The Big Twitch

by Sean Dooley

  And south. And even further south, all the time getting further from where I wanted to go. My first Oriental Plover for the year was a slight compensation but there was not a chime from the wedgebill. I actually began to hate this bird. To loathe it. The very thought of it made my blood boil. I should have been in in Broome by now but here I was dipping back below the Tropic of Capricorn, stopping at every likely desolate patch of clapped-out scrub for a bird I couldn’t stand.

  As I was nearing Carnavon, almost four hundred kilometres south of where I started, I noticed a subtle change in the vegetation: it seemed a little taller, a little thicker. It was past two o’clock in the arvo and I was feeling like shit. Then in the distance came that call. It’s a staccato tune that has been described by some as sweet and by others as like a squeaky wheel. To me it sounded like the pulsing of the strings in Edith Piaf’s Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien played through a tin whistle. It is an unforgettable sound and it had me hurdling the wire fence and chasing the source into the scrub. And finally there it was, sitting halfway up a tree calling its heart out – a Chiming Wedgebill, bird number 638.

  It took at least an hour after swinging the car back onto the road and heading north again before my black mood began to lift. This was the last of the southern birds out of the way. I might well miss many of the tropical species but after eleven months I had triumphed over the south. By the time I got into Karratha at 10 pm my anger had long gone and I was feeling well satisfied. I had been on the road for seventeen hours and was completely knackered. Pulling in to the quietest side street I could find – no easy task in a mining town on a Friday night – I was all set for a well-earned sleep.

  It was the first time all day I had been in mobile range so I checked my messages. There were two from Adrian Boyle, my contact in Broome. He was very excited: ‘Dools! I know you’re in this neck of the woods somewhere, but wherever you are, you’ve got to get your arse up here. There’s a Blue-and-white Flycatcher out at the observatory!’

  A Blue-and-white Flycatcher – the first live record for Australia – was serious news. His second message, left just after he had seen the bird, was even more insistent: ‘You have to see this thing, it’s amazing. WHERE ARE YOU?!’

  I immediately rang Adrian. He was out celebrating. Establishing that I was in Karratha he insisted I should immediately head up to Broome, a mere ten-hour drive away. I protested that I couldn’t possibly make the journey as I had already been on the road for seventeen hours. His response was simply, ‘You do not want to miss out on this bird!’

  I hung up and smiled to myself. There was no way I could possibly drive for another ten hours. I was wiped out. As I sat thinking a drunken domestic row started up in the house opposite where I was parked. Better move off, I decided, in case the cops were called and they checked up on me. And while I was at it I might as well head to the roadhouse at the edge of town to grab a bite. It was the only thing open. By the time I got there I realised I was so adrenalised by Adrian’s call that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Maybe I could drive on to Roebourne or Wickham, maybe even Port Headland? Oh bugger it, who was I kidding – Broome it was. The only thing vaguely edible at the roadhouse was a dodgy looking pie. I bought it, loaded up on fuel and energy drinks, and took to the road.

  About an hour out of Port Headland I realised I was going to hit the wall soon, and I’d rather that wall not be the grill of an oncoming road train. I pulled over and allowed myself two hours’ sleep. I woke at 4 am, not exactly refreshed, and set off again. A pink dawn began to form over the Great Sandy Desert as I pulled in to the Sandfire Roadhouse for yet another hideous pie. I was still hours away from Broome. Eventually, after 1700 kilometres of driving since the previous morning with only two hours’ sleep, I arrived at the Broome Bird Observatory around ten. Please let it still be here.

  I stumbled out of the vehicle and staggered down to the communal shelter where a group of birders was sitting around under the shadecloth. It was already in the mid-thirties. These people weren’t twitchers who had flown in specifically for the Blue-and-white Flycatcher but had been assembling here for the last couple of days before they headed off on a wader banding expedition and had just lucked upon this mega rarity. Frank O’Connor was amongst them. I asked him whether the bird had been around. He replied in the affirmative and pointed to the birdbath, saying it had taken a drink there that morning. Barely able to string two words together I asked what time that morning. He looked blank, as did the others, before deciding no-one had seen it for about two hours.

  Two hours? The exact amount of time I’d spent sleeping by the roadside. This live bird first for Australia – an absolute stunner – had been here a mere two hours ago, shamelessly displaying for all and sundry? This bonus bird would have put me back on target for a theoretical seven hundred. And I’d missed it by two lousy fucking hours.

  CHAPTER 30

  21 November, Mount Carbine, Queensland:

  661 species

  I trudged back to the car totally shattered, ostensibly to get my camera gear in case the Blue-and-white Flycatcher did re-emerge, but mainly so I was out of earshot of the others as I repeated the f word eight thousand times. Oh well, at least I hadn’t killed myself in the mad dash to get here and I was in Broome at last. All I needed was a good sleep and I’d be having the time of my life.

  Suddenly Frank was upon me, yelling, ‘Sean, it’s back, it’s back!’

  I rushed down and there was the Blue-and-white Flycatcher, sitting right beside the shelter. A male in full breeding plumage, the rich blue of his back shimmered in the tropical sun, contrasting spectacularly with his clean white front. As I excited as I was, I did feel sorry for him as I watched his wings spread slightly and mouth open panting, trying to dissipate some heat. Not only had this thing flown an extra couple of thousand kilometres past its usual wintering grounds, when it finally made it to land it was hit with the furnace of northwestern Australia in November. It was not yet midday and the temperature was already around thirty-eight degrees.

  Having had my fill of the flycatcher, the heat and tiredness began to kick in. Adrian Boyle turned up and offered his lounge room floor for me to crash on. He shared a house with another birder, Chris Hassell, and between them they ran Turnstone Nature Discovery Tours. They couldn’t be more contrasting in appearance, Adrian a nuggety ball of energy from the South Australian bush, Chris a tall and sinewy Pom, but together they make a great team sharing an incredible passion for and knowledge of the birds and wildlife of the Broome region. As I was soon to find out.

  As I was setting up my sleeping gear at their place, Adrian excitedly told me what was about in Broome. It sounded tremendous but I was absolutely wiped out from the drive and couldn’t possibly tackle anything until the next day. Suddenly a massive storm hit. Where moments before it had been full sun and almost forty degrees, now there was a torrential downpour with fierce hail. I was watching the blanket of raindrops (as big as a Collingwood supporter’s tears) when Adrian snapped into action: ‘Come on, we have to go. This rain’s not good news for you, Sean. If this sets in all the birds around town will head for the plains and then you’ll never get them!’ And with that he dragged me away from my sleeping bag and into the car.

  Broome sits on Roebuck Bay, the rich mudflats of which are one of the world’s major wader destinations. When the nearby Roebuck Plains fill after wet season rains, they become an equally good habitat for thousands of freshwater waders. After arriving from Asia, many of these birds congregate around the coast at Broome, waiting for the inland plains to fill. Adrian was convinced that if this storm marked the beginning of the wet, all the birds he had lined up for me would disperse, which was why we had to see them now.

  And so began possibly the greatest forty-eight hours of birding in my life. The Blue-and-white Flycatcher alone would have made the trip worthwhile but in just over twenty-four hours we saw such sensational rarities as Yellow Wagtail, Long-toed Stint and Swinhoe’s Snipe at the sewage works; a
nd Common Redshank and Asian Dowitcher out on the mudflats of the bay. In the mangroves we ticked off such little-seen species as Dusky Gerygone, Mangrove Grey Fantail and White-breasted Whistler. The whistler is a surprisingly cute bird – the field guides don’t really capture how striking it is with its chestnut collar that looks remarkably like a velvet stole.

  By late the next morning I had everything I was after and then some, with the exception of Yellow Chat, the first bird that we hadn’t got almost instantly when we’d looked for it. As we unsuccessfully searched the saltmarsh that these extremely enigmatic and little-known birds are supposed to frequent, I felt that at last Adrian’s genius for finding rarities was tarnished. Undeterred, he was saying we’d keep searching the plains for them when, about five hundred metres away, some small birds flew up onto a fence and, sure enough, they turned out to be Yellow Chats.

  For twenty years I had wanted to visit Broome, but even my dreams had never anticipated this reality. After less than two days I had added sixteen new birds to my list, which was all the more remarkable considering how far advanced my list was. The last time the list had kicked along so quickly was when I first hit the tropical coast of Queensland back in August. It had been a truly sensational two days. But now there was nothing more to see, I had to push on.

  I arrived somewhat dazed at Derby, the next town up the track. The dream run I’d had seemed too extraordinary to be true, like winning best actor, best director and best picture when all you’d been nominated for was best short animation. But the astonishing birding was not done with yet as news filtered through that an Isabelline Wheatear had turned up in Mount Carbine, North Queensland. Apart from having one of the most arcane of all the bird names, the Isabelline Wheatear was an extraordinary sighting because it breeds in central Russia and migrates to Africa, Arabia and northwestern India. The closest it had ever previously come to Australia was a single record from Burma, over six thousand kilometres away.

  Even though Mount Carbine was on the other side of the country, I simply had to go for this bird. I couldn’t get a flight immediately so I had a little over a day to sweat it out around Derby. And sweat was in profusion in Derby at this time of year. (Derby, by the way, is pronounced to rhyme with ‘Herbie’ not ‘Barbie’, a little tip that will help avoid infuriating the locals as I kept doing. I’m sure the people of Derby are lovely souls but in this heat it is very hard not to be just a little cranky.) Not only was it unbearably hot but the town itself is not situated on the most prepossessing stretch of land, surrounded as it is on three sides by desolate saltpans. It was as if the air itself was too hot and bothered to move and just hung indolently around the saltpans choking the life out of everything.

  Still, the surrounding area was surprisingly good for birds. Great-billed Heron down by the wharf where some of the largest tides in the world flood in every day, Ruff and many other good waders down on the overflow basin at the sewage works. The former can be exceedingly difficult to find, the latter I had all but given up hope of seeing. My run of luck seemed to be continuing.

  Another long shot on my list was the relatively rare Garganey, a type of small duck. Over the last couple of years hardly any had been turning up, but Adrian told me that George Swann, another bird guide operating out of Broome, had seen a Garganey up on the Gibb River Road in the Kimberley, near Mount Barnett Station. I’d be travelling up the Gibb when I got back from the Isabelline twitch but I figured I might as well use the time to go check it out as Mount Barnett is only three hundred kilometres up the road, a mere trifle of a distance up here.

  As much of the track wasn’t sealed, it took quite a few hours to get to Mount Barnett and by the time I arrived it was almost dark. The only wetland I could find was not much more than a large puddle by the side of the road containing only three ducks. One of them turned out to be the Garganey. The three ducks took flight and I marvelled at how close this one had come to getting away. The Garganey was my seven hundredth bird for my Australian list – cause for minor celebration, I thought, so I danced a little jig in honour of the milestone. You can do daggy things like this out here because no-one’s around to ridicule you, and even if they were, this part of the world attracts so many eccentrics that a guy with binoculars jiving around a puddle would seem relatively tame. Five days later, when I came this way again, the Garganey was nowhere to be seen. If I had waited I would have been dancing in despair.

  I spent the night in the deserted campground at Windjana Gorge, tourist season being over, and mulled on the fact that while the forthcoming three-day detour to Queensland might snare me the bonus of the wheatear, it might also cost me Black Grasswren, Gouldian Finch and potentially half a dozen others if the wet broke early. But the dice was rolled: following the edict of one former Prime Minister, from now on it was ‘crash through or crash’. And following the lead of another Prime Minister, I lost my trousers and headed for a skinny dip. Then I saw the Freshwater Crocodiles floating nearby and thought better of it. I know the Freshies aren’t supposed to attack humans, as they prefer smaller prey, but I wasn’t willing to risk them mistaking certain appendages for that small prey.

  As I was queuing to board the plane the next day, the disembarking passengers streamed past, Mike Carter amongst them. He was on a major twitch, having flown from Melbourne to Cairns for the wheatear and now heading over to Broome for the flycatcher. He laughed when he saw me: ‘I thought I might see you here.’ Then became instantly serious: ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘It was still there yesterday, I haven’t heard since. What about the wheatear?’

  ‘It was there this morning.’ And he was gone.

  ‘What a freak,’ I thought to myself. ‘Imagine flying all that way just for a bird. It’s a bit sad, really.’ And then I got on the plane that would take me to Cairns via Kununurra and Darwin. (Even sadder, the flycatcher failed to ever be seen again, and Mike dipped out.)

  My plane arrived in Cairns just after dawn and as I pushed the hire car up towards Mount Carbine I prayed that the wheatear would still be hanging around. Given this bird had half the world to choose from, it is beyond comprehension why it chose to land where it did. It was first seen on what’s officially called a sports oval, although there was just as little grass and just as many cow pats on the ‘oval’ as on the adjacent dust bowl of a paddock next door. After expending so much effort to get here it was rather disheartening, especially when, after twenty minutes, I still couldn’t locate the bird. There was a dilapidated toilet block on the site and, needing to answer nature’s call, I made my way over to it. The Isabelline Wheatear flew up a couple of metres away from the outhouse.

  As a rarity the wheatear is everything the Blue-and-white Flycatcher isn’t. It is neither colourful nor spunky – in fact it was hard to tell this little brown job from the other brown jobs lying about on the ground. But it was a new bird for Australia and one I’d never have dreamed would make it onto my list. A couple of local birders turned up and took me to a nearby dam to see some Freckled Ducks, a rare occurrence in this part of the world.

  Having seen the wheatear within an hour of arriving, I had almost two full days to kill before I flew back to Broome. Fortunately, Mount Carbine is just a stone-curlew’s throw from Kingfisher Park and I was forced to stay there. Isn’t life tough? Also there was Chris Tzaros, the Threatened Birds Officer from Birds Australia’s Melbourne office, on holiday with his girlfriend Julie. It was Chris’s first time up north and he was absolutely buzzing with all the new ticks he was getting. Jules was doing her best to share his excitement, but after Chris dragged her through the mangrove boardwalk at Cairns, where she was attacked by hundreds of sandflies, she was battling the infuriating itch of dozens of swollen red bites. She looked like she had a bad case of chickenpox, but it wasn’t enough to stop her joining us on a search for Rufous Owl half an hour up the road.

  Julie was typical of the partners of many of the birders I encountered that year. I always used to buy the stereotype of bird-watch
ers being nerdy losers who could never hope to have a girlfriend. It gave me solace during the many years I was single. I’m a twitcher – being alone comes with the territory. But so many of the really good twitchers, particularly the younger ones, had simply stunning partners. Almost without exception they were smart, attractive and actually seemed to be interested in their partner’s ridiculous hobby. It is totally counter-intuitive. How do these uber-nerds get the cute girls? Is it the ultimate triumph of the Bill Gates era, in which geek is the new cool?

  When I think about it, though, a surprising number of full-on twitchers are actually quite charismatic. I guess if their childhood experience was anything like mine, they either developed a very thick hide or were so sure of their sense of self that they were prepared to pursue their passion regardless of what others thought. I guess within that ‘I don’t give a toss what you think of me’ are the seeds of cool. If you have passion in one area of your life, you are probably capable of passion in other areas too.

  Not that ‘cool’ would have been the first word to pop into your head if you’d been watching Chris sight his first Pheasant Coucal. The largest member of the Australian cuckoos, the Pheasant Coucal looks more like an archaeopteryx than the birdie that pops out of a clock, so it is quite an impressive bird. One flapped across the road as we were driving and Chris slammed on the brakes and was out stalking it with such concentration that Jules and I were in hysterics. His sheer delight at seeing it reminded me of the thrill of discovery that got me into birding in the first place. I shouldn’t really have been laughing at all because my Rufous Scrub-bird victory dance looked like something out of Moulin Rouge compared to Chris’s Pheasant Coucal jig. And when Chris’s persistence and sharp eye netted us the Rufous Owl hidden amongst the thick creekside vegetation, I was very tempted to start dancing again. I had a pair of these grand birds lined up for the Darwin Botanic Gardens, but in birding nothing is certain so I happily took this species then.