My daughter’s class was scheduled to go to a sleepaway camp. She’s 10 now, and was excited about her first real overnight excursion that wasn’t a sleepover at a friend’s or a stay with relatives. But she picked up a fever over the weekend – nothing drastic, nothing that impacted how she felt beyond a headache – and when it came time for the buses to leave Monday morning, she was still at 100 degrees. It took a morning of rest, water, and Tylenol to get her feeling well enough to leave.

Since she missed the bus, it was on me to drive her the 2+ hours into the mountains of San Bernardino National Forest. The driving was easy; my daughter is good company: thoughtful, funny, and always happy to disappear into a book. We listened to Lover start to finish; she sang along to much of it and asked me if “The Man” was about sexism (uh, yes). I broke down the lyrics for her, and later made the case for “The Archer” as the best song on the album. Then I made her listen to Bloc Party. My only other dad move was instinctively pulling over at a sign touting “VISTA,” which I called off when I realized it wasn’t a “get out and be treated to a scenic view” situation but a “get out and walk down a trail to the scenic view.” We didn’t have that kind of time!

I dropped her off at camp in May’s long golden window that blends late afternoon with early evening. There were no straight lines: roads curved to accommodate the mountain’s will, and towering ponderosas broke up any glimpse of a horizon. The air was fresh, the temperature was neither warm nor cool, and I felt no pull to leave.

I had a plan, of course. You cannot send me to a different region – a different habitat, even – and expect me not to look for birds. I’d done my homework; there was a spot nearby on the way home where someone had observed two would-be lifers for me (the Cassin’s finch and Townsend’s solitaire). I parked and set out.

It was a bust. Well, no: It was beautiful, a walk through wild subalpine habitat. Every species of American nuthatch – white-breasted, red-breasted, and pygmy – honked out their song at respective ascending pitches. Acorn woodpeckers, adorned in their clown makeup, called to each other with monkey-like cries. Western bluebirds perched on low branches, surveying for danger before alighting on the ground. It was serene and I loved it, but I did not see my target birds. I wasn’t quite satisfied, but it was time to go home.

Navigating the S-turns down, I once again saw the signs promising a VISTA. I’m a middle-aged dad; what was I supposed to do? I hastily parked, grabbed my camera, and set out on the trail to see the view worthy of a sign and four parking spots.

I almost didn’t get to the view, which looks west to Los Angeles and is probably astounding in morning light, but was hazy and washed-out as the sun sank in the sky. In a flowering bush next to the trail were two finches, male and female, munching away at the plant matter. The female caught my eye first – she had the broad facial stripes of a purple finch, a species I typically only see a handful of times a year. The male, however, didn’t have the full-body “dipped in raspberry jam” look of a purple finch – its red was concentrated on its crown, fading to pink as it reached its chest. I had lucked into a pair of Cassin’s finches.

I’m almost ashamed to share a story with a point so obvious, but given the state of everything perhaps it’s helpful to put into words: Despite the best efforts of the worst people, the world is still filled with beauty and wonder. The brazen and ugly presence of fascism, the failures of a supposed opposition party, and the corruption of mainstream journalism are all in front of my face, both as a southern California resident and whenever I look at a screen.

But every day I search for beauty. This is not a story about finding a bird I’d never seen before; it is about the constant habit of looking – at the green ripple of canyons in the San Gabriels, at silhouetted palm trees at dusk, at my children’s unkempt hair the color of dry hills. When I drive over a river or past wetlands my eyes flick to the banks in search of herons and egrets; when I drive through the city I search for murals. I peek over my daughter’s shoulder to see what she’s drawing; I seek out novels that grip me with language and new worlds. I consider the life of a tree: How old it must be, and how its environment has changed during its life. I delight in plants that have pushed up through concrete. I look, I look, I look, and what I see is older and bigger and greater than our fears and the threats we face.

The beauty alone cannot save us; it puts no weight on the scales of justice. But it can be a fire in the long night, a little warmth and light to mend our morale, the pop and crackle that sends us into the next day, ready to face it all again with full and beating hearts.