Death Valley

The taller flamingo had been thinking about Death Valley ever since their first night in Yellowstone.

She had heard that it was the hottest place in North America, which seemed like an excellent recommendation for two tropical birds who had spent the better part of a month buried in snow.

The shorter flamingo remained unconvinced.

"I still don't like the name."

"Names can be misleading," the taller one explained. "Look at Greenland. Mostly ice. Iceland has green parts. People are very careless about these things."

"But Death Valley?"

"It's a historical reference."

"To what?"

The taller flamingo considered the question.

"Something historical, presumably."

Fortunately, their Yellowstone hosts had grown tired of explaining to visitors why two pink lawn flamingos were standing in a snowbank beside their vacation cabin. When the couple prepared to return to California, they pulled the birds from the frozen ground and tossed them into the back of their camper.

The shorter flamingo landed upside down beneath a folding chair.

"I don't suppose you arranged first-class accommodations?"

"Travel requires flexibility."

"Apparently so does my neck."

They traveled south through Utah and Nevada, stopping at campgrounds, gas stations, and one particularly depressing roadside attraction featuring a giant concrete jackrabbit.

The taller flamingo found the journey exhilarating.

The shorter one spent most of it wedged between a cooler and a bag of charcoal.

By the time they reached Death Valley, the weather had improved considerably.

The snow was gone. The sky was an enormous, uninterrupted blue, and the surrounding mountains rose above a broad desert floor that seemed to stretch forever.

The couple parked their camper at Furnace Creek, where a thermometer outside the visitor center registered 108 degrees.

The taller flamingo was delighted.

"At last! Civilization!"

The shorter flamingo peered out from beneath the folding chair.

"Where are the palm trees?"

"There are some over there."

"Where's the water?"

"Somewhere nearby, I'm sure."

"And the ocean?"

The taller flamingo hesitated.

"Geography isn't my strongest subject."

"Neither is navigation."

The humans decided that the flamingos would make an amusing decoration outside their campsite. Within minutes, the two birds were standing beside a folding table, their metal legs pushed into the hard desert ground.

For the first time in weeks, they were completely free of snow.

The shorter flamingo stretched her neck toward the sunshine.

"Oh, this is wonderful."

"I told you."

"It's warm."

"Precisely."

"Actually, it's very warm."

"That's the point."

They stood quietly for several minutes, enjoying the sensation of heat soaking into their plastic bodies.

Then the shorter flamingo noticed something.

"Do you smell that?"

"Smell what?"

"Something strange."

"Probably the barbecue."

"No. Something more like... plastic."

The taller flamingo glanced toward the camper.

"Perhaps they're unpacking."

The shorter one shifted uneasily on her metal legs.

"I think it's me."

"Nonsense."

"I'm getting softer."

"You're imagining things."

"My left wing is drooping."

The taller flamingo examined her companion. There was, indeed, a slight downward curve to the shorter bird's left wing that hadn't been there in Yellowstone.

"That's probably normal," she said.

"It wasn't normal yesterday."

"Yesterday you were frozen solid."

"Which is beginning to seem preferable."

By noon, the temperature had climbed to 115 degrees.

The humans had retreated inside their air-conditioned camper, leaving the flamingos alone in the sun.

A lizard emerged from beneath a rock and paused beside them.

"Excuse me," the shorter flamingo called. "Is it always this hot?"

The lizard regarded her with the expression of someone who had lived in the desert long enough to find most questions unnecessary.

"It's summer," he said.

"We noticed."

"Gets hotter."

"Hotter?"

"Sometimes."

The lizard continued across the campsite and disappeared beneath the camper.

The shorter flamingo turned toward her companion.

"You said this would be like Florida."

"It is like Florida."

"Florida has water."

"There's a swimming pool at the resort."

"Florida has shade."

"We have the camper."

"Florida has humidity."

"Would you please stop finding fault with everything?"

The shorter flamingo fell silent.

A few minutes later, she spoke again.

"My beak is pointing down."

"Your beak always points down."

"Not this far."

The taller flamingo looked more carefully.

The shorter bird's neck had developed a noticeable bend just below her head. Her once-elegant posture now suggested a flamingo who had been asked a difficult question and was considering it with unusual intensity.

The taller flamingo tried to reassure her.

"Perhaps you're simply relaxing."

"Plastic doesn't relax."

"Everything relaxes in the sunshine."

"Not permanently!"

The taller flamingo was about to reply when she felt something shift inside her own body.

There was a small, almost imperceptible movement near the base of her neck.

Then another.

Her head tilted slightly to the left.

She attempted to straighten it.

Nothing happened.

"Oh dear."

"What?"

"I seem to be leaning."

The shorter flamingo examined her.

"You're melting."

"That's a rather dramatic interpretation."

"Your head is sideways."

"It's a temporary adjustment."

"Your tail is sagging."

The taller flamingo looked down as best she could.

"Oh."

For the first time since leaving Oregon, she had nothing encouraging to say.

By midafternoon, the two flamingos had developed decidedly unconventional silhouettes. The shorter one's neck curved in an awkward S-shape, while the taller one's head had acquired a permanent tilt that made her appear deeply skeptical of everything around her.

The humans finally emerged from the camper.

The woman stopped.

"Look at the flamingos!"

Her husband stared for a moment, then began laughing.

"They're melting!"

"I told you we shouldn't leave them in the sun."

"They're lawn ornaments. They're supposed to be outside."

"Not in Death Valley!"

The couple pulled the flamingos from the ground and carried them beneath the camper awning.

The shorter flamingo was furious.

"I warned you."

"I know."

"I specifically mentioned the name."

"Yes."

"Death Valley."

"Yes."

"And you said it was marketing."

The taller flamingo stared at the distant mountains.

"I may have underestimated the climate."

"Underestimated?"

"By a few degrees."

The shorter flamingo made a sound that, had she possessed functional lungs, would have been a very long sigh.

That evening, the temperature finally began to fall.

The humans placed the flamingos inside the camper, where the air conditioning hummed pleasantly and a small television showed the evening weather forecast.

The shorter flamingo watched with interest.

A smiling meteorologist stood before a map of the United States.

"Another beautiful summer day across much of the country," he announced. "Temperatures remain mild along the Pacific Coast, with highs in the upper sixties and low seventies."

The shorter flamingo raised her head.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Sixties and seventies. That sounds lovely."

The taller flamingo looked toward the television.

"Where?"

The meteorologist pointed to the California coastline.

"San Francisco," he said. "A comfortable sixty-eight degrees today, with the usual coastal fog."

The taller flamingo brightened.

"San Francisco! I've heard wonderful things about it."

The shorter flamingo studied her companion.

"Is it warm?"

"Comfortably warm."

"Is there water?"

"An entire ocean."

"Palm trees?"

"Possibly."

"Snow?"

"Highly unlikely."

"And no desert?"

"Absolutely no desert."

The shorter flamingo considered this carefully.

"All right. Perhaps San Francisco."

The taller flamingo smiled.

"Excellent! I believe we're finally getting the hang of this."

They settled down for the night, their slightly distorted bodies resting against a cabinet beside the camper door.

Outside, the desert remained hot and silent.

The shorter flamingo was almost asleep when a final thought occurred to her.

"One more question."

"Yes?"

"Does San Francisco have flamingos?"

The taller flamingo thought for a moment.

"I don't know."

"Then how do we know it's suitable?"

"Because," the taller flamingo replied confidently, "I've heard they have a place called Fisherman's Wharf."

The shorter flamingo waited.

"And?"

"Fish. Water. Birds. It's practically a wildlife sanctuary."

There was a long silence.

"You're making this up again, aren't you?"

"Not entirely."

The shorter flamingo closed her eyes.

Somewhere outside, a coyote howled.

She missed Florida.

She missed the palm trees, the swimming pools, and even the little plastic alligator who had never contributed anything useful to a conversation.

Most of all, she missed the days when her neck pointed in the direction it was supposed to.

"Next time," she murmured, "I'm reading the map."

The taller flamingo said nothing.

She was already imagining their arrival in San Francisco.

A magnificent city beside the ocean.

Cool breezes.

Wonderful scenery.

And, best of all, a famous bridge.

She had always wanted to see the Golden Gate.

Neither flamingo had considered the possibility that a city famous for its fog might present difficulties for two travelers whose navigation skills were already questionable.