Orcas

There is something about whales that makes you feel small, and strangely relaxed. To see a large, very intelligent mammal gracefully navigate through the oceans - indulging in play, allowing itself to be curious, and sensing its environment with a knowing awareness that a fellow mammal (such as you and I) can empathise with - is an incredibly touching and humbling experience.

So, on my birthday a few days ago, I was very lucky to get word of a pod of Orcas which had been moving close to Tasmania’s shore, 10 minutes away from home. We (my wife and I) rushed and got ourselves to the penguin viewing platform at Lillico and looked out towards the big blue, and before long - the sight of spouts greeted us.

One, two, three, four… and then some more! We counted at least 6 Orcas as they gently made their way across the horizon. Truly thrilling and a magnificent gift from nature!

2 days later, the same pod had turned back and returned to Devonport. This time, we saw them fairly close (50m or so away from the cliffs at the lighthouse) and we were joined by over 60 other enthusiastic residents who’d come to watch these wonderful creatures. Apparently, there were 10 animals in the pod, complete with a sprinkling of adults and smaller calves sticking close to their parents.

Orcas are not a common occurrence off Tasmania, and particularly rare off its NW coast. So we are very grateful that we were in the right place at the right time to be able to witness these awe-inspiring cetaceans.

The lost sailors

The fierce westerly winds smacked my face as I looked up to the overcast skies, expecting to feel droplets of water hit my face anytime soon. Not yet. The weather was abysmal - ideal conditions for some seawatching cheer.

I drove down to the shore, and then spent a few hesitant minutes debating whether I should let myself out of the warm comfort of the car. I lowered the window - the cool, salty air rushing up against everything. Squinting into the distance, I could make out dark shapes in the horizon. The decision to head here had already paid off.

Scores of shearwaters coasting over the water. Image from Eaglehawk Neck, Tasmania (Nov 2018)

A bevy of lapwings lifted into the sky as a White-bellied Sea-eagle passed by - but even that was not enough to distract me. Aiming my binoculars at the horizon, I could see the silhouettes of Short-tailed Shearwaters cutting through the winds as they gracefully swooped up before angling down towards the surface of the water again. Ten, then fifty, then a hundred, and then more - swiftly negotiating the winds and the waves as they lifted and dropped with ease while travelling westwards. I counted at least 1,500 before forcing myself to look away.

I looked away to observe the much bigger birds gliding closer to where I was. Shy Albatross.

Like blossoms are to spring, like fish are to water, albatrosses are to the stormy seas. The sight of a bird skimming the swelling seas with exquisite grace, never flapping its long and slender wings, is one of the most moving wonders of the natural world. Winds and conditions that drown boats and their crews, are toyed with by the albatrosses. These regal birds spend almost all their lives at sea, only coming to land in remote islands to breed. Birds have been known to be at sea for up to 10 years straight.

A Shy Albatross skims the surface. Image from Eaglehawk Neck, Tasmania (Nov 2018)

Few birds stir up the imagination like the albatross does. It is, perhaps, no wonder then that the sailors of yore regarded these magnificent creatures as the souls of their lost companions.

I watched these spectacular birds for a while, before droplets from the sky beckoned me to take shelter in the woods. Once there, I stared blankly at some other birds - but my mind stayed back with the albatrosses, the shearwaters, and their commanding grace over the violent seas.

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It’s only fair that I mention the some of the various threats faced by the wonderful birds I glorify in this post.

Each year, an estimated 100,000 albatrosses die as a result of longline fishing - with birds being attracted to the bait and getting entangled and drowning in the process. In some areas, overfishing threatens to reduce fish stocks available for marine birds altogether.

Seabirds are particularly helpless on land, and they face the threat of feral rats and cats hunting down eggs and chicks on the remote islands they inhabit. In the past, entire populations of seabirds have been wiped off of islands by sailors who would harvest them for food (much like the famous example of the dodo).

Plastic present in the ocean is often ingested by seabirds; and it obstructs and fills the digestive tract, leading directly to suffocation, starvation, and poisoning. The same is true for several other pollutants that we’ve introduced to the oceans today - including seemingly harmless balloons!

The climate crisis, too, is changing oceanic conditions, raising sea temperatures, having a consequence on fish stocks, etc. You can read more about the impacts of climate change on seabirds here, or here; and have a look at cases where there is short term gain and long term loss here, here, or here.

Pretty Dam Good

The sun rose on a crisp and clear morning in Grindelwald, an hour’s drive from home. The piercing cold wasn’t enough to dull my excitement of being out with my recording gear after a long time. And by the sound of it, the birds weren’t bothered either in spite of the mercury dipping to just below freezing.

Before I continue, I must clarify that a dam in Australia (and as I have now learnt, in South Africa) refers to an artificial pond or reservoir where water is collected. Basically - it is the enclosed water body itself, and not a structure that obstructs the flow of water.


The dam was full and its waters placid. The reeds which host the famed resident (or perhaps a visitor, who knows?) of the dam were strangely sparse and relatively flattened. Perhaps not a great sign - I had a feeling that this may be yet another failed attempt at trying to see the Australasian Bittern that is often reported from here.

Nonetheless, the birds were calling all around. I must admit that it was a rather loud and harsh chorus that greeted me. A number of Tasmanian birds are clearly unaware of their musical abilities (or lack thereof) . The screeching of Sulphur-crested Cockatoos was backed up by the loud trumpeting of Black Currawongs and the resounding clinks of the Grey Currawong.

I walked past the reeds, where the Swamphens scolded me for getting too close as I negotiated the muddy margins of the dam. Brown Thornbills were enjoying the flowers of the Silver Wattle, dipping their bills into them and looking up again with yellow dots stuck to their foreheads. A male Musk Duck at the centre of the dam presented quite a sight as it displayed by contorting its body, holding up its head and tail, and then kicking up a jet of water behind itself. Butcherbirds and magpies lent their songs to the chorus while cormorants dove around in the dam for fish.

The musk duck’s impressive display - with head & tail held high, the male kicks up a stream of water behind it.

The dam is fringed on one end by what appears to be a rich woodland dominated by eucalyptus and wattles. Here, I was drawn to the songs of the Grey Shrikethrush and the delightful Golden Whistler. A pair of Scarlet Robins perched low on fallen logs; and the male and female were busy looking for invertebrates; separately - but never straying too far from one another. Family groups of Superb Fairywrens darted in and out of the bushes, with a few coloured males looking very dapper in the sunlight.

A male Golden Whistler in song

Very soon, the incessant “pick-it-up” calls of the Striated Pardalotes started off - punctuated a few times by the twangs delivered by Banjo Frogs. This species of pardalote is a summer visitor to Tasmania but it seems to have arrived early this year. I continued walking and upon reaching the causeway, I was stopped in my tracks by a big brown bird that emerged from the reeds a few meters from me before taking to the wing, climbing higher while flying away, and then dropping down at the far end of the dam in the middle of the reeds. I felt dead chuffed to have finally seen an Australian Bittern.

Sauntering on, I began to formulate a plan to observe this bird perched and at ease. In another few minutes, I was joined by my friends Peter and Andi to try and look for this bird again. Over the course of the next hour or so, we would see the bittern thrice - each sighting as fleeting as the one before; with the cryptic and well-hidden bird always a step ahead, seeing us before we could spot it. Eventually, we decided to let the bird be and I relaxed, reflecting on the wonderful morning in the company of nature and good friends.

I am glad and grateful I came out this Sunday to soak in the wonderful sights and sounds of the Tassie wilderness. Every now and then, I try and think of birding as microcosm of life (in the way life is filled with fugacious moments of overwhelming joy and then with bits of sad, happy, dullness, disappointment, excitement, etc) - but it isn’t. It is, if anything, an escape from the rollercoaster of life. Birding in itself never gets disappointing, and if you’re as lucky as I am to experience it - you might find that it fills one’s life with joy, a sense of wonder, the thrills of chasing, and the ubiquitous cheer of song and flight.

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Spring?

I woke up to the trilling song of a Fan-tailed Cuckoo ringing through the air intermittently for an hour or so. Wattles have been colouring the landscape yellow for a while now. Surely, spring must almost be here.

Alas! One step outside and the mind-numbing chill froze my hands and nose in a few seconds. Frost lay strong upon the ground, while ice added a layer of protection to the car’s windows. As any other Wednesday, I made my way to Horsehead Creek (after making sure the view from the car was no longer blocked by ice!) in hope that some warmth might pervade with the rising sun.

With the mercury stuck at 2 degrees celsius, a cold 12 kph breeze blowing in from the south, and the tide at 2.5m and rising - I braced myself and made my way along the water. The pelicans seemed to have gone somewhere and inspite of some thorough scanning, I couldn’t locate any. I did count up the other usual suspects - with Silver and Pacific Gulls, Pied Oystercatchers, White-faced Herons, Great and Little Black Cormorants, etc lending a familiar sight to this landscape. In the trees, Black-headed Honeyeaters noisily announced the presence of a mixed flock containing New Holland Honeyeaters, Brown Thornbills, and a Yellow-throated Honeyeater. A few wattles added a splash of yellow to the canopy.

As I got out of the wooded stretch and walked through the lawn towards the creek, 2 adult lapwings raised an alarm and tip-toed over the frost-covered ground with their 3 young chicks (which looked like furry golf balls) in tow. A pair of Maned Ducks watched warily from a gum tree and I wondered if they have been nesting there. About 15 Silver-eyes frolicked in the trees by the creek; but their cheerful and loud calls were overshadowed by the cacophony of gulls, lapwings, and oystercatchers as they announced the arrival of a majestic White-bellied Sea-Eagle. The sea-eagle took a lap, presumably found nothing of interest, and headed up the river.

I returned to my car and was glad to be back in a warm place again.

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A contrail in the blue skies with a wattle beginning to flower

A White-bellied Sea-Eagle flies over where Horsehead Creek and the Mersey River meet