who thought two pink flamingos would make an amusing addition to their vacation cabin.

By evening, the birds were standing beside a wooden deck overlooking a snow-covered meadow. Steam rose in the distance from a geothermal area, drifting across the landscape in great white clouds.

"There!" announced the taller flamingo. "I told you. Warm water."

"How warm?"

"Very."

"Florida warm?"

"Possibly warmer."

The shorter flamingo studied the distant steam.

"Can we get in?"

"Eventually."

"How?"

The taller flamingo looked down at her metal legs, which had been pushed firmly into the frozen soil.

"Transportation arrangements are still being finalized."

For a while, they admired the scenery. A small herd of bison moved slowly across the meadow, their enormous heads lowered against the wind. Snowflakes drifted past the cabin, and somewhere in the distance a geyser sent a column of steam into the cold afternoon air.

The shorter flamingo watched the bison with growing concern.

"Those are very large birds."

"They're buffalo."

"Are they friendly?"

"Probably."

One of the bison stopped and looked in their direction.

The shorter flamingo leaned slightly toward her companion.

"I don't like the way that one is looking at us."

"He's admiring our color."

"He's considering eating us."

"Buffalo don't eat flamingos."

"How do you know?"

The taller flamingo hesitated.

"I've never heard of it happening."

"That's not the same thing."

The bison eventually wandered away, leaving the two flamingos alone with the snow and their increasingly questionable travel arrangements.

As darkness settled over the meadow, the temperature dropped.

Then it dropped some more.

By nine o'clock, the thermometer outside the cabin registered twelve degrees.

By midnight, it was below zero.

The taller flamingo had begun to suspect that her research into Yellowstone's geothermal attractions had overlooked certain important details.

"How far away are those hot springs?" asked the shorter one.

"Not far."

"Could we walk?"

"We don't walk."

"Right."

A gust of wind swept across the deck, rattling the wooden railing and sending a shower of snow from the roof.

The shorter flamingo was silent for a long time.

Then she asked, "Do you remember Florida?"

"Of course."

"The warm evenings?"

"Yes."

"The palm trees?"

"Yes."

"The little plastic alligator beside the swimming pool?"

The taller flamingo smiled at the memory.

"He was a pleasant fellow."

"He never said much."

"Neither would you if you spent your entire life with your mouth open."

They considered that for a moment.

Then the shorter flamingo sighed.

"I miss him."

"So do I."

Another gust swept across the meadow.

"Next time," said the shorter flamingo, "I'm choosing the destination."

"You said that in Oregon."

"And you ignored me."

"I distinctly remember you agreeing to the hot springs."

"I agreed to the hot part."

The taller flamingo had no answer.

By morning, a fresh six inches of snow had fallen. The bison were back, the steam continued rising from the distant geothermal pools, and two thoroughly miserable pink flamingos stood frozen beside the cabin.

The shorter one broke the silence.

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"Our next migration."

The taller flamingo brightened.

"Wonderful! I know a place."

"No."

"But you'll love it. It's called Death Valley. Apparently, it's one of the hottest places in America."

The shorter flamingo slowly turned her head.

"Death Valley?"

"Yes."

"With death in the name?"

"That's just marketing."

The shorter flamingo stared at her companion.

Somewhere across the meadow, a bison snorted.

"Florida," she said firmly. "Next time, we're going to Florida."

"Of course," replied the taller one.

But she was already thinking about Death Valley.