by Darryl Jones
The success of the Chilterns experiment quickly led to similar projects throughout the United Kingdom and Ireland, with birds sourced from Sweden and Germany as well as Spain, and, significantly, also from the now burgeoning Chiltern population itself.90 The result: the remarkable return of one of Britain’s avian icons. Red Kites have become a regular and spectacular sight, especially in the southeast of England. Along the M40 these days, it’s hard to miss them. And, of course, this dramatic recovery has been based squarely on supplementary feeding. As we will see, however, this can occur in official as well as less formal ways.
One of the features of Red Kites that has undoubtedly aided in their restoration has been their broad and nondiscriminatory diet: they seem to eat just about anything (in King Lear, Shakespeare has them stealing un-derwear from washing lines, but probably for nesting material rather than for food), though some sort of meat is preferred. They tend to be scavengers rather than hunters of live prey and throughout their distribution are known to feed primarily on roadkill and dead farm animals. While such items are certainly available in the rural landscapes of the Chilterns and the other places where they are now recovering, the prospects of the kites has been enhanced by the provision of varying amounts of readily accessible meat. The birds intended for release are imported as juveniles 4–6 weeks of age and spend a couple of months in their large, open-air aviaries, getting used to their new surroundings. During this time they are fed a varied diet consisting of abundant animals collected by local forest-ers: rabbits, Gray Squirrels, Fallow Deer, Muntjac (a small invasive deer) as well as Woodpigeons and crows.91 These are just the foods the kites are likely to find in the local area, and they are offered in large chunks or whole, requiring the birds to tear the items apart themselves. When the young birds are released, some of these items continue to be supplied near or on the aviary but only for a few weeks. Although a few individuals return to the release site, most move away within the month.
Generally, this type of feeding should only be necessary during the early stages of the restoration of a release population. An obvious parameter of successful establishment is the ability of the birds to sustain themselves without being overly reliant on external food supplies. But of course, there may be other reasons for persisting with the feeding, especially when the results may be downright spectacular. The most famous example is the Gigrin Farm in central Wales.92 In the late 1980s, the long-term owners, the Powell family, were supporting the few local Red Kites by supplying some rabbits shot for the purpose. This was a somewhat unusual practice for Welsh sheep farmers, but the Powells appreciated the dire state of the kite at the time and were willing to put aside the traditional antipredator stance of their colleagues. In 1992, the dedication of the Powells was recognized by the RSPB, who approached the family to see whether they might expand the scale of the feeding and become an official Red Kite feeding station. In addition, they asked whether they might also consider allowing the public onto the farm to view the process. This was an unusual request for a successful livestock enterprise, yet the Powells agreed. The exercise began modestly, but as the number of Red Kites began to rise, so did the number of paying visitors. The popularity of the spectacle has resulted in the still working farm becoming an internationally renowned attraction. From the original 3 pairs, today between 200 and 600 kites can be seen, attracting many thousands of people annually.93
At exactly the same time (2:00 p.m.) every afternoon of the year, piles of roughly chopped meat of various sorts (the local rabbit population could never supply the required amounts) is dumped in front of 5 giant hides providing a spectacular view of the ensuing melee. Red Kites maneuver brilliantly through the air, wheeling and spiraling with astonishing precision. Needless to say, the huge pile of food also attracts a range of other meat-eating birds—buzzards, Jackdaws, Ravens, and crows—though the imposing size and demeanor of the kites tend to dictate that they consume the bulk of the offering. The sight of hundreds of massive birds of prey interacting with each other and these other species is unquestionably remarkable and memorable. The BBC described it as “the largest, most spectacular bird table in the world!”94 It is also an extremely successful tourist attraction. What is less clear is the possible impact of this massive and dependable source of food on the local ecology. There is no doubt that this long-term supplementary feeding exercise has greatly enhanced the recovery of what was an iconic species on the brink of extinction. But is the obviously unnaturally concentrated aggregation of kites a sign of conservation success or (to be provocative) a contrived artifact mainly for human “consumption”? The Powells of Gigrin Farm are certainly aware of these concerns and point out—accurately—that the kites spend most of their day, especially during the morning, hunting naturally over a vast area before turning up for feeding time at the farm. And the numbers of kites fluctuate markedly, with the highest numbers directly associated with prolonged poor weather when hunting is hard. The main role of the feeding at Gigrin is, according to the Powells, to provide “a top-up or emergency ration.”95
Perhaps the knowledge that supplementary feeding has apparently assisted in bringing back the Red Kite is all the evidence that is needed. Indeed, when it is possible to see this wonderful bird in one’s own suburban back yard, as is now the case in lots of places around the Chiltern Hills, for example, maybe even private householders can help. Certainly, this was a prominent finding of a survey conducted by Melanie Orros and Mark Fellowes.96 As described in Chapter 4, these researchers heard that people living in villages and towns in the vicinity of Reading spontaneously started to feed the kites they began to see passing through. They suspected that maybe a handful were involved; their research revealed at least 4500—about 5% of the residents of Reading—happily admitted to feeding kites. Around half of these people stated that they did so “to conserve them,” while an even higher proportion simply “wanted to see them close up.” Providing meat as a feeder food is highly unusual in most suburban gardens, raising all sorts of concerns such as attracting vermin and encouraging predators of typical garden birds. Nonetheless, the possibility that people might feed Red Kites anyway prompted several organizations to produce advice and guidelines on the best way for householders to feed these birds.97 These suggestions were quite specific and aimed to provide a diet suitable to a bird of prey: ensure that the items contained skin and bones (whole, small rodents were ideal); avoid cooked or processed meats; and don’t use roadkill animals (which could be poisoned or in other ways toxic).
Few of the people feeding the kites, however, seemed to be aware of these guidelines. Many offered whatever food was readily available, typically using chicken and other convenient meat scraps.98 Their engagement seemed to be based on the rather straightforward motivations associated with almost any feeding: to see the birds and hopefully help them. Their impulses were aided by the facts that this new “garden bird” was also a large, unusual, and impressive species, one widely known to be of great conservation concern. Indeed, given these features, it almost seems surprising that not more feeders were involved. (Although, come to think of it, they are birds of prey.)
Unsurprisingly, the issue of feeding Red Kites in suburban gardens has proved controversial. For some people, the increasing abundance of big raptors in town has led to genuine concern for the plight of their familiar little garden birds. Even seemingly well-informed writers have expressed unease at what has been described as the “artificial situation of kites benefiting from garden feeding,” suggesting that this would probably lead to the survival of those individual kites that would normally die (being weaker or less capable) as well as increasing the numbers of these birds in the places where “human-provided foods” were available.99 That these are common and even desired outcomes of almost all wild bird feeding appeared not to be appreciated.
The remarkable return of the Red Kite (so far at least), ironically, may have been almost too successful. Several people who had been directly involved in the development of
the kite-feeding guidelines have since withdrawn their support and now actively oppose the practice.100 As the species’ abundance and distribution—especially in urban areas—has increased, so have negative comments and sensational reports in the media. There may be more than a hint of traditional antipredator bias in the numerous stories (“Kite Tried To Eat My Cat!,” “Children [who were actually hand-feeding a kite] Severely Scratched by Wild Hawk!,” and “Enough Is Enough: Time for a Cull!”) that appear regularly. Intriguingly, a prominent ornithological organization now refuses to be associated with the feeding of Red Kites, not because of any scientific evidence, but because it does not want to be associated with a potentially negative conservation story. This is a sobering reminder that perceptions rather than reality often color our reactions. What does the typical householder see when the (still endangered) kite is seen eating a (common but ever so cute) Blue Tit?
Could a Feeding Station Be a Trap?
From a mere handful of birds in the whole of the UK in the 1980s, Red Kites now number over 3000, a remarkable recovery strongly associated with the provision of additional foods. An important measure of the success of this particular program is that the birds are only briefly reliant of this food; after only a few weeks they have moved away to foraging on a wide range of naturally occurring foods. Unexpectedly, these include items intentionally supplied by people in their gardens, though there is no suggestion that the kites are dependent on these sources.
This is not the case for certain especially vulnerable species where supplementary feeding is a key component of their conservation plan. The feeding regimes provided for the Takahē and Hihi on Tiritiri Matangi Island and other species with tiny populations are essential for the survival of the species involved. The withdrawal of these supplies would be very likely to have serious consequences for these species, primarily because of their extremely small population sizes and often the peculiarities of their diets. For other species being carefully managed for conservation, however, the objective is normally for the species to be able to persist without becoming dependent on the supplementary food supply. Places that support animals because of the availability of some key resource, especially food, may sometimes represent a misleading indication of its overall quality as a place to live. Food is essential, of course, but if that is the only feature used in selecting a breeding territory, for example, the animal may potentially be making an ill-formed decision. If what appears to be a wonderful food supply was to be interrupted or changed to something else, or the site attracted too much competition or predators (and so on), deciding to set up nearby may be a serious mistake.
The idea of animals being drawn to a particular location mainly because of a certain attraction, even though the spot may actually be of poor quality or even downright dangerous, is known formally as the “ecological trap” concept.101 This important idea is of direct relevance to thinking about feeding stations, both for conservation as well as in gardens. All sorts of examples of this process have been discovered—Indigo Buntings in North America, for example, prefer to nest in the sharp transitions between forests and grasslands, but when this natural preference led them to nest in the artificial edges caused by human clearing, they become much more vulnerable to predators that operate along these zones.102 Ecologists have found that the rapid changes associated with urbanization provide plenty of opportunities for such selections, leading animals to settle in apparently attractive places that turn out to be inhospitable.
The potential that supplementary feeding may be associated with ecological traps is a constant concern for conservation biologists attempting to assist threatened wildlife. When the natural unpredictability of foraging opportunities is replaced by a feeding station that never runs out or moves, it is hardly surprising that many animals set up home ranges nearby. If they then come to rely on this supply instead of foraging more widely, the consequences could be significant. For these reasons, many conservation feeding plans actively attempt to make the provisioning less predictable, moving the stations around, varying the timing of provision, and often having an eventual cessation of feeding as a goal. Obviously, the influence of these changes have to be monitored and managed carefully; if the alterations are too abrupt or unexpected, the impact on the target species could be serious. When the feeding stations provided for endangered Spanish Griffon Vultures were suddenly closed, for instance, the population stopped growing and attacks on local livestock began to escalate.103
There is much of relevance here for the practice of wild bird feeding. Could our gardens potentially be acting as an ecological trap for the birds visiting our feeders? If we stopped stocking the feeders, would they be affected? Should we also emulate the unpredictability of nature and be less predictable? Unfortunately, these are questions without clear answers at present. Much more research is required.
Meanwhile, we will continue to feed. It’s time to ask perhaps the biggest question of all: Why?
8
REASONS WHY WE FEED WILD BIRDS
As we draw near the end of this journey into the intimate and personal yet thoroughly commercial and global world of people and the birds they feed, it is time for a little reflection. For me, this has been a long and haphazard path, without a distinct beginning and a far from certain conclusion. Who can say where or when a lifelong obsession really starts? Some of my key childhood memories seem to include animals being fed. I recall chaotic family picnics that often finished with leftovers being tossed to ducks and geese, barbecues in parkland with bits of burned sausages being offered to pushy kookaburras and overly friendly kan-garoos. Fish and chips by the beach and the ever-present gulls, lunchtime breaks during long hikes when all manner of wildlife would appear at even the most remote locations. Offering a tidbit to these expectant visitors was just a normal part of our informal family policy. “Country people share,” was how my mother explained it; the unstated comparison with city folk didn’t need to be made explicitly. Country people were also polite.
Feeding birds at home, on the other hand, was different. “Can’t have them getting used to handouts. Too much of that sort of thing these days,” explained my father, apparently without contradiction. “Everyone has to earn their own living.” Now that I think about it, maybe it was my eventual move to the city (to earn my own living, Dad) where this interest really began. I don’t recall anyone with a feeder during my childhood (though I may simply not have noticed), but plenty of the city folks I eventually met certainly did. Even though it would be some time before I began to take a more serious interest in this practice, there were plenty of occasions when a visit with friends included mention of birds being fed. Birds can be great conversation starters.
I am writing these words while sitting on the veranda of a café in the tropical rainforests of northern Queensland, Australia. My companions have left me to work (or at least think) while they wander along the paths in the forest directly behind the café. I watch them disappear into an impossibly complex wall of lianas, ferns, palms, and other vibrant plants of every green imaginable. A few meters from where I sit, a long rectangular platform feeder is suspended from the branches of a sprawling tree. A remarkable mixture of items has just been emptied onto the tray: pieces of banana, pawpaw (papaya), grapes, apple, and kiwifruit as well as several piles of seed mix. In an instant, the platform is swirling with a dozen species of bird, not one of which I have ever seen at a feeder anywhere before. Bridled and Macleay’s Honeyeaters, Bower’s Shrike-Thrush, Figbirds, a Tooth-billed Bowerbird, and even a magnificent Victoria’s Riflebird (a type of bird of paradise). It is a spectacular selection of the birds people travel vast distances to see in these rainforests—and here I am ticking them off between sips of locally grown organic coffee.
Obviously this type of bird feeding is all about arranging a wonderful display for the tourists, as occurs all around the world. Certainly the numerous international visitors are appreciative, although after a frenzy of phone photos they drift off to the next a
ttraction. I soon find myself virtually alone again, though I am quickly distracted by the arrival of a solitary Emerald Dove to the feeder. These are normally shy birds, and I am quite amazed to be sitting so close to one as it casually picks at a grape. “This one has only just started visiting,” whispers a female voice from behind me. Camilla quietly introduces herself as the owner of the café. She and her young family live in the lower level (the café is on the second floor, providing a better view of the forest behind), having moved here from Spain about six years ago. “The previous owners started the feeding but they only put out sunflowers. I was sure we could attract more birds and so did a little research. All these different foods work so well. Even some of the local people are amazed.”