This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  After an hour that combined elation and bewilderment in roughly equal quantities, the flight stopped, almost as abruptly as it had begun. Now was the time to comb the fields and woods, to try to get a better look at the birds we had seen passing overhead.

  Providing you get decent views, New World warblers are not that difficult to identify – but some species are so elusive they can easily be overlooked. Fortunately I had excellent guides. As well as Richard, whose ability to find these birds verges on the supernatural, there was Sean, a newly arrived visitor from Ireland, who was as keen to reacquaint himself with past favourites as I was to see them for the first time.

  We spent two hours looking, listening, pishing and squeaking – using everything in the birder’s armoury to pin down these shy little creatures. By the end we had come across a total of 20 different species of warbler – a far cry from Cape May’s record of over 30 in a day, but more than enough to keep me happy. A visit to the Ocean View provided a welcome end to the excursion: two eggs over easy, crispy bacon and a steaming plate of pancakes.

  Jolly English weather

  JUNE 2000

  ‘I see you’ve brought the English weather with you!’ If I had a dollar for every time an American birder said those words to me last month, I’d be a rich man. We were in Cape May, New Jersey, enjoying the delights of spring migration, US-style.

  The organisers of the Spring Birding Weekend were understandably miffed. After a heatwave earlier in the month, temperatures had plummeted, and clouds and rain were the order of the day. Because I am English, and was scheduled to give a talk on birds and weather, it was clearly all my fault. Not that the birds minded too much. True, it wasn’t quite the spectacle we had been promised, but there was still plenty to keep us happy, with something new to see every day.

  The only problem was what to call the birds we saw. When European settlers originally colonised North America, they were quite understandably homesick. So when they saw a vaguely familiar bird, they named it after one from back home. The trouble is that they were not all that good at identification.

  This may explain why they have a robin the size of a thrush that looks like a blackbird. Sparrows that are actually buntings. And warblers. Not the drab, confusing mob we know and love, but a band of multicoloured, dancing sprites, which bring joy to even the most jaded birder, whatever the weather.

  Then there is another confusing category: species which occur on both sides of the Atlantic, but have different names. When a birder called out ‘Common Loon’, on an otherwise uneventful offshore boat trip, he momentarily confused me. Lifting my binoculars, I realised I was looking at a Great Northern Diver in full breeding plumage. We were also hoping to see Parasitic Jaegers or, as we call them, Arctic Skuas. And I kept having to stop myself referring to waders, which over there are known as shorebirds.

  For a while, the rain threatened to spoil the whole weekend. But as often happens with birding, an unpromising day can turn out much better than expected. As we were walking around the lake, with a group of beginner birders led by local expert Richard Crossley, we became aware of hundreds of birds swooping low over the water.

  They were swallows, busily catching insects forced down by the poor weather. Not just one or two species, as we might expect in Britain, but no fewer than six different kinds. Once again, linguistic differences caused confusion when I called out Sand Martin (which they call Bank Swallow). By far the commonest species was the Barn Swallow, the same species we see every summer. But unlike our birds, these had rich russet underparts, rather than pale buff.

  We could also see Tree Swallows, flashing bluish-green as they swooped before our eyes; Rough-winged Swallows, a chunkier version of the Sand Martin; huge, dark Purple Martins; and two Cliff Swallows, their pinkish rumps clearly visible as they flew by.

  Despite this spectacular aerial display, our novice birders seemed singularly unimpressed. Richard, with classic Yorkshire tact, explained that this really was an unusual and impressive sight. Then we got to the bottom of the problem: the fact that to a beginner, all swallows look the same. So as the birds lined up conveniently on a telegraph wire, Richard pointed out their diagnostic features as patiently as he could. Under his expert tuition, people finally began to understand the subtle differences between the species, and frowns gave way to smiles.

  Half an hour later, we reached the car park, soaked but satisfied. As we parted company, I wondered if one day in the future, those new birders will look back fondly on that damp afternoon as the first time they really began to appreciate the joys of birding – despite the weather.

  Honeymoon in paradise

  NOVEMBER 2001

  Suzanne and I left London mid-morning, on our honeymoon at last. By late afternoon we were sitting by the hotel pool sipping a cold beer and watching birds hop around the carefully manicured gardens. We might have been on the Isles of Scilly, Tenerife or Mallorca, but we weren’t. It was nudging 100 degrees in the shade, the birds were new and exotic, and we were on another continent: Africa.

  Our destination was The Gambia, that tiny West African republic just a six-hour flight from Gatwick. With only an hour’s time difference, we didn’t have to worry about jetlag, and we spent one of the most restful and stress-free fortnights I have ever experienced.

  We also, I have to confess, went birding. OK, so watching birds isn’t what you would call a traditional honeymoon activity, but birding is so easy in The Gambia that you can’t really avoid it. Fortunately, too, Suzanne shares my enthusiasm and interest.

  On our first evening, without leaving the poolside bar, we saw a Red-eyed Dove, Speckled Pigeon and the aptly named Beautiful Sunbird. On a quick walk around the Hotel Kairaba gardens we saw three species of glossy starling and two local specialities: White-crowned Robin-chat and Yellow-crowned Gonolek. These normally shy forest birds have become accustomed to people and perched invitingly close, allowing us to admire their splendid plumage.

  The next day, in the grounds of the hotel next door, the Senegambia, we added even more species to our ‘garden list’. These included shrikes, parrots and two species of kingfisher: the large, showy Blue-breasted, and the tiny, jewel-like African Pygmy Kingfisher, one of the highlights of the trip.

  You could spend a fortnight here without leaving the hotel grounds, and you would still see more than 60 different species, while a couple of excursions on foot to the nearby rice fields, creek and forest would add another 50. So one morning we took a walk around Kotu Creek, where Pied Kingfishers hovered over the water, while flocks of Little Bee-eaters gathered nearby. We also saw male Red Bishops, looking like giant red-and-black bumblebees, perform their extraordinary display flight.

  That evening, we explored Bijilo Forest Park, a tract of original palm forest just a few minutes walk from the hotel gates. At first, we saw very little, but as the sun began to set Swallow-tailed and Little Bee-eaters treated us to stunning close-up views. A perched raptor turned out to be a Lizard Buzzard, which stayed put long enough for us to admire its beautifully marked plumage through our new telescope.

  But it was at dusk, as we strolled back towards the park gates, that we enjoyed the most memorable encounter, when three tiny, bantamlike birds appeared on the path a few metres ahead of us. They were Stone Partridges, a shy and elusive gamebird that rarely ventures out of the dense undergrowth. To our delight, the partridges carried on walking along the path, uttering quiet, liquid calls as they went, and allowing us to see every detail of their intricately marked plumage.

  We wandered back along the beach, watching the sun set over the Atlantic, before enjoying a celebratory cocktail at the poolside bar. A notice proclaimed that it was happy hour. I couldn’t argue with that.

  Encounter with a Wanderer

  MARCH 2002

  It all happened while I was eating my breakfast. I had just sat down to a nice plate of bacon and eggs when I caught sight of a huge bird as it glided past the window. Ignoring the rapidly congealing fry-up, I rushed o
utside to see this magnificent seabird in its full glory, an II-foot wingspan enabling it to fly effortlessly above the waves. I had finally fulfilled my ambition to see a Wandering Albatross.

  I was a long way from home: on a Russian icebreaker, at roughly 65 degrees west and 60 degrees south, on my way to Antarctica. The night before, we had set sail from the Argentinian city of Ushuaia. After a rocky night’s sleep, we had awoken to a clear, bright morning on the open ocean.

  This was not the first albatross I had seen. The previous afternoon, as we boarded the Kapitan Dranitsyn, I was gazing idly out into the harbour when I saw a black-and-white bird gliding on stiff wings in the far distance. It was a Black-browed Albatross, the wanderer’s smaller cousin (although when comparing albatrosses, small is a relative term).

  As we sailed through the Beagle Channel I saw plenty more Black-brows, with up to 50 circling the ship at any one time. I also saw my first penguin: a young Magellanic, looking like a lost duck as it swam along in front of the bow. As soon as the ship got too close, it disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

  Within a couple of days I had enjoyed my fill of both penguins and albatrosses. In the South Shetlands we visited several colonies of Gentoo and Chinstrap Penguins, marvelling at the noisy spectacle of these delightful birds. Later, as we headed further south, we came across little groups of Adélie Penguins perched on ice floes, fleeing in panic as we crunched through the ice towards them.

  The highlight, ornithologically speaking, was a single Emperor Penguin, sighted as we crossed Marguerite Bay. At first it was just a distant black-and-white speck, but as we approached it transformed into a magnificent specimen of the world’s largest penguin species. These incredible birds are the archetypal Antarctic creature, spending virtually their whole life on the ice sheet.

  But ultimately, it was neither the Wandering Albatross nor the Emperor Penguin that has stayed with me the longest. Nor was it the frequent encounters with seals and whales. It was the place itself: a constantly changing panorama of ice and snow, with more shades of white – and blue – than you can begin to imagine. A place unlike anywhere else on the planet: a virgin wilderness where the usual state of affairs is reversed, and you feel like an alien life-form visiting the Earth. A place where the silence is only broken by the hum of the ship’s engines and the crack of breaking ice.

  An early start in BA

  APRIL 2002

  We had sailed for two days and two nights across the southern oceans, followed by a four-hour flight to Buenos Aires, and a late night out in the Argentinian capital. So at two o’clock in the morning, as I sank into the comfort of my hotel bed, you might think I would have been looking forward to a lie-in. Instead, like any self-respecting birder, I set the alarm for 6 a.m.

  When there are birds to be seen, an early start is essential. Even more so when the taxi to the airport is booked for midday. Fortunately my hotel, the Buenos Aires Hilton, was a mere stone’s throw away from one of the best urban bird reserves in the world, Costanera Sur. Located alongside the Rio de la Plata, in the heart of a city of three million people, Costanera Sur is a patch of green amidst a sea of concrete – its reedbeds and lagoons acting as a magnet for breeding and migrating birds.

  As a newcomer to South American birding, I had done my homework, checking out the species seen by a birding friend when he visited the reserve a few years ago. Even as I approached I could see flocks of Picazuro Pigeons flying overhead and hear the harsh calls of Monk Parakeets. Alongside the road was a thrush-sized bird with a reddish tail, which I identified as a Rufous Hornero (the first of many birds with extremely silly names).

  I reached the reserve at ten minutes to seven, only to discover that it does not open until eight. Fortunately the road overlooks a long lagoon, which was simply packed with birds, including Wattled Jacanas, Snowy Egrets and the first of three different kinds of coot. A bizarre black-and-white bird with a long tail flew past: a Guira Cuckoo. And in the reedbed was a Masked Yellowthroat, with a song that reminded me of a cheerful Willow Warbler.

  A patient wait paid off, with brief but excellent views of a Plumbeous Rail and Wren-like Rushbird, a diminutive little creature flicking in and out of the reeds. All this before I had even entered the reserve. When I finally did so, I was almost overwhelmed with the array of birds on offer. New species of grebes, ducks and swans; a stunning Fork-tailed Flycatcher; and a Glittering-breasted Emerald, a type of hummingbird which moved up and down the path so fast I could hardly focus my binoculars.

  By now the temperature was starting to rise, and I was sharing the path with an army of joggers and cyclists. I was also struggling to put a firm identity to some of the new birds I saw. First, a huge finch-like bird with a bright orange bill, singing from the top of a stem of pampas grass: Great Pampa-finch. Then a black bird with a striking white mask around the eye: Spectacled Tyrant. And a thrush-like bird with a white stripe above the eye: Chalk-browed Mockingbird. One by one I worked my way through the various birds on offer, checking them out and ticking them off.

  The sun continued to rise, and my time in this birder’s paradise was fast running out. A last look round, then a swift walk back to the hotel, and the start of a long journey home. And the prize for the bird with the silliest name? It goes to a small bird with a truly magnificent moniker: the Many-coloured Rush-tyrant.

  Swedish capers

  MAY 2002

  Every birdwatcher has his or her ‘bogey bird’ – a species that despite years, even decades of trying, they have never seen. Occasionally you share your bogey bird with a fellow enthusiast, which explains how Bill Oddie and I came to be spending a night, last month, in a small hut in the middle of Sweden. Our quest was to see, after a total of almost a century of birding experience between us, a male Capercaillie.

  You might not think that Capercaillies are a particularly difficult bird to find. After all, males are the size of a turkey, and spend spring mornings strutting around the forest floor displaying to each other. Indeed, compared to females, males of this species are so huge that a paper in an eminent ornithological journal once posed the rather dubious question: ‘Why are Capercaillie cocks so big?’

  Its name is also a bit of a puzzle. Derived from the Gaelic, is has been interpreted as meaning either ‘old man’, ‘horse’ or ‘goat’ of the woods. Whatever its derivation, over the years both Bill and I have been heard referring to it in less polite terms because despite many visits to its British stronghold, Speyside, we have never seen one. One reason is that Capercaillies are now very rare birds in Britain, due to a combination of shooting, collisions with deer fences and cold weather during the breeding season, which means many chicks die of exposure.

  Every now and then, you hear of a rogue male Capercaillie, which instead of displaying to his fellow cocks, decides to threaten human visitors instead. Several television wildlife presenters, including Simon King and the great Sir David Attenborough, have been attacked on camera, but not, alas, the small bearded gentleman I work with. Perhaps they think he wouldn’t put up much of a fight.

  So, back to a long night in a Swedish pine forest. Our companions had left us there at 8 p.m., with strict warnings not to make a noise or emerge from the hut for at least 12 hours. When I say hut, I am stretching the point a little: a better word would be shed. Fortunately the excitement at the prospect of finally catching up with our quarry overrode any thoughts of comfort, so we squeezed inside and settled down to a night of fitful sleep.

  Before we could doze off, however, we heard a loud rustle in the trees behind us. Carefully opening a tiny wooden observation slit, we gazed outside. At first, we saw nothing, but then, as we scanned upwards, there he was – an unmistakable, silhouetted shape. ‘Can we go home now?’ asked Bill. But we had clear instructions not to move, and besides, we had no idea where we were. So, tired but happy, we went to bed.

  Dawn broke fitfully through the pine canopy, and with it, a most extraordinary sound: a rapidly accelerating series of echoing
notes followed by what appeared to be a champagne cork being released. On the far horizon, two Capercaillie cocks were strutting their stuff.

  We watched, entranced, for an hour or so, willing them to come closer as they spread their tail-feathers and performed their extraordinary mating dance. Unfortunately, they did not, and as the grey light of morning flooded the forest, they eventually disappeared. I have spent more comfortable nights birding, but rarely such a memorable one.

  I say, I say: my wife went to the West Indies …

  FEBRUARY 2003

  Jamaica is an excellent location for a winter birding trip – though you might not automatically associate the island with birds. One of my favourite bird families – the North American wood-warblers – has at least a dozen representatives wintering there, and almost every patch of trees contains at least one of these elegant, brightly coloured birds hawking for insects.

  American Redstarts and Black-throated Blue Warblers were everywhere, while two other species – Cape May and Worm-eating Warblers – were new for me. The latter failed to live up to its name, foraging instead for insects high in the forest canopy. Another ‘American’ bird, the American Kestrel, was also common – either being mobbed by the ubiquitous Loggerhead Kingbird, or in turn chasing off the larger Red-tailed Hawk.

  But the real attraction for visiting birders is the 28 endemic species – birds found nowhere else in the world. Jamaica has the highest number of endemics for any island its size – even more than neighbouring Cuba, an island ten times bigger. This is because of Jamaica’s origin as an oceanic island, which has never been connected to any other landmass.