The next day we drove to Ordesa National Park, a few hours northeast of Jaca. This Park adjoins the French National Park on the French side of the Pyrenees. Cars are not allowed inside the Park, and the number of visitors allowed in at one time is limited as well. Although we visited during one of the busiest months, we had no trouble entering as soon as we arrived. There is an excellent paved car park and comfortable, modern buses that carry visitors the short distance into the Park proper. The Pyrenees surround us, vast and dreaming the the cloudless sky.
The Rio Soaso runs the length of the Park and well-marked trails follow on both sides to the falls, which roar down a series of rocky steps. Beech forest prevails, interspersed with linden and Spanish pine. Marsh tit, coal tit and firecrest (looking a lot like our golden-crowned kinglets) are common birds in the cafe hub area. Tits are small birds in Europe that act a lot like chickadees and titmice in the U. S.
It's possible to climb to the top of the nearby peaks, although the trail is a rough, arduous series of switchbacks. The climb takes roughly four to five hours one way. At the top, the view makes it all worthwhile. The Soaso River is a tiny silver thread coursing through the valley. The rocky buttresses continue to climb above for several thousand meters. In the meadow where we stopped, our party found water pipit, dunnock, European robin, black redstart, rufous-tailed rockthrush, common blackbird, crested tit, Eurasian treecreeper and many more birds. Egyptian vultures and griffon vultures were coursing on the warm air carried up from the canyon. They were below us, giving us rare looks of these birds from above.
It was after eight in the evening when we arrived back at the hub area. The buses run until ten in order to accommodate late-returning hikers. It would be easy to spend several days birding the many side road and back-country areas in this beautiful place.
We all voted for a later start the next day. There are excellent birding sites in Jaca, so we opted to spend the day on local searches. La Cuidadela, an ancient five-sided brick citadel in the heart of Jaca, is an excellent place to find rock sparrows, common swifts and linnet. A herd of deer lives in the sunken grassy moat of the fort. They spend their days following the shade under the ancient walls. After finding the fort birds, we took a short walk to the Pilgrims' Bridge, another venerable structure which carried pilgrims on their walk centuries ago over the Rio Aragon.
In August, by noon or later, the temperature in the valleys climbs to the high eighties. Businesses close down for siesta at about one and re-open around four-thirty or five. We were reluctant to lose this midday time for exploring the city, but found that the Spanish are right: it's too hot. We found some shade and enjoyed the view. As we sat on our shady patio in the middle of Jaca, a red kite coursed low over the hotel grounds, scattering the rock doves. Later in the afternoon, we went on a hunt for the black woodpecker. The monasteries of San Juan de la Pena are a short drive southeast of Jaca and this bird is often seen there. The oldest monastery, built in the tenth century, is built right into the buff-colored cliffs. Crude lookout windows are visible in the old rock above the monastery. We had no luck on the woodpecker, but came back with a deep sense of mystery and awe imparted by the aged rock.
Back in Jaca, two of our party took an after dinner walk to te Paseo, or city park, hoping for Eurasian scops owl. They can often be seen there in the light from the street lamps. This night the owls could be heard calling softly but stayed hidden in the trees lining the manicured paths.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Friday, December 28, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
The Search Goes On...
Back to wallcreeper country. There was so much ravine, so many rocky escarpments to search for this small gray and red bird. The rough cliffs disappeared into the clouds on every side. We spread out again on each end of the tunnel. Suddenly an urgent, echoing holler came from the other side of the tunnel. Wallcreeper! Hurry! Three of us ran full speed, scopes tilting and bins bouncing, careless of tunnel traffic. We couldn't miss this elusive rarity.
He was surprisingly easy to see, feeding along a rocky face across the ravine. Although related to the nuthatch, this is a bigger bird: 14 to 17 cm from slightly decurved bill to white banded tail. He was creeping along the rock face, gleaning insects from crevices and alpine plants. He looked rather drab until he spread his wings to move to an adjacent area: lovely "broad, round wings, gaudily marked with red, black and white above" as described in our damp copy of Birds of Europe. At one point he flew to the rocks just above us, giving an excellent view of his black throat and breast. We were all grinning like fools in a twenty-mile-an-hour wind and horizontal rain. Lammergeier and wallcreeper - and it was still early afternoon!
We started back down the valley and stopped near the small town of Siresa, a bit north of Hecho. A grassy abandoned field surrounded by overgrown bramble looked promising. (When you're a birder, the oddest kind of places can look grand.) While we wandered around, stretching our legs and admiring the ancient walled town across the valley, we had good looks at red kites, black kites and griffon vultures above. Two red-backed shrikes, an adult male and a juvenile, were perched on the far fence, flying off occasionally to hawk insects. We also saw a cirl bunting, a spotless starling (a rather plain, black bird) and a Eurasian wryneck in the hedges. Ravens, a common kestrel and a beautiful dark-phase booted eagle drifted on the thermals above us. It was a day for raptors.
Once or twice we had heard the odd purring call of European bee eaters, a very lovely, very colorful little bird. On our way back to Jaca, near Berdun, we stopped to check a sunny open field dotted with shrubby growth. We were lucky. Six European bee eaters were perched on the bare limbs of a snag, looking like polished, multi-colored ornaments. One by one they flew out to hawk insects and return to the snag. The rich gold-yellow on their throats was easily seen and their cinnamon crowns glowed. Black mask, golden chin and azure blue breast are so very lovely it's hard to find words. We were able to glimpse the long tail projections flashing in the low sunlight. Magical.
Finally, back to Jaca for a late dinner (dinner is not served until 9:30 at the earliest, so snacks on the way help prevent cranky birders). Dining in northern Spain is a treat. The excellent wines of the nearby Rioja area are plentiful and reasonable. Salads feature local specialties such as white asparagus and sweet red pepper. Beef and lamb are cooked to perfection on an asador (grate) over an open fire.
We went to bed very late but extremely happy with the day's remarkable birds.
Stay tuned for more Spanish birding adventures.
He was surprisingly easy to see, feeding along a rocky face across the ravine. Although related to the nuthatch, this is a bigger bird: 14 to 17 cm from slightly decurved bill to white banded tail. He was creeping along the rock face, gleaning insects from crevices and alpine plants. He looked rather drab until he spread his wings to move to an adjacent area: lovely "broad, round wings, gaudily marked with red, black and white above" as described in our damp copy of Birds of Europe. At one point he flew to the rocks just above us, giving an excellent view of his black throat and breast. We were all grinning like fools in a twenty-mile-an-hour wind and horizontal rain. Lammergeier and wallcreeper - and it was still early afternoon!
We started back down the valley and stopped near the small town of Siresa, a bit north of Hecho. A grassy abandoned field surrounded by overgrown bramble looked promising. (When you're a birder, the oddest kind of places can look grand.) While we wandered around, stretching our legs and admiring the ancient walled town across the valley, we had good looks at red kites, black kites and griffon vultures above. Two red-backed shrikes, an adult male and a juvenile, were perched on the far fence, flying off occasionally to hawk insects. We also saw a cirl bunting, a spotless starling (a rather plain, black bird) and a Eurasian wryneck in the hedges. Ravens, a common kestrel and a beautiful dark-phase booted eagle drifted on the thermals above us. It was a day for raptors.
Once or twice we had heard the odd purring call of European bee eaters, a very lovely, very colorful little bird. On our way back to Jaca, near Berdun, we stopped to check a sunny open field dotted with shrubby growth. We were lucky. Six European bee eaters were perched on the bare limbs of a snag, looking like polished, multi-colored ornaments. One by one they flew out to hawk insects and return to the snag. The rich gold-yellow on their throats was easily seen and their cinnamon crowns glowed. Black mask, golden chin and azure blue breast are so very lovely it's hard to find words. We were able to glimpse the long tail projections flashing in the low sunlight. Magical.
Finally, back to Jaca for a late dinner (dinner is not served until 9:30 at the earliest, so snacks on the way help prevent cranky birders). Dining in northern Spain is a treat. The excellent wines of the nearby Rioja area are plentiful and reasonable. Salads feature local specialties such as white asparagus and sweet red pepper. Beef and lamb are cooked to perfection on an asador (grate) over an open fire.
We went to bed very late but extremely happy with the day's remarkable birds.
Stay tuned for more Spanish birding adventures.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Birding in the Spanish Pyrenees
"Lammergier!" John shouted - we all spun around. There he was, a majestic vulture close to four feet long with a wingspan of almost eight feet, slowly pumping those enormous wings to gain altitude. The bird had been on the ground perhaps 100 feet from us, hidden by a small hillock. As he beat away, we had long looks at this tawny-dark giant with the long, wedge-shaped tail. The silvery peaks of the Spanish Pyrenees surrounded us, the sky was deep blue, and alpine lilies grew at our feet. Life was good.
Friends in England had invited us to spend part of August birding with them in northern Spain. In early August we flew into Barcelona via Vienna. We spent a leisurely day and a half driving to Jaca, a resort town in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Jaca was our home base for the following week.
The Pyrenees form the mountainous boundary between France to the north and Spain to the south. The tallest peak, Aneto, rises 3,404 meters (10,212 feet). Most of the twenty-six major peaks rise between 1500 and 3000 meters. Birds are plentiful. Alpine, Mediterranean and northern European species can be found in the Pyrenees and the nearby dry valleys and foothills at various times of the years. Although August is the quietest month for birds, we were not disappointed.
Up early our first day, the five of us agreed to go on a search for a very elusive, small grey bird called a wallcreeper. A narrow, dark, dripping tunnel appropriately named Boca del Infierno, or Hell's Mouth, carries a small mountain road through a rocky gorge in the mountains. The gorge on either side of the tunnel has been a good place to find wallcreepers, as they glean insects from the crevices in the rocks and walls. This area in the northern Hecho Valley, about 50 km northwest of Jaca, is one of the lowest and most accessible places in the Pyrenees where wallcreepers can be found.
On our way to the Valley, we made a stop on a stone bridge over the Rio Aragon. Crag martins coursed the wide, shallow river as it chattered over rocks. A bit farther north, the Hecho Valley is broad and open: perfect country for raptors. We got our first of many red kites, Egyptian vultures, (Eurasian) griffon vultures, a booted eagle, a spotted flycatcher and the lammergier.
We had stopped along the quiet two-lane road to scope the booted eagle when John had glimpsed the lammergier from the corner of his eye. Our grins were a mile wide. As we celebrated the raptor with cookies and coffee, an elderly Basque gentleman stopped to chat. We were at least 10 km from any town or settlement and he was out briskly walking, black beret cocked over one eye. With his few English words, our basic Spanish and many smiles and gestures we learned about the grey herons that fish in the nearby river and the vultures that feed on carcasses in the fields. He wished us well and continued on his long walk to somewhere.
As we made our way north through the Hecho Valley, passing through the town of Hecho, we left open, sunny country behind. Grey rock ravines dropped to an icy mountain stream that followed along the road. The rock was dotted with a curious alpine saxifrage that looks just like a pale green sea anemone. By now the wind had picked up and a fine cold rain was sweeping down the narrow valley in soaking gusts. When we reached the dripping tunnel, the Boca del Infierno, we spaced ourselves along the ravine on each side and began a search for wallcreepers. This is popular country for camping and hill walking. Many people passed us in cars, on bicycles and on foot, always polite and sometimes curious about why we persistently scanned the high rock face across the road. Most of the hikers carried walking sticks and some of the men sang what sounded like arias in clear voices as they walked. The songs, combined with the soft 'clonk-bonk' of the large bells worn by the sheep in the area, were a hauntingly pleasant sound.
We spent forty wet, cold minutes looking for the elusive bird. Our binocular lenses were wet and the fine, drifting rain settled on our clothes. A lunch break was in order. We found a camp ground along a shallow mountain stream where we sat sheltered on some rocks among alpine Queen Ann's lace, delicate pale blue campanula, tiny pinks nodding in the wind and mauve wild geranium. The campers seemed unfazed by the rain as they picnicked outside, walked and sang. Their good-natured cheerfulness was an antidote.
Stay tuned for more birding in Spain.
Friends in England had invited us to spend part of August birding with them in northern Spain. In early August we flew into Barcelona via Vienna. We spent a leisurely day and a half driving to Jaca, a resort town in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Jaca was our home base for the following week.
The Pyrenees form the mountainous boundary between France to the north and Spain to the south. The tallest peak, Aneto, rises 3,404 meters (10,212 feet). Most of the twenty-six major peaks rise between 1500 and 3000 meters. Birds are plentiful. Alpine, Mediterranean and northern European species can be found in the Pyrenees and the nearby dry valleys and foothills at various times of the years. Although August is the quietest month for birds, we were not disappointed.
Up early our first day, the five of us agreed to go on a search for a very elusive, small grey bird called a wallcreeper. A narrow, dark, dripping tunnel appropriately named Boca del Infierno, or Hell's Mouth, carries a small mountain road through a rocky gorge in the mountains. The gorge on either side of the tunnel has been a good place to find wallcreepers, as they glean insects from the crevices in the rocks and walls. This area in the northern Hecho Valley, about 50 km northwest of Jaca, is one of the lowest and most accessible places in the Pyrenees where wallcreepers can be found.
On our way to the Valley, we made a stop on a stone bridge over the Rio Aragon. Crag martins coursed the wide, shallow river as it chattered over rocks. A bit farther north, the Hecho Valley is broad and open: perfect country for raptors. We got our first of many red kites, Egyptian vultures, (Eurasian) griffon vultures, a booted eagle, a spotted flycatcher and the lammergier.
We had stopped along the quiet two-lane road to scope the booted eagle when John had glimpsed the lammergier from the corner of his eye. Our grins were a mile wide. As we celebrated the raptor with cookies and coffee, an elderly Basque gentleman stopped to chat. We were at least 10 km from any town or settlement and he was out briskly walking, black beret cocked over one eye. With his few English words, our basic Spanish and many smiles and gestures we learned about the grey herons that fish in the nearby river and the vultures that feed on carcasses in the fields. He wished us well and continued on his long walk to somewhere.
As we made our way north through the Hecho Valley, passing through the town of Hecho, we left open, sunny country behind. Grey rock ravines dropped to an icy mountain stream that followed along the road. The rock was dotted with a curious alpine saxifrage that looks just like a pale green sea anemone. By now the wind had picked up and a fine cold rain was sweeping down the narrow valley in soaking gusts. When we reached the dripping tunnel, the Boca del Infierno, we spaced ourselves along the ravine on each side and began a search for wallcreepers. This is popular country for camping and hill walking. Many people passed us in cars, on bicycles and on foot, always polite and sometimes curious about why we persistently scanned the high rock face across the road. Most of the hikers carried walking sticks and some of the men sang what sounded like arias in clear voices as they walked. The songs, combined with the soft 'clonk-bonk' of the large bells worn by the sheep in the area, were a hauntingly pleasant sound.
We spent forty wet, cold minutes looking for the elusive bird. Our binocular lenses were wet and the fine, drifting rain settled on our clothes. A lunch break was in order. We found a camp ground along a shallow mountain stream where we sat sheltered on some rocks among alpine Queen Ann's lace, delicate pale blue campanula, tiny pinks nodding in the wind and mauve wild geranium. The campers seemed unfazed by the rain as they picnicked outside, walked and sang. Their good-natured cheerfulness was an antidote.
Stay tuned for more birding in Spain.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Crow Lessons
I've written before about the life lessons that birds provide us, if we can perceive them. I got another one this morning, and I'm glad to say I was awake enough to eventually accept it as a lesson.
I have a seed feeder, hung high in one of our shore pines to prevent the bears having dinner every night on our shelled sunflower seed (and wrecking the feeder in the process). It takes a step stool to access it, but it keeps temptation beyond paw's reach for the furry guys. So - I thought I had it nailed. All that yummy seed was safe for the nuthatches, chickadees, juncos and other visitors. The spill was picked up by towhees, more juncos and sparrows. So really, no waste. Perfect. Ha.
I looked out this morning and a small gang of crows was having a ball raiding the feeder. Probably a small crew of juveniiles that spends the winter in the neighborhood. They come each morning and eat corn with the ducks, but there are so many ducks that it's a toss up. Plus those mallard hens can be pretty clear about whose corn it is. I've seen more than one crow jump straight up as his tail is firmly yanked by an indignant mallard hen.
Today the crows really had their game on. One crow would hang from the platform of the feeder and beat his wings. This made the feeder swing wildly. Since the platform is relatively flat, seed rained down from all sides on the other crows waiting below. It was ingenious. Dang! So I went out to the side of the house and yelled, swung my arms and sure enough, they all flew quickly away. But not very far did they fly. About fifteen minutes later I heard the leader of the pack give his call, and back they cautiously came. So I went out again and waved my arms. But I realized that I probably wasn't going to win this battle. Because I had made it a battle when maybe it didn't have to be. They were just being crows, after all.
Zen teachers are fond of saying that the teacher appears when the student is ready. I take this to mean that we can repeat the same mistakes and heartaches in life, over and over, until one day, maybe we see things through a different lens. Through a 'student' lens.
If I want to sit in my lawn chair all day, jealously guarding the seed feeder, I'll keep away the crows. But I'll also keep away all the other birds, since I'm an equal opportunity scare-crow. I wave my arms and everyone heads for the thickets. Or, I can think it through and maybe come up with a flexible solution. Do the dance, so to speak.
There will always be crows in our lives. Clever dark beings who jam up our perfect systems, hopes and dreams just when we think we have them all fool-proofed. Native people have known and respected Crow for ages: trickster and villain - smart villain though, and one with an appreciation for a good joke.
Not to say that this is an easy thing, but seeing lessons rather than battles has to be at least a good thing.
With the crows, I'm going to try a compromise. I have a feeder with a screen-barrier that only lets in song-bird size birds. Others are too big to squeeze through to access the goodies. I'm going to hang that next to the platform feeder which will still have seed, but much less. I still want to feed the crow gang. I respect their smarts and I love to watch them play.
Each day gives us chances to learn - I surely miss countless lessons, but the birds and all of nature continue to offer to teach us in gentle, humbling and often humorous ways.
I have a seed feeder, hung high in one of our shore pines to prevent the bears having dinner every night on our shelled sunflower seed (and wrecking the feeder in the process). It takes a step stool to access it, but it keeps temptation beyond paw's reach for the furry guys. So - I thought I had it nailed. All that yummy seed was safe for the nuthatches, chickadees, juncos and other visitors. The spill was picked up by towhees, more juncos and sparrows. So really, no waste. Perfect. Ha.
I looked out this morning and a small gang of crows was having a ball raiding the feeder. Probably a small crew of juveniiles that spends the winter in the neighborhood. They come each morning and eat corn with the ducks, but there are so many ducks that it's a toss up. Plus those mallard hens can be pretty clear about whose corn it is. I've seen more than one crow jump straight up as his tail is firmly yanked by an indignant mallard hen.
Today the crows really had their game on. One crow would hang from the platform of the feeder and beat his wings. This made the feeder swing wildly. Since the platform is relatively flat, seed rained down from all sides on the other crows waiting below. It was ingenious. Dang! So I went out to the side of the house and yelled, swung my arms and sure enough, they all flew quickly away. But not very far did they fly. About fifteen minutes later I heard the leader of the pack give his call, and back they cautiously came. So I went out again and waved my arms. But I realized that I probably wasn't going to win this battle. Because I had made it a battle when maybe it didn't have to be. They were just being crows, after all.
Zen teachers are fond of saying that the teacher appears when the student is ready. I take this to mean that we can repeat the same mistakes and heartaches in life, over and over, until one day, maybe we see things through a different lens. Through a 'student' lens.
If I want to sit in my lawn chair all day, jealously guarding the seed feeder, I'll keep away the crows. But I'll also keep away all the other birds, since I'm an equal opportunity scare-crow. I wave my arms and everyone heads for the thickets. Or, I can think it through and maybe come up with a flexible solution. Do the dance, so to speak.
There will always be crows in our lives. Clever dark beings who jam up our perfect systems, hopes and dreams just when we think we have them all fool-proofed. Native people have known and respected Crow for ages: trickster and villain - smart villain though, and one with an appreciation for a good joke.
Not to say that this is an easy thing, but seeing lessons rather than battles has to be at least a good thing.
With the crows, I'm going to try a compromise. I have a feeder with a screen-barrier that only lets in song-bird size birds. Others are too big to squeeze through to access the goodies. I'm going to hang that next to the platform feeder which will still have seed, but much less. I still want to feed the crow gang. I respect their smarts and I love to watch them play.
Each day gives us chances to learn - I surely miss countless lessons, but the birds and all of nature continue to offer to teach us in gentle, humbling and often humorous ways.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Hunting Harrier
It was one of those days in the Northwest: curtains of fine rain made a foggy shroud right down to the ground. Gusting wind carried waves of fine rain in every direction. I had been out at Fort Stevens State Park, checking out Parking Lot C for birds that might have been blown in by the recent series of storms. It was so windy and wet that even the hardiest of birds had taken cover. The sturdy wood viewing platform shuddered in the wind gusts and the jetty and sand below trembled with the force of the incoming waves. I couldn't even scare up a sparrow in the field adjacent to the dike.
As I made the long, straight drive back to the main park I began to pass by Trestle Bay. There is a beautiful, open grassy field that becomes a marsh, and in the bay an old wooden trestle that's often good for seeing hunting peregrines. Not today, though. I decided it would be more productive to look for birds in the protected, treed portion of the park.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a northern harrier was keeping pace with my car in the grassy field next to Trestle Bay. It was a female, warm brown feathering with the characteristic wide, white band just where the tail begins. She was focused on the ground a few feet below her, head turned down, eyes and ears completely tuned to any mouse activity in the tall, wet grasses. Her wings tilted and adjusted to the wind, giving her the characteristic butterfly flight. Tail fanned and tipped, making aerodynamic adjustments to her chosen path. A flick of tail and wing could change her course in an instant if a mouse was spotted below.
Harriers have owl-like faces with feathers that form a pattern that carries sound to their ears. The males are a lovely gray and females are brown. Since they must protect the nest, brown feathering, as with many female birds, is necessary.
They're also known as marsh hawks, as this was their name until the American Ornithological Union made the decision to rename them. If you watch a northern harrier as she very thoroughly and patiently combs a field, tilting and turning only a few feet above the ground, fierce face always turned down to see and hear, the name fits.
I used to see a lot more harriers on the Peninsula. The grassy dunes are perfect for hunting the voles and mice they need to survive. As houses have pushed out to and beyond the primary dune, harriers, along with other bird life, have diminished. They require these open fields to do their work and bring home the food.
But on this windy, wet day, this bird was at work by the Bay. For wild things, bad weather is just a factor to work with. Food must still be found. As she worked the field, still patiently and thoroughly hunting the soggy tussocks, I wished her well from my dry, warm shelter in the car. And a small part of me, maybe a tiny, ancient remnant of an older life, wished for myself her keenness and wild beauty.
As I made the long, straight drive back to the main park I began to pass by Trestle Bay. There is a beautiful, open grassy field that becomes a marsh, and in the bay an old wooden trestle that's often good for seeing hunting peregrines. Not today, though. I decided it would be more productive to look for birds in the protected, treed portion of the park.
Then, as if out of nowhere, a northern harrier was keeping pace with my car in the grassy field next to Trestle Bay. It was a female, warm brown feathering with the characteristic wide, white band just where the tail begins. She was focused on the ground a few feet below her, head turned down, eyes and ears completely tuned to any mouse activity in the tall, wet grasses. Her wings tilted and adjusted to the wind, giving her the characteristic butterfly flight. Tail fanned and tipped, making aerodynamic adjustments to her chosen path. A flick of tail and wing could change her course in an instant if a mouse was spotted below.
Harriers have owl-like faces with feathers that form a pattern that carries sound to their ears. The males are a lovely gray and females are brown. Since they must protect the nest, brown feathering, as with many female birds, is necessary.
They're also known as marsh hawks, as this was their name until the American Ornithological Union made the decision to rename them. If you watch a northern harrier as she very thoroughly and patiently combs a field, tilting and turning only a few feet above the ground, fierce face always turned down to see and hear, the name fits.
I used to see a lot more harriers on the Peninsula. The grassy dunes are perfect for hunting the voles and mice they need to survive. As houses have pushed out to and beyond the primary dune, harriers, along with other bird life, have diminished. They require these open fields to do their work and bring home the food.
But on this windy, wet day, this bird was at work by the Bay. For wild things, bad weather is just a factor to work with. Food must still be found. As she worked the field, still patiently and thoroughly hunting the soggy tussocks, I wished her well from my dry, warm shelter in the car. And a small part of me, maybe a tiny, ancient remnant of an older life, wished for myself her keenness and wild beauty.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
One More Guyana Memory
One of the early days at Timberhead Camp our guide took us on a walk along a forest trail to a wide stream. There was barely a bird in the canopy; Guyana had had a drought the year we were there and maybe that's why there weren't as many birds as usual. The stream was just at the edge of the jungle where grass savannah took over. We saw birds, but nothing new. The black nunbird was still a treat. After a few hours of rather unproductive birding, we were expecting the motor boat to come and ferry us back to camp. There was no cell service to call and check on arrangements, of course. After waiting well over an hour past the time the boat was due, the guide and two birders decided to retrace footsteps through the forest and send the boat back for us. It was restful and relatively cool near the stream, plus there was a white-fronted emerald hummingbird hawking insects over the water. I decided to stay with the other two birders in our group.
Verna, one of the women workers at Timberhead, finally appeared around the bend, but she was paddling a wooden boat called the Ermentrude. There was no motor. Evidently that's why the boat hadn't appeared earlier. And there was only one set of thin, long oars that Verna was using. The three of us stepped carefully into the boat and sat. We had, literally, three inches of freeboard. Didn't seem like much in a wide, deep tidal stream, but at this point, we were committed.
Verna gamely paddled us against the outgoing tide but we weren't making very much progress. Oh, for another set of oars! We came to the main stream which was much wider and flowing much faster. Verna was struggling at this point, and I was worried that we could capsize. I'm a good swimmer but I really didn't want to get my binoculars wet, and I wasn't sure how well the two older guys could do in the water. And there are the leaches... Up ahead I could see a small clearing. I asked Verna if she would let me off there, take the guys back then come back for me. She agreed. She said that the landing was called The Point and that she would return.
We did almost capsize getting into shore close enough for me to jump. The stream here did not gradually deepen - it just dropped off. I jumped, the boat tottered dangerously, taking on a few inches of water, but Verna was able to steady it and proceed into the wide and outgoing tide. I just hoped I'd see someone again - it was very, very quiet after the boat disappeared around the bend. Just the wind playing through the long grass that grew in a long, unbroken field up to the edge of the jungle.
I sat on a wooden slat balanced on two wood stumps and looked for birds, animals, anything. This seemed like one deserted place. But after ten or so minutes, I heard rustling in the grass behind me. I wasn't really frightened (I tried not the think of the howler monkeys) but I truly did want to know what was making the noise. Finally, five small, giggling brown faces popped out of the grass. Children from who knows where had somehow discovered me. They were incredibly shy and wouldn't come closer than about five feet. I asked about birds - pajaros, pajaritos, aves - in Spanish, but they couldn't make out what I was saying or why this white senora was sitting all alone on the dock. One brave, smiling girl handed me a bouquet of pastel wild flowers and grasses that she had hurriedly gathered.
Time was passing and it was hot. There was no shade on this exposed, muddy edge of the stream and I began to wonder if they could actually forget me. But of course not - the other birders would remind them. Wouldn't they? Just about then, Wendy, another worker from Timberhead, came putting around the bend in a boat with a working engine. She had a rapid conversation with the kids and helped me into the boat. I asked her to say thank you for the flowers and that I liked talking with them. Wendy smiled and spoke again to the kids. They all waved and called to us as we made our diesel-fumed way back up the stream. Wendy said that there is a small, primitive village just inside the jungle's edge where the children lived. The only access to the village is from this tidal stream, then a walk through the tall, swaying grass.
We returned to Timberhead boat dock in the late afternoon. Shadows were long. I made my way straight to the drinks cupboard in the main lodge and fixed a stiff rum and coke with lots of ice. I sat in the hammock on the deck with the soft wind blowing away the mosquitoes, reflected at leisure on the day's adventure and admired the bouquet that I had put in water.
Verna, one of the women workers at Timberhead, finally appeared around the bend, but she was paddling a wooden boat called the Ermentrude. There was no motor. Evidently that's why the boat hadn't appeared earlier. And there was only one set of thin, long oars that Verna was using. The three of us stepped carefully into the boat and sat. We had, literally, three inches of freeboard. Didn't seem like much in a wide, deep tidal stream, but at this point, we were committed.
Verna gamely paddled us against the outgoing tide but we weren't making very much progress. Oh, for another set of oars! We came to the main stream which was much wider and flowing much faster. Verna was struggling at this point, and I was worried that we could capsize. I'm a good swimmer but I really didn't want to get my binoculars wet, and I wasn't sure how well the two older guys could do in the water. And there are the leaches... Up ahead I could see a small clearing. I asked Verna if she would let me off there, take the guys back then come back for me. She agreed. She said that the landing was called The Point and that she would return.
We did almost capsize getting into shore close enough for me to jump. The stream here did not gradually deepen - it just dropped off. I jumped, the boat tottered dangerously, taking on a few inches of water, but Verna was able to steady it and proceed into the wide and outgoing tide. I just hoped I'd see someone again - it was very, very quiet after the boat disappeared around the bend. Just the wind playing through the long grass that grew in a long, unbroken field up to the edge of the jungle.
I sat on a wooden slat balanced on two wood stumps and looked for birds, animals, anything. This seemed like one deserted place. But after ten or so minutes, I heard rustling in the grass behind me. I wasn't really frightened (I tried not the think of the howler monkeys) but I truly did want to know what was making the noise. Finally, five small, giggling brown faces popped out of the grass. Children from who knows where had somehow discovered me. They were incredibly shy and wouldn't come closer than about five feet. I asked about birds - pajaros, pajaritos, aves - in Spanish, but they couldn't make out what I was saying or why this white senora was sitting all alone on the dock. One brave, smiling girl handed me a bouquet of pastel wild flowers and grasses that she had hurriedly gathered.
Time was passing and it was hot. There was no shade on this exposed, muddy edge of the stream and I began to wonder if they could actually forget me. But of course not - the other birders would remind them. Wouldn't they? Just about then, Wendy, another worker from Timberhead, came putting around the bend in a boat with a working engine. She had a rapid conversation with the kids and helped me into the boat. I asked her to say thank you for the flowers and that I liked talking with them. Wendy smiled and spoke again to the kids. They all waved and called to us as we made our diesel-fumed way back up the stream. Wendy said that there is a small, primitive village just inside the jungle's edge where the children lived. The only access to the village is from this tidal stream, then a walk through the tall, swaying grass.
We returned to Timberhead boat dock in the late afternoon. Shadows were long. I made my way straight to the drinks cupboard in the main lodge and fixed a stiff rum and coke with lots of ice. I sat in the hammock on the deck with the soft wind blowing away the mosquitoes, reflected at leisure on the day's adventure and admired the bouquet that I had put in water.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
From Shanklands back to Georgetown
When it was time to leave Shanklands for our trip back to Georgetown, Guyana, we were greeted by Bernard, another quiet, smiling bush boatman. Bernard piloted the Big Ben, an long, thin, open metal boat powered by a massive outboard engine. Bernard was quite proud of his ability to hang incredibly tight turns to bring us back for a bird sighting. I know I was looking straight down into the river on some of those turns. We were rewarded with very worthwhile sightings. The best was the sun bittern. This is a shore bird about the size of a small egret. Mottled brown is the dominant color until - until-- The sun bittern has earned its name by the beautiful and surprising display that is the result of the bittern opening wide his wings. Seen from behind, the bittern looks like a gigantic moth with huge dark eye markings on each wing - simply stunning.
Our guide saw a sun bittern on the muddy shore and signalled a quick turnaround. The sun bittern saw us but didn't seen alarmed. He turned toward the bush, hopped up onto a fallen log and bingo- flashed those wings. And people wonder why we chase birds.
Lewie, our East Indian driver from Georgetown, was waiting at the boat dock with our van. We said goodbye to the impressive Essequibo River and turned toward the bush. A long, rutted drive back to Georgetown to our hotel to drop off luggage and pick up lunch, and we were off on a forty-mile trip to the Mahocainy River. We were met by another bush boatman, this one piloting a formidable looking, heavy metal boat which took up half the river. There was an enormous exposed engine just behind the pilot that made for possibly the noisiest boat ride in history. A thin, frazzled looking rope guarded the engine area, where gears ground and wheels turned. Not a place for the unbalanced! We moved to the roof of the boat in order to be able to hear and also to get a better view of the birds. Again, it was so hot, especially on top of the metal roof, that I'm sure we sweated out the last week's water intake. We kept skin covered and used an old black umbrella to guard from the sun as much as possible.
Numerous flocks of hoatzins lined the bank. Like ungainly chickens, they teetered and clung to the foliage just over the water. It wasn't unusual to see one or more fall in, and it didn't seem to faze the birds. They would thrash and oar with outspread wings until they could cling onto overhanging foliage. At the 'wrist' joint of their wings they have a tiny claw-like appendage that they use to regain their foothold. The appendages look eerily like single fingers. With a row of mohawk-like feathers on bald blue heads, they truly look prehistoric. They squawked and fussed like hens in the bush as we chugged by.
Farther on, a troop of howler monkeys sat in the highest branches overhanging the river. They watched us silently as we passed below them. Hunched on the limbs, tails curved softly over their golden backs, they were very wild and beautiful.
We returned that evening to our hotel behind massive walls covered with every possible exotic flower and vine. Outside the walls, Georgetown at this time was very rough and dirty. Trash and stagnant water were everywhere. Snail kites perched on power lines over slimy drainage ditches, where egrets stepped daintily around discarded bottles and rotten fruit. Lotuses bloomed in muck. The streets were packed with cars, vans, bicycles, pedestrians, wary dogs and sleepy cattle. The stinks were as awesome as the colors of the flowers.
Our guide saw a sun bittern on the muddy shore and signalled a quick turnaround. The sun bittern saw us but didn't seen alarmed. He turned toward the bush, hopped up onto a fallen log and bingo- flashed those wings. And people wonder why we chase birds.
Lewie, our East Indian driver from Georgetown, was waiting at the boat dock with our van. We said goodbye to the impressive Essequibo River and turned toward the bush. A long, rutted drive back to Georgetown to our hotel to drop off luggage and pick up lunch, and we were off on a forty-mile trip to the Mahocainy River. We were met by another bush boatman, this one piloting a formidable looking, heavy metal boat which took up half the river. There was an enormous exposed engine just behind the pilot that made for possibly the noisiest boat ride in history. A thin, frazzled looking rope guarded the engine area, where gears ground and wheels turned. Not a place for the unbalanced! We moved to the roof of the boat in order to be able to hear and also to get a better view of the birds. Again, it was so hot, especially on top of the metal roof, that I'm sure we sweated out the last week's water intake. We kept skin covered and used an old black umbrella to guard from the sun as much as possible.
Numerous flocks of hoatzins lined the bank. Like ungainly chickens, they teetered and clung to the foliage just over the water. It wasn't unusual to see one or more fall in, and it didn't seem to faze the birds. They would thrash and oar with outspread wings until they could cling onto overhanging foliage. At the 'wrist' joint of their wings they have a tiny claw-like appendage that they use to regain their foothold. The appendages look eerily like single fingers. With a row of mohawk-like feathers on bald blue heads, they truly look prehistoric. They squawked and fussed like hens in the bush as we chugged by.
Farther on, a troop of howler monkeys sat in the highest branches overhanging the river. They watched us silently as we passed below them. Hunched on the limbs, tails curved softly over their golden backs, they were very wild and beautiful.
We returned that evening to our hotel behind massive walls covered with every possible exotic flower and vine. Outside the walls, Georgetown at this time was very rough and dirty. Trash and stagnant water were everywhere. Snail kites perched on power lines over slimy drainage ditches, where egrets stepped daintily around discarded bottles and rotten fruit. Lotuses bloomed in muck. The streets were packed with cars, vans, bicycles, pedestrians, wary dogs and sleepy cattle. The stinks were as awesome as the colors of the flowers.
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