I fell into
A burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher

HIGH ISLAND, Texas -- Along with hundreds of other birders this spring, I trekked to the Gulf of Mexico coast to intercept the northward bird migration. The trees and marshes of the upper eastern reaches of the Lone Star coast are a vital stepping stone for exhausted warblers, buntings, vireos, grosbeaks and just about anything else with wings.

But as I rolled east on Interstate 10, the signs began to appear that I was in for something more than a wildlife experience: Johnny Cash singing "Ring of Fire" on the rental car's radio. Refineries and shrimp boats. A grocery store offering boiled "crawfish" by the pound. And in Winnie, Texas, a McDonald's with but one functioning Golden Arch.

I had entered what Texans call the "Redneck Riviera." For a traveler from Salt Lake, the sweaty and gorgeously seedy Gulf Coast is an exotic destination.

Admittedly, it doesn't take a whole lot for a locale to be extraordinary by Utah standards. The Gulf Coast has humidity, Cajun food, free-range alligators, Shiner beer and natives who move slow and talk funny.

Culturally, it's an eye-opener. For one thing, these Southern rednecks -- who, by the way, come in black, white, Vietnamese, Korean and Indian (both kinds) -- are aggressively friendly. It didn't take long to realize I had traveled far, far from Utah.

Fresh and folksy: "Good to see y'all," hollers Angela, an industrial-grade waitress, as I stumble into Winnie's Waffle House at 5:30 a.m. Angela leans over the counter and says in a hushed tone, "I made a fresh pot of coffee!"

Bleary-eyed, I wonder, "Just for me?"

Pretty soon, as more locals and visiting birders trickle in, I realize Angela apparently made a fresh pot for each and every one of us. Her assistant pauses before taking our order to fill us in on the progress of her son who was recently paralyzed in a drunken shooting.

"Every day is a miracle," she says.

Winnie is the gateway to one of America's most spectacular birding destinations. It follows the curve of the coast from Bolivar Flats Bird Sanctuary to Sabine Pass. At its beating heart is the hamlet of High Island.

Like many things in birding, names can be misleading. Just as there is no ring on the neck of the ring-necked duck, High Island is a square mile of slightly elevated ground, an island only in the sea of treeless rice fields, marshes and beaches that surround it.

But for a bird flying northward over the Gulf of Mexico, High Island's few acres of wood lots, preserved by the Houston Audubon Society, are the first they have seen in 750 miles or more. When migrants are fighting a northerly wind, the tiny town becomes the crucial pit stop in the race to spring nesting areas and is renown for its "fall outs" of exhausted birds.

The coast surrounding the town is a "rich bird environment" -- a nice way of saying thick scrub, bogs, fire ants, painful saw grass and swarms of mosquitos.

"Isn't it wonderful?" says a sixtysomething birder from Great Britain, ticking off migrants in High Island's famous Boy Scout Woods. "We've wanted for years to come."

In two days, she would see more than 20 species of brilliantly colored warblers -- not to mention a couple dozen species of shorebirds, sparrows and raptors she had never seen before.

She also would take back to Manchester a painful condition known as "Warblers Neck" brought on by staring upward for hours to locate thumb-size flashes of color in the leafy canopy.

Cheap chirpin': The itch to travel to exotic locations in search of birds is one reason serious birding is seen as the hobby of the rich and retired.

Consequently, the Redneck Riviera is a tremendous opportunity for low-rent birders. For less than $200 in airfare and a $100 rental car, a Salt Lake City birder can rub elbows for a weekend with birders from around the world in an avian paradise.

Hit the migration at the right time -- it's always a gamble that you will arrive a day early or late -- and a birder will barely have time to sleep and eat, which makes lodging needs minimal. A room at the Sands Motel in Winnie runs $25 a night. (If you want something with a little less "charm," you can always stay at a chain motel for $65 to $100 per night.)

Because it's a challenge to find birds in an unfamiliar place, I often plan my trips to birding havens and national wildlife preserves to coincide with a local Audubon Society field trip. Leaders delight in sharing their favorite spots, birds and mosquito repellent.

Before dawn broke over the Waffle House, I connected with five birders. Except for Daniel and Sophie, a young couple, the rest of us had never met. It didn't matter, because the migration was running hot.

For three days, our ragtag birding team, ranging in age from mid-20s to 60s, roamed the coast. We talked and argued bird identification, taught each other a thing or two and generally just meandered awestruck through the coastal sanctuaries.

High Island's specialty is warblers, and we delighted in 27 species. But just outside town, Ron skidded his old Chevy to a halt on Texas farm road 124, and we piled out just in time to watch a pair of rare white-tailed hawks corkscrew into a faded blue sky.

Stumble-bum tired at our final sunset together, we turned spotting scopes on least terns, reddish egret and various species of plovers and gulls cavorting in the tens of thousands on the Bolivar Flats.

In three days, our conversation never turned to Iraq, terrorism, jobs, debts, significant others or offspring. Seldom even to mosquito bites. The truth is, other than birds, we had about as much in common as a coot and a scarlet tanager. It didn't matter. For three days in Texas, we formed a happy, if motley, crew.

The last night, red-eyed and smelly, we celebrated our birds in the best Redneck Riviera style -- over a meal of chicken fried steak, shrimp po-boys, red beans and rice and Shiner.