I received an email from a friend a few weeks ago. He was discouraged. Our environment, he declared, was under attack: our current president possesses the worst environmental record of any U.S. president, ever. Designated wilderness areas are under siege, too: energy companies are successfully convincing our government to open national parks and monuments to drilling and development. Politicians are considering rolling back controls on the Environmental Protection Act, making it less likely in the future that citizens will be able to trust that their air and water are clean and safe. And lately the present administration has been making serious noises about engaging in war with Iran, as if Iraq and Afghanistan aren’t already taking up enough of the country’s tax money and military resources.

I reminded him to focus on two things: 1) you lose until you win; and 2) try to find strength in small victories.

Recently I traveled to the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument in Northern Arizona to watch a condor release. The wild population of the California condor, considered nearly extinct in the early 1980s, now numbers 127 (up from 22 in 1982) thanks to concerned individuals fighting for restoration and represented by many organizations, both private and government. These magnificent birds, now residing in Northern Arizona as well as Southern, Central and Baja California, are making a tentative comeback in the West.

The early morning sun slanted across the fractured, splayed, open to the bone escarpments of the Echo Cliffs as I drove north on 89, headed toward House Rock Valley Road and the release site. This land, I noted, seems to be in a perpetual state of falling-down-ed-ness, the salmon colored marrow of rock and earth exposing a sandstone heart. Five miles from the turnoff, I caught movement to my left, just off the highway: white, oval shaped blobs suddenly materialized into the hindquarter markings of a small group of pronghorn, springing away from the sound of my rushing truck tires and disappearing over a small dun colored rise.

Turning off the main highway, the dusty road revealed a caravan of vehicles in front of me, bouncing slowly over ruts and potholes. Five miles further and I began to think that I had arrived at a rock concert: nearly 75 passenger cars, SUVs, trucks, and RVs lined both sides of the single-lane road, many sporting "I Brake for Birds" and "Audubon Society" bumper stickers attached to rear fenders. Checking my rear-view mirror, I saw more vehicles following in my tracks. A quarter mile further and I saw a large exhibition tent and port-a-potties in an open area just off the road. Noting the crowds and cars, I felt like I had joined a Phish concert gathering more than an endangered bird release. The condors were the rock stars, with throngs of bird watching groupies milling around in the spring sunshine waiting for a celestial performance.

I parked, grabbed a pair of binoculars, and stepped out into a snag of dried Russian thistle, swearing softly as dozens of little thorns pierced my flip-flop clad feet. Trudging up a dirt track, I chose a spot where I hoped to get a decent view of the cliffs to the east. The captive birds, caged up there somewhere, waited hopefully for freedom. A dozen or more spread-winged, soaring wild condors wheeled and flew and settled, over and over, at a cleft just below the escarpment’s rim.

A nice lady offered to let me take a look through her powerful telescope, mounted on a tripod and aimed at the place high in the cliffs where the young condors waited. Squinting through the viewfinder I observed, close-up, a flurry of feathered activity: the wild adult condors, sensing something vital was about to happen, flapped and hopped, resting on the cages and rocks surrounding the condor release site.

The release was set to happen at 11:00 a.m. At 10:59, I glanced behind me at the crowd. Dozens of upturned faces watched anxiously, peering through spotting scopes, telescopes, and binoculars, as if waiting for a sign from God. 11:00, and suddenly, one by one, six young condors burst from the cliffs high above, flailing, fluttering, and finally soaring, joining the welcoming committee of wild condors.

That was the end, so I thought. I walked back through the dust to my vehicle and began the long trek home to Flagstaff. But I stopped at Badger Lookout, and did a trail run on the vacant access road leading to the overlook, and startled a bighorn ram that froze for a split second, staring at me and then vanishing into a deep arroyo: he seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. The high desert settled and spun around me in layers of striated stone and brilliant turquoise sky.

Driving home that afternoon I thought about that recent email exchange with my friend. Just that morning, before I left for the condor release, I overheard on CNN that our president’s approval rating was at his lowest ever—37%. An email alert from Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance reported legislation had just passed with bi-partisan support, designating 100,000 acres of new wilderness land in Utah’s Cedar Mountains.

Finally, I remembered the freed condors, black graceful soaring lines marking a desert sky. Small victories.