Like the variegated fairy-wrens he once studied in the cloud forests of Peru and the eucalyptus groves outside Brisbane, Derrick has always understood that home is where you choose to land. Some birds are born knowing their territory; others must search for it, guided by instinct and the pull of something ineffable. A magnetism in the landscape, a promise in the air.

Three years ago, for a friend's birthday celebration, Derrick and his friends arrived in Idyllwild as casual visitors. They rented a big red house on South Circle, the one with trees now blazing orange and yellow in autumn's fire. The light streaming through ponderosa pines, the proximity of wilderness, the way the community gathered and nested together—it all sang to him. Within a year, he was back with is husband Kurt and Daniel, this time searching for their own roost in the forest.

He speaks of trees the way other people speak of family, with a tenderness born from his maternal grandfather, who taught him that humans belong with nature, not separate from it. "We wanted forest. A place where we could actually reconnect with nature."

When they found this house, with windows that catch the morning sun like prisms, the decision was instantaneous. 

A Parliament of Birds

The house now serves as both home and aviary. In Derrick's office and living room, perched regally on her designated spots, lives Panchi, a 120-gram American kestrel with the temperament of royalty. "She's a princess," Derrick laughs.

Panchi came to him as a rehab bird, a nestling whose palm tree near Los Angeles was chopped down before she and her siblings could fledge. She's more domesticated than most falconry birds, accustomed to human presence, comfortable in the liminal space between wild and tame. She represents everything Derrick loves about his practice—the ancient art of falconry, the intimate relationship between human and raptor, the privilege of working with a creature that could, at any moment, choose the sky over you.

Out back in a mew lives Rayla, his Harris's Hawk—far too large for indoor living, hungry enough that Panchi and she must never be free around one another. "Rayla would love to have a little bite out of Panchi," he says matter-of-factly, describing the food chain with a scientist's clarity and a naturalist's acceptance.

Derrick came to falconry sideways, during COVID, when remote work finally made possible a dream he'd harbored since childhood. For two years before moving to Idyllwild, he worked with three American kestrels, learning the discipline and devotion the practice demands. But these tiny falcons, North America's smallest, face constant danger from larger raptors. Cooper's hawks, red-tailed hawks, they all see an easy meal. After too many close calls, Derrick now flies Panchi less frequently, cherishing her presence as companion more than hunting partner.

"Everything else tries to eat her," he explains, protective as any parent. The vocabulary of predation, of survival, comes naturally to someone who has spent years studying avian behavior, understanding the mathematics of mortality that governs every species.

The Language of Flight

From childhood, birds have been Derrick's mother tongue. His grandfather fostered that love, teaching him not dominion over nature but partnership with it. While other kids in Vermilion, Ohio, collected baseball cards, Derrick observed wingbeats and calls, the sociology of flocks, the courage of creatures who weigh less than a handful of quarters.

That fascination led him through wildlife biology at the University of Florida, through field work in Peru's cloud forests where humidity clung to everything and birds nested in the mid-canopy. It carried him to the Coconino National Forest outside Flagstaff, then to Cornell University for graduate work in ornithology, and finally to a field site in Australia where he studied fairy-wrens with the focus of someone trying to decode a foreign language one syllable at a time.

His dissertation centered on variegated fairy-wrens, specifically the females who joined already-established groups as helpers—something previously thought to be daughters staying back to assist their mothers. "We found they were actually unrelated females joining these groups," Derrick explains, still animated by the discovery. 

It was a study of strategy, of patience, of understanding that survival sometimes means joining a community even when your place isn't immediately clear. Years later, in Idyllwild, he would practice what those fairy-wrens taught him.

Building a Flock

Making friends in a new place requires the same intentionality as bird migration—you must know where you're going and why, must be willing to call out until others answer. Derrick, Kurt and Daniel arrived knowing only two people tangentially through San Diego connections. The real nest-building began when Derrick walked into the Idyllwild Area Historical Museum one afternoon and struck up a conversation with a volunteer who invited them to the gay and lesbian potluck.

"We met about twenty people at that first one," he recalls. "It just snowballs from there."

Now, two years running, they host that potluck at their own house each October. It's become a gathering point, a roosting place for a community within a community. "Idyllwild is super unique in that it has proximity to Palm Springs—you have so much more queer representation here," he says. "And it tends to be a little bit of an older community, but I feel like younger generations don't often appreciate the knowledge and storytelling you can get from older people who enjoy going to potlucks."

There's a wistfulness in how he says this, an awareness that gathering itself—the simple act of sharing food, of sitting together in someone's home, of building connection through presence—has become unfashionable among his generation. But here in the mountains, potlucks thrive. They're woven into the fabric of community life.

Derrick has also found his flock through theater. When his friend Sammy Busby organized a scene night at the Peak, performing moments from classic films, Derrick jumped in headfirst despite not having acted since high school. He performed scenes from Jaws and Dumb and Dumber to a packed house, two free shows for the community. It reconnected him with a part of himself he'd forgotten, reminded him that performance—like bird song—is about communication, connection, the joy of being witnessed.

"The whole community comes together for these events," he says. "The participation from volunteers, from businesses, it's not just about personal entertainment. People are passionate about creating something for everyone."

The Topology of Belonging

Derrick talks about his San Diego friends now with affectionate mockery, calling them "Flatlanders" when they struggle to keep pace on mountain hikes. The altitude has made him stronger, more resilient, a physical manifestation of what happens when you commit to a place and let it reshape you.

Social connections have come easy to him. The secret, he believes, is intentionality. "When you live in suburbia, everyone's in their own bubble, doing their own thing. Here, people are seeking connection. They want to expand their networks. Living here is a choice, not an accident."

That choice manifests in Facebook groups—those sprawling, sometimes contentious digital gathering places that serve as the town square for mountain communities everywhere. Derrick resisted social media for years, tired of negativity and clickbait. But since moving to Idyllwild, he's become an active, protective voice online.

"I feel more obliged to get involved because I don't want negativity to grow," he explains. "If you don't set some sort of line on what's tolerable, those people will push until it's not as accepting anymore."

He's encountered bigotry, mostly online but occasionally in person—places where he, Kurt and Daniel aren't quite welcome as the people they are. It stings, but it also strengthens his resolve. "I hope Idyllwild continues to grow with more diversity and progress," he says quietly. "Diversity in people, in ideas, in backgrounds and culture. Less bigotry, less judgment."

On the ground, day-to-day, most people are kind regardless of political differences. It's Facebook that amplifies division, that makes people bolder in their cruelty. But Derrick won't surrender the digital space to voices of exclusion. This is his community now, his territory to defend.

Seasonal Rhythms

Spring remains his favorite season—that moment when birds return from Central and South America, when they "just start up like they never left." Dark-eyed juncos arrive in large flocks for winter after breeding in solitary pairs during summer. Ruby-crowned kinglets flash their red tufts when frustrated. Yellow-rumped warblers work the tree branches methodically. And in the backyard, Steller's jays build their nests where Derrick can watch the whole cycle unfold.

"You feel that change of season through the birds," he says softly. "It never gets old."

But he loves autumn too—that crisp air, those blazing colors, the petrichor smell when rain finally comes. In Garner Valley especially, where he exercises his hunting dogs and practices falconry, the combination of ponderosa pine and sagebrush after rain creates a scent he wishes someone would bottle. "They make petrichor and pine candles at Mountain Pottery," he notes, "but I want them to do it with sage."

Even winter, despite the inconvenience, holds magic for him. Growing up in Ohio and upstate New York, he learned to love snow—but also learned that constant cold becomes oppressive, that months of gray slush drain the spirit. Idyllwild offers what he calls "a super happy balance": snow that comes and goes, beauty without the relentlessness.

He remembers their first winter vividly—snow every single weekend like clockwork, arriving Friday afternoon and melting by Wednesday before the cycle repeated. They hunkered down, cooked elaborate meals, watched the forest transform into something from a storybook. Kurt, who grew up in Florida, marveled at it all. Derrick, the Ohio boy, felt something settle in his chest: the satisfaction of snow without suffering.

Nesting for the Long Term

In the kitchen, they cook together often, compensating for what the mountain lacks in restaurant diversity. Derrick's Puerto Rican, Hungarian, and German heritage means he grew up with complex flavors, with recipes passed down and adapted. In San Diego, every cuisine was accessible. Here, they plan off-mountain trips for Thai food in Palm Desert, for ingredients Vons doesn't stock, for the occasional culinary adventure.

But mostly they cook at home, experimenting and adapting, making do. It's another form of intentionality, of choosing to build a life here rather than constantly seeking elsewhere what they imagine they're missing.

The house itself continues to evolve. They've given it a facelift, cleaned away the neglect, restored the light. The flow from front yard through the living room to the tiered backyard creates what Derrick calls "a really nice blend of modern architecture with nature." Every morning, light beams stream through those high windows. Every evening, he can walk out the door and be on a trail in five minutes.

He dreams, sometimes, of turning his ornithology background into a business—bird tours for visitors, educational programs for local kids. The infrastructure is there: his knowledge, his passion, his collection of birds both wild and trained. 

"I think I will do more of that in the future," he says. For now, he still works remotely, developing training content for DNA sequencing software, a job that allows him to live here but doesn't feed his soul the way falconry does, the way teaching could.

What Endures

For anyone considering the same migration he made, Derrick offers practical wisdom earned through experience. "You need to look at your lifestyle and make sure it's something that's reasonable and attainable," he says. "If you expect to have a changing life situation often, it may not be the best fit. It's not as easy to just move up here and then move away."

But more than stability, mountain living demands flexibility. "You have to be adaptable," he emphasizes. "You have to be equipped and ready for anything—dealing with wildlife, fires, wind. Last winter they shut the power off for three days. Nothing is ever going to be the same year to year. Everything's different."

It's this quality—adaptability—that separates those who thrive here from those who retreat back down the mountain. The ability to embrace inconvenience, to find solutions rather than problems, to see beauty in the very things that make life harder.

Does he think he'll be here in ten years?

"Yeah," he says without hesitation. "Hopefully a little more laid back than now. Getting more into falconry, working on house projects, relaxing more."

Outside the window, ruby-crowned kinglets flit through the branches. Somewhere in the house, Panchi shifts on her perch, alert to movements only she can perceive. In the backyard mew, Rayla mantles her wings, instinctively protective of space that's hers.

And Derrick watches them all—these birds he's chosen, this life he's built, this community he's helped to shape. Like those variegated fairy-wrens joining established groups in Australian eucalyptus groves, he understood that sometimes you must find your flock rather than be born into it.

In the language of ornithology, they'd call this site fidelity: the tendency of birds to return year after year to the same breeding grounds and winter territories.