Birding Without Borders
Page 11
It was pleasant, for a change, to arrive in a place where I didn’t feel overwhelmed by everyday details. The constant exposure to new destinations in Peru often gave me the impression of wandering through a museum, and, more than two months into this adventure, I was beginning to worry that my sense of discovery would dull into complacency before I reached the end of the world. New discoveries make us feel good, but we sometimes forget that the main prerequisite for novelty is ignorance—and it’s no fun to be oblivious all the time. One of the biggest risks of moving too fast is that you always stay a beginner, and I wanted to dig deeper than that, to soak everything in and keep advancing. Time was an unaffordable luxury while racing from place to place, which meant that I sometimes felt like a blind sprinter. The best antidote was familiarity: because I had spent time in Ecuador before, I knew what to expect here, which meant I could settle in and focus on the real highlights.
My plane touched down at Mariscal Sucre International Airport at two in the morning. By dawn, I was in the cool, misty, high-altitude cloud forest at Yanacocha Reserve, above the city of Quito, with a local birder named Manuel Sánchez. I remembered this spot from my first, mind-boggling trip to South America with a group of young American birders in 2005. I returned to Ecuador in 2006 for the university study abroad program, which included three months in the Galápagos, and came back in 2012 to spend a season at the remote Tiputini Biodiversity Station in Amazonian Ecuador tracking Wedge-billed Woodcreepers with radio telemetry.
This time around, I wouldn’t be visiting the Galápagos—too far, for too few species—but instead planned a quick assault on the most diverse parts of Ecuador: the northwest cloud forests, the Andean slopes, and the Amazon lowlands. You could spend a lifetime in these areas without seeing every bird, but I had little more than a week to track down as many species as possible, helped by several locals who thoroughly knew the territory.
Manuel and I wandered slowly down the trail at Yanacocha, enjoying the cool air near 11,000 feet and the forest birds. Hummingbirds stole the show, highlighted by an iconic Sword-billed Hummingbird perched in the mist. Although I’d already seen one in Peru, I took a few minutes to admire this individual as it, in turn, admired us from the safety of its high vantage. The Sword-bill has such a long bill—adapted for probing certain tubular, hanging flowers—that it must preen itself with its feet and usually holds its head upright to rest, like someone who is balancing a javelin on the tip of their nose. No other bird has a bill exceeding its own body length; I snapped a few photos of the distinctive silhouette. Other hummingbirds, including a shimmering Golden-breasted Puffleg and a dazzling little Rainbow-bearded Thornbill, species numbers 1,478 and 1,479, lured us farther down the trail.
As we walked, Manuel, who wore glasses, a scruffy beard, a plaid shirt, and a warm coat, talked passionately about conservation. A native Ecuadorian, he had studied science communication at Edinburgh University before returning to Quito to guide ornithologists and work in ecotourism, and he was only a couple of years older than me. Like me, Manuel decided to pursue birding full-time, and believes that watching birds is a powerful tool for sustainable development. He is part of a new generation of Latin American conservationists who are working hard to preserve nature by getting people inspired about their birds. It’s a tough career path, but Ecuador—with all its natural riches and constitutional commitment to the environment—presents a better chance than most places. And Manuel isn’t the only one to take advantage.
“Have you heard of Ángel Paz?” I asked, as an Andean Pygmy-Owl called in the distance.
Manuel stopped and looked as if I’d just asked a question so utterly obvious it almost didn’t bear answering.
“Of course,” he said, speaking slowly. “All the birders in Ecuador know him. That guy is an absolute legend.”
✧-✧-✧
A few years ago, reports began to surface of a man in rural Ecuador who, improbably, had figured out a way to attract antpittas—which belong to one of the skulkiest and trickiest families of birds in the New World. Taxonomists recognize about fifty species of antpittas, collectively limited to South and Central America. All of them are plump, long-legged, short-tailed, and upright-standing, shaped like eggs on legs, and they are secretive. Most of the time, antpittas hop on the ground within thick vegetation; the conventional way to see one is to listen for its call and then try to sneak up on it. Birders love them and dread them in equal measure.
The largest of the family is the Giant Antpitta, an enigmatic species that stands up to eleven inches tall and weighs ten ounces. Despite its size, the Giant Antpitta is despairingly difficult to observe. It lives only in primary cloud forest with dense understory and is known from just a few scattered locations in Ecuador and Colombia. Nobody knows its population (the best estimate is a couple thousand individuals), its nesting cycle, or exactly what it eats. It’s a spectacular bird, for those lucky enough to catch a glimpse: salmon orange with fine black barring, a bluish cap, long legs, and large, watery, inky black eyes.
The man who first befriended the Giant Antpitta is Ángel Paz—literally, “Angel of Peace”—and his story is as unusual as his name. In a former life, about a decade ago, this particular Ángel worked as a logger in northwest Ecuador. His father purchased a beautiful tract of cloud forest on a flank of the Andes, and Ángel moved in to start chain sawing.
“The faster you cut down trees, the more money you make,” he told me with some pride. “I used to be one of the fastest tree cutters in this region.”
The forest on his property hosts a display site, known as a lek, of an iconic and easy-to-see bird, the Andean Cock-of-the-rock—neon orange with black wings and a fluffy crest. The birds gather at the lek each morning so that females can view the males’ elaborate courtship rituals and magnificent plumage. About a decade ago, someone advised Ángel to charge tourists admission to view the birds. He built a trail to the spot and, sure enough, people paid to see the spectacle. Ángel decided to leave the trees alone in that part of the forest.
One day, while Ángel was walking with a birdwatching group on his trail, a plump creature hopped out of the undergrowth and turned its dark eyes on the visitors, who promptly freaked out.
“That’s a Giant Antpitta!” one exclaimed.
After everybody calmed down, they told Ángel: “Forget the cock-of-the-rocks. If you can show this bird to birders, they will pay double.”
Ángel had seen the bird before but didn’t think much of it. In fact, the bird sometimes followed him around when he was cutting trees, apparently attracted by disturbed grubs, and wasn’t particularly shy, though it usually stuck to dense cover. Ángel called it Maria, an endearing local name for many types of small birds in Latin America. He began to methodically stalk Maria, trying to figure out her habits.
He offered the bird food, unsure what it might like to eat. He started with pieces of spaghetti and meat, but Maria didn’t have a taste for human delicacies. So he scrounged around for worms, and, lo and behold, the bird gobbled them down. He began bringing fresh worms to the same spot each morning so that Maria would get used to the gifts, and eventually he trained Maria to come when he called.
At the time, most birders would have scoffed at the idea of hand-feeding a wild Giant Antpitta. Books emphasized the species’ secretive and elusive nature (rightly so), and few people imagined that one could be habituated to handouts. But Ángel didn’t read birding books; he was a logger who saw an opportunity to make a little extra cash. Maybe, looking back on it, the idea of feeding an antpitta wasn’t that far-fetched, as antpittas have been known to shadow large mammals inside the forest, apparently to scavenge disturbed insects.
When word got out, amazed birders began showing up to see for themselves, and Maria’s fame quickly spread. It seemed too good to be true: a species that had traditionally been regarded as near-mythical was suddenly real and viewable—guaranteed even—within a couple of hours’ drive of Quito.
Soon, so many pe
ople were visiting Ángel that he quit logging, planted a few blackberry crops, and spent his time hanging out with birds and birders. He found that he could make a better living by leaving the forest intact than by cutting it down; as long as the birds stuck around, he’d have a steady income from entrance fees. Gradually he learned about the other species on his property and became an expert in showing them to visitors. He put up fruit and hummingbird feeders, constructed new trails, and, each morning, kept his worm-feeding appointment with Maria.
I arrived at Ángel’s property, along with another Ecuadorian birder, Edison Buenaño, four days after leaving Manuel at Yanacocha. Edison and I had connected after I took a quick trip to eastern Ecuador for some Amazon specialties, during which I had gotten thoroughly rained on. As we parked in front of Ángel’s house in the cloud forest, I reveled in the anticipation of what was sure to be a standout morning.
Ángel stepped into his driveway to greet us as Edison and I hopped out. He was dressed in pastel greens with a camouflage down vest over a khaki shirt, a military green baseball cap, and binoculars around his neck. He smiled warmly.
“Bienvenidos a Refugio Paz de las Aves!” he said.
Without much chitchat, the three of us headed straight into the forest. Ángel took us first to where it had all started: the Andean Cock-of-the-rock lek. I’d seen these birds before but couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch their displays at close range. Just after dawn, we walked quietly along Ángel’s trail to the spot where male cock-of-the-rocks postured, hopped, bobbed, and contorted in a mesmerizing combination of color, motion, and sound. As their grunts and squawks filled the air, I marveled at how these birds had been returning to the exact same tree for many years. Cock-of-the-rocks are polygamous; the gorgeous males compete for the attention of passing females, and after mating, the females fly off to build a nest and raise their chicks alone. The birds use lek sites like this one for generations, as long as they remain undisturbed.
After a few minutes, I realized that I was alone with the birds—Edison and Ángel had slipped away. Completely transfixed, I stayed put to watch the cock-of-the-rocks in full swing. A male perched in front of me, snapped his bill, flapped his wings, arched his back, bowed deeply, croaked, bobbed his head, did several pushup-like maneuvers, and crowed in my face. Even within the understory of this dense forest, in the muted light of dawn, his electric orange feathers glowed like a fluffy, misshapen light bulb, and he made a popping noise to signal the start of each display. It was all very flattering to me, but a few seconds later I noticed that this bird had higher hopes: a maroon-colored female sat inconspicuously in a tangle of foliage, watching intently as the action unfolded. Two other males danced nearby, seemingly trying to outdo each other’s moves. If a female likes what she sees, she’ll land next to a male and peck his neck and they’ll mate on the spot, but this one didn’t seem impressed by any of them. She flew off a minute later.
Just then, I heard a different sound.
“Psst! Noah—over here!” whisper-shouted Edison.
I turned around to see him gesturing from a patch of foliage inside a small, lush ravine.
“Come, very quietly!” he called.
Leaving the cocks, I tiptoed down. As I approached, trying not to slip on the slick mud and sopping vegetation, I could see Ángel standing behind Edison, staring at something on the ground.
“It’s not an antpitta,” Edison said, “but look at this! Ángel is feeding a family of Dark-backed Wood-Quail!”
Sure enough, several chunky, grapefruit-sized birds were pecking at the ground, almost at Ángel’s feet, partially hidden by damp leaves. He tossed something in their direction, and one of them immediately gulped it down.
“A bite of banana,” Edison said. “These wood-quail don’t like worms.”
Ángel looked up and smiled.
“Sí?” he said.
“Sí, sí, sí!” I replied, hardly believing my luck.
Wood-quail are as infuriatingly cagey as antpittas, and I never expected to see one here. Evidently Ángel had expanded his hand-feeding operations. Chalk up a nice bonus for the Big Year.
“Okay,” said Edison, translating for Ángel, who speaks no English. “Let’s keep moving—we still have to see Maria. This was just the warmup.”
We retraced our steps to take a different trail, this time switchbacking sharply uphill. The path was covered by damp leaves, but Ángel had maintained it well, leveling its surface against the slope and placing stairs on the steepest sections. We tunneled through thick, damp brush in a dim understory where little light penetrated. The forest dripped from fog and mist, the only noises the muted calls of distant birds.
Walking in a cloud forest is a hushed experience, almost like hiking through a landscape of freshly fallen snow. The foliage absorbs sound, wraps you in its embrace, and dampens conversation. As we approached the antpitta spot, nobody spoke; except for my own breath, I was struck by how profoundly quiet this place was.
The calm was shattered by Ángel, who stopped us above a switchback, surrounded on all sides by tangled undergrowth. Without warning, he cupped his hands around his mouth, took a deep breath, and shouted at the top of his voice: “MARIA! MARIA! VENGA VENGA VENGA!”
I was so startled that I almost lost the significance of this moment. A few seconds later, a plump bird hopped placidly into the open, stood on the path a few feet in front of us, and cocked its head expectantly.
“Hola, Maria!” said Ángel, looking pleased.
“The famous Giant Antpitta!” said Edison, like a sports commentator.
“Holy moly,” I said.
Ángel opened a container he’d been carrying in his pocket, reached in, grasped a juicy earthworm between two fingers, and expertly flicked it at the bird’s feet. Maria stared at us for a moment with big, black eyes, then bent over, pecked up the worm, and swallowed it whole.
Ángel tossed several more worms and Maria ate them all with clinical efficiency. The bird was so close that I could see its toenails, the tiny hook on the tip of its beak, and the bristly orange feathers at the base of its forehead. It seemed unafraid, expectant, perhaps a bit curious, though I had difficulty reading any expression into its shadowy eyes. Who knew what this bird thought of us? There was no telling, and once the worms were done, the show was clearly over. Maria took one last glance at us, hopped back into the vegetation, and disappeared.
“Wow!” I said. “That was incredible!”
In two minutes, I’d snapped dozens of photos of Maria posing on the trail, in three-quarter profile with one leg half bent, like a model showing off her best angle. It was the closest encounter I’d ever had with any antpitta, and this one happened to be the rarest. It hardly seemed fair to count as only one more species for the year (number 1,607).
“Gracias, Ángel,” I said, at a loss for words.
“Oh, we’re not done yet,” said Edison, with a knowing nod.
Our tête-à-tête with the celebrity now over, we continued along the trail where, in short order, Ángel showed us five additional species of antpitta: Chestnut-crowned, Yellow-breasted, Ochre-breasted, Moustached, and Scaled. The first three quickly hopped in for worms, just like Maria had. The Moustached was too shy to come close—still in training—and the Scaled, apparently having already eaten its breakfast, preferred to sit on a branch and sing at us.
It was like I’d arrived in heaven, suddenly finding myself in a celestial forest made of clouds, with an Ángel who called rare, colorful birds out of the bushes left and right. Maybe, I reflected, as we retraced our steps for a hearty late breakfast cooked by Ángel’s wife, this was closer to a fairy tale than a religious experience. Ángel was a real-world prince of the forest, communicating with its shyest animals. My impression was solidified when he casually pointed out a roosting Lyre-tailed Nightjar, a pair of roosting Rufous-bellied Nighthawks, a Rufous-breasted Antthrush, and an Olivaceous Piha along the path.
Ángel has named some of his favorite birds:
besides Maria, there’s Andrea the Chestnut-crowned Antpitta, Esmeralda the Yellow-breasted Antpitta, and Shakira the Ochre-breasted Antpitta, a tiny creature with a peculiar habit of twitching its chest from side to side.
For Ángel, too, the whole thing must seem rather like a fairy tale. Once upon a time the woodcutter set out to cut down his forest, but now he is richer than he could ever have imagined, precisely because he left the trees intact. His property hosts more than 2,000 birders each year, all hoping to see the antpittas, and everyone pays an entrance fee. When Edison and I visited, Ángel had just finished construction of a beautiful new house, with extra rooms for birders upstairs, decorated with hand-carved antpitta artwork and surrounded by lush plantings of flowers. From the balcony you can overlook most of his property: a few blackberry fields backdropped by a solid green canopy of cloud forest, stretching all the way to the horizon. In this place of life and warmth, I wondered why anyone should desire more.
It’s a fantastic true story, one of the best examples of small-scale conservation success I’d ever seen. The worm-feeding idea has spread, too; in recent years, others have started promoting antpitta attractions in Colombia, Peru, and elsewhere in South America, channeling even more ecotourism dollars into local habitat preservation.
Ángel doesn’t even have to advertise. He’s so busy that advance reservations are necessary to secure a place on the daily tour. When he discovered his wings, Ángel found his life’s work. Every morning, even if nobody shows up—a rare occurrence these days—Ángel Paz walks into the forest with a can of worms, cups his hands around his mouth, and greets the bird that changed his world.
“Maria! Maria! Venga venga venga!”
8
Flying Free