by Sean Dooley
Twenty-five years on it is now well established that Little Stints do in fact turn up in Australia from time to time, so it was essential I try and nail this baby as it was very unlikely I would get another chance. This was part of the reason I stayed down south for the beginning of the year: to ensure that I was around in case any vagrant waders turned up. I lined up a ride out to the private property on which the waders roosted with a couple of the staff from Birds Australia (the prime bird research and conservation organisation in the country), who shall remain nameless for professional reasons. I’ve always wondered what birders who work at BA do when a mega rarity turns up. For the rest of us we can just claim a sickie and head off to try and twitch the vagrant, but the BA worker is in a unique dilemma. If they skive off work then everyone else in the office will know damn well that they aren’t sick at all. And as many of the staff at Birds Australia are keen twitchers themselves, if something as crippling as an Emperor Penguin were to turn up, I imagine that the entire office would be deserted. When Groober worked there he actually suggested staff should be allowed to substitute two sick days a year for ‘twitching days’. I thought this was a great suggestion, one that acknowledged the reality of the workplace. Groober no longer works at BA. I wonder if that suggestion had anything to do with it?
Suffice to say, we didn’t see any of the good birds we were hoping for and I found myself dipping out yet again. Not only was I starting to dip out on individual birds, I was dipping out on actual birding events. I was supposed to spend the previous weekend in Sydney on a boat trip but that had been cancelled due to lack of numbers. The following weekend the first Port Fairy pelagic trip for the year was also called off, this time due to a poor weather forecast. Because most of the participants drive the three hours from Melbourne the day before, the call on whether it is safe to go out to sea on the Sunday is made on the Friday night. All day Saturday I sat at home watching the brilliantly fine weather outside the window, finding it hard to believe that a ripping cold front could possibly have been on its way. By the time the cool change arrived it had run out of puff and we would have got out with very little drama. I was starting to feel like there was some sort of conspiracy developing to prevent me seeing crucial species. When I hear of someone suffering a mental illness that causes them to be riven with anxiety, socially isolated and prone to feelings of paranoia, I think, ‘Yep, sounds like a twitcher to me.’
Deciding I needed to make my own luck I picked up the phone and asked, ‘Stu, you want to have another crack at those nightjars?’ Two hours later we were standing at the helicopter landing pad hewn out of the bush in Bunyip State Park, waiting for the last rays of daylight to fade and the night birds to come out. Cleared areas like this are supposed to be the best place to see the birds. I’m not sure whether they specifically like cleared areas or it is just easier to see them out in the open, but as far as I could tell it was our best shot. The night was much warmer than previous nights and even before it was completely dark I could see masses of moths beginning to rise from the trees, together with the sort of big-winged insects that make people freak out when they land anywhere near them. Things looked promising.
Ears straining, we listened across the valley for the first of the nightjar’s cackles. As is often the case, the trailing end of the kookaburras’ laugh as they settle in for the night confused the issue for a few minutes. But then out of the dark came a series of weird shrieks, wails and what sounded like a heavy door creaking open in an old horror film. This was not the call of a bird of the night, but rather, as the spotlight revealed, a flock of Yellow-tailed Black-Cockatoos bouncing above the canopy, calling into the growing darkness. Even in the dark they are mighty impressive birds, hauling themselves along on massive wings, in halting uneven wingbeats. They look like they’ve flown straight out of a Hollywood animatronics studio. It is a Yellow-tailed Black that plays the role of ‘Polly’ in Sydney Nolan’s 1948 painting Pretty Polly Mine. In the picture it sits oddly, looking as if Nolan has stuck it in the corner at the last minute as a surreal afterthought. Apart from the fact that you would never find the bird in such an arid setting, he has captured the essence of the species, for it does look magnificently surreal even in its natural environment.
The cockatoos were immediately followed by a smaller hawk-like bird belting across the open canopy. Our spotlight picked up two plum-coloured orbs at the front of the bird. It was the amazing eye-shine of the White-throated Nightjar. At last, after almost twenty years, I finally got a decent view of this bird. Stu and I punched the air, whooping in delight. There may have even been hugging involved as the bird flew around and around our heads, giving us sensational views. Bird number 175 and my first lifer for the year. These are the birdwatching moments you treasure.
As soon as we’d had our fill of the nightjar we decided we’d move on and try to get Stu a couple of other lifers and me a few extra year ticks. We headed out to the gully where I had spent the first few hours of the New Year, hoping to find not only the Sooty Owl but also the Powerful Owl that had been calling. There were no hippies that night so I thought we’d have a chance. After an hour or so of nothing much stirring a four-wheel drive came rattling along the track. The only drawback with birding in this great forest is that it also attracts trail bike riders in plague proportions. I was fully expecting the typical interaction you get when encountering ‘Aussie blokes’ in the bush, like the one I’d had some time before with a couple of farm boys in a ute on the back blocks of northern Victoria:
Bloke 1: You need a hand, mate?
Me (holding up binoculars): Nah, I’m right, thanks. Just looking for birds.
Bloke 2: Need a gun?
I love that. So wonderfully Aussie: willing to lend a hand to a stranger, equally willing to blow something away with a 44.
Unfortunately the scenario is more often likely to unfold thus:
Bloke 1: What are you doin’?
Me: Just a bit of birdwatching.
Bloke 1: Fucking poofter.
Bloke 2: Yeah, get fucked poofter.
And then they drive off spinning the wheels in the dirt so I get covered in dust.
This has happened to me several times. On Flinders Island in Bass Strait I had a bloke approach me carrying a shotgun. My sin had been to walk along the road next to his property and, using my binoculars, peer into a tree in his paddock to see what bird was making that unfamiliar call. He suggested in no uncertain terms that if I persisted in such behaviour I was ‘Likely to get yourself shot.’ I protested that I was standing on a public road. He tapped the barrel of the gun and repeated his message.
The occupants of the car at Bunyip turned out not to be drunken bogans but, in fact, birdwatchers. Not that they were any friendlier. They didn’t introduce themselves or get out of the vehicle’s cabin at any stage but I’d heard about these guys before. Though I’d never met them till now, the Owl Brothers are quite legendary, having dedicated much of their life to the study of owls. Bunyip is one of their favourite study sites and rumour has it that they know each individual owl personally. It has also been said of them that, like many researchers, they are more territorial than the animals they study. We were on a public road and had every right to be there, but the grilling the Owl Brothers gave us distinctly indicated that they were pissed off that they didn’t have the power to remove us from the premises. Perhaps they thought we might have been wildlife smugglers or egg collectors – whatever their reasons for the attitude, they kind of put a dampener on the evening. Half an hour after they drove off, not having heard another sound, Stu and I decided to call it quits. It was a pity really, as I was desperate to ask them about the whereabouts of Masked Owls in the forest. Though if I had, their heads might actually have exploded.
On the drive out I saw something very small flash across the beam of the headlights. Thinking it was probably a robin I almost didn’t bother to spotlight it. When I did, I saw an Australian Owlet-nightjar, a tiny little night bird that, though common
throughout Australia, you hardly ever see at night because it is so small and its eyes reflect absolutely no light whatsoever. They have a very cute little poppet face but when the big eyes staring back at you are absorbing light like two black holes, the effect can be a little disconcerting. Stu didn’t mind. It was another lifer for him and we were still congratulating ourselves when five minutes later a massive shadow flew across the road in front of us.
Reversing the car I got the headlights on the bird sitting on the roadside fencepost to reveal a Powerful Owl imperiously staring back at us. This is some bird. Our largest owl, if you stood next to one it would come up to your knees. Not that you would dare get that close to it. It has enormous sharp talons, a vicious beak and a big ‘What are you looking at?’ stare. As if to prove how tough it is, you can often find one during the day perched on a branch with the carcass of half the previous night’s prey clutched in its talons as if to say, ‘Look what I did. And I’ll do the same to you if you give me any lip.’
We had our fill of the owl and headed home, Stu almost bouncing off the roof with excitement and me feeling very, very content. Another tricky species out of the way, a bogey bird under the belt. Maybe my luck had turned the corner.
CHAPTER 8
26 January, Wollongong Pelagic, New South Wales:
193 species
Dawn broke on Australia Day 2002, finding me standing on the edge of Wollongong harbour thinking that all seabirders must be mental. Pallid waves slapped petulantly against the breakwater suggesting that it was a pretty rough day out on the ocean, and yet the gathered throng of seabird enthusiasts who surrounded me seemed to relish the prospect. To spend a day out at sea, bobbing around throwing fish guts off the back of a boat in order to attract hungry seabirds is disturbing enough behaviour, but to actually pay for the privilege is surely a sign of abject mental deficiency. But if I was going to get anywhere near a total of seven hundred birds for the year I had to go out to sea. There was no avoiding it. There may be as many as seventy species that I would have no hope of seeing from land. These guys do it for fun. Every month. More if they get the chance. That is truly mental.
In case you haven’t guessed I am not a big fan of pelagic boat trips. They’re uncomfortable, they’re wet, and the threat of seasickness is a constant Banquo’s Ghost at the table of any enjoyment I might be having. Spending hours feeling queasy, bouncing around, getting covered in spray and watching other people throw up is not my idea of fun. Well, not since my Year 12 formal. Even though I’ve never actually vomited on a boat, I invest so much energy worrying about whether I will be sick that I can never relax enough to enjoy myself. None of the fifteen other birders waiting to board the 43-foot Sandra K seemed to have such reservations. Boat trips are one of the few social occasions for birders, normally solitary creatures who spend most of their time assiduously avoiding others of their kind, so the mood as we gathered on the dock was one of expectant bonhomie, like the first morning of school camp.
My vomit neurosis was compounded by the fact that I was utterly exhausted. I had driven up from Melbourne the day before, a nonstop trip of around eleven hours. Then to top it all off when I went to take my seasickness medication before going to sleep (apparently it works better that way) it was not where I thought I had packed it. A frantic search of my bags, motel room and entire car failed to reveal it. Faced with the torture of a day at sea without the crutch of my Dramamine, I spent hours driving around Wollongong in a futile quest for an all-night chemist. Eventually I settled for a pack of ginger tablets bought from the local supermarket. Ginger is supposed to have homeopathic anti-nausea properties but I wasn’t convinced. I wanted hard-core, take-no-prisoner pharmaceuticals. I lay awake all night pondering the torture to come. At three I got out of bed and searched my bags again and, as if by magic, the tablets appeared in the pocket where they should have been in the first place. So by the time I boarded the Sandra K I’d had only three hours sleep and was definitely not looking forward to the next ten hours.
A pelagic trip generally follows the same pattern whether it is out of Wollongong, Port Fairy or Perth: departing early, a bunch of overexcited seabirders gather aboard a chartered fishing vessel that a generally bemused crew then takes out towards the continental shelf. Seabirds may be seen as soon as the boat leaves harbour but you can usually get these from land so unless something particularly special flies past, the boat continues punching into the waves. Beyond the initial activity of the coastal zone, bird numbers often drop off as you cruise over the mid depth waters of the continental plate. Wollongong birders have dubbed this the ‘Abysmal Plain’ because it can take hours to cross and the tedium can mount. On the way out everyone on board is keyed up, expecting that something really good would turn up. The first sighting of something vaguely interesting (say, a Flesh-footed Shearwater) will usually bring the boat to a stop even if the old salts know dozens of Fleshies are likely to be encountered out at the shelf break, which is where the continental plate drops – often dramatically – hundreds of metres to the true ocean floor. There is usually no change in water colour, no signage, no dotted line to tell you that you have arrived at the edge of the continental shelf but the experienced seabirder can tell when they’ve arrived even without the aid of a depth sounder or GPS, for this is when the truly pelagic species begin to reveal themselves. Some, such as the Great-winged Petrel, rarely come any closer to land.
This convergence zone where the nutrient laden colder water of the deep ocean wells up to mingle with the warmer continental stuff often brings to the surface a rich burst of marine life that can have the seabirds queuing up for a feed. At the first sign of any congregation of birds the boat will usually stop and the chumming begins. Ironically, the person doing the chumming has the least amount of chums around them, as the chum (or berley) used to throw over the side always comprises a foul-smelling substance. Sometimes rancid mutton fat infused with fish oil is used, sometimes part of last week’s catch is chopped up and thrown out, but most prized of all is shark liver. Birds go nuts for this stuff and can smell it from miles off. I have been on a boat where not a bird was in sight. Within five minutes of the first of the shark liver being lobbed overboard, a lone albatross appeared. Five minutes later it had been joined by sixty mates gathered at the back of the boat in an orgy of feeding. They literally came from miles away. Birds that one would never see alive from land are now within touching distance, gorging themselves on the stinking bounty.
It’s usually the first whiff of shark liver that finishes off the last of the green sailors on board, though few in this category usually last this long without losing their breakfast over the side. At least if they spew out at the shelf they can be comforted in the knowledge that it is adding to the general chum. Rod Gardner, one of the ’Gong regulars, later described there being ‘not too much swell’ on this particular trip. I’m not sure that the three people who were sick within the first hour would agree with his assessment.
I survived unscathed despite the lack of sleep. Over the years I have developed a few techniques to help quell my stomach. Once on board I try to synchronise myself with the rhythm of the rocking boat. I prefer to park myself near the rear of the boat where I can get as much fresh air and view of the horizon as possible, and just hope that we start seeing some interesting birds to take my mind off things. I also try to avoid conversation whenever possible. I find that the muscle effort required to get my voice heard above the churning throb of the diesel engines places too much stress on my already tense stomach, so I simply try not to talk. Letting out a series of enormous yawns seems to dissipate this tension. I also find singing songs under my breath to be quite soothing. For some reason The Beatles’ ‘In My Life’ is the most calming of all. (However, due to the difficulty of getting permission to reproduce Beatles lyrics from the copyright holders, in the upcoming passage I have had to substitute the words to ‘In My Life’ with those of a song that is out of copyright – ‘Botany Bay’.)
If I
am just left alone this strategy works for me in even the roughest seas, but on a boat full of excited birders there is nowhere to flee, so I inevitably find myself wedged next to the biggest chatterbox on board who will take my Easter Island facade as an invitation for a chinwag. A typical conversation with me in the first hour of a pelagic boat trip would go along the lines of:
Chatty birder: So, Sean, how’s the year list coming along? Good?
Me: Mmm.
Chatty birder: I suppose you’ve got all the easy ones out of the way, Willie Wagtails and the like.
Me: [Yawn]
Chatty birder: Yeah, we’ve got a pair that nest in our front garden.
Me: [Sung] Farewell to Old England forever
Chatty birder: Boy, if I had a dollar for every Willie Wagtail I’ve seen in my life.
Me: [Yawn]
Chatty birder: How many Willie Wagtails do you think you’ve seen in your lifetime?
Me: [Sung] Singin’ Too-ral-lie, oo-ra-lie attitty, Singin’ too-ra-lie oo-ra-lie ay!
Chatty birder: [Silence]
Me: [Silence – thank God, at last he’s got the message]
Chatty birder: Of course, I’ve probably seen more magpies than I have Willie Wagtails.
The day was fairly typical for a summer trip off the ’Gong. We saw many species characteristic of the east coast in summer: once over the shelf the first of the Great-winged Petrels made an appearance. A little like a Fleshy-foot, the Great-winged has longer wings which it uses to cut through the air in graceful arcs, whereas the shearwaters seem to work a lot harder with their stiffer wingbeats. A little later they are joined by a greater number than usual of that pirate of the sea, the Pomarine Jaeger. The Pomarine looks very much like the Arctic Jaeger – jaeger being the Norwegian word for ‘buggered if I can tell them apart’ – which we had seen on the way out. Almost identical in plumage, the clinching detail is the shape of their tail streamers, small points on an Arctic, little twisted racquet shapes on the Pomarine. However, they tend to lose these within a few weeks of growing them so you have to rely on other more subtle features such as the bigger, barrel-chested appearance of the Pomarine, which flies belligerently amongst the other seabirds waiting to bully them into disgorging their catch.