Week 2- 26/10/10 - 2/11/10 (Part 2) Mammals

The most notable thing to appear this second week, however, was a Numbat (Myrmecobius fasciatus) (above) which popped up on Wednesday morning, crossing the track on the outskirts of a belah patch. One of the few diurnal small mammals in Australia, this iconic denizen of the outback is now highly reduced in range and mostly survives in secure areas like Scotia with a high degree of feral animal control. Later in the week, we were taken for a drive around to see some of the other mammals on the sanctuary. Scotia harbours populations of several highly endangered Australian natives, five of which [the Greater Bilby (Macrotis lagotis), Burrowing and Brushtail Bettongs, also respectively known as Boodies (right) and Woylies (Bettongia lesueur & B. penicillata), Bridled Nailtail Wallabies (Onychogalea frenata) and the Greater Stick-nest Rat (Leporillus conditor)] were historically found in the region but had been exterminated, primarily by feral predators and habitat destruction. Other species were not native to the region, but were introduced to maintain insurance populations. This was true for an animal which we were especially privileged to see, the Rufous Hare-wallaby or Mala (Lagorchestes hirsutus).


One of Australia’s rarest native marsupials, the mala is considered extinct in the wild and only exists in captivity as well as tiny reintroduced populations on offshore islands and the Scotia sanctuary. So many of Australia’s native mammals had been driven over the brink by the suite of factors -introduced predators, habitat degradation both anthropogenic and by introduced ungulates, hunting, disease, erratic climate, all exacerbated by eccentric evolutionary traits and behaviours- that combined to make Australia a conservation nightmare; pulled through by a surge in effort and interest, this one barely made it, yet its existence, like that of so many other species, is precariously balanced and, as some might say, ultimately an exercise in pointlessness. A selfish outlook, no doubt, but so much of Australia’s wildlife is under pressure and funding so limited that it has almost become necessary to pick and choose, to place an economic and charisma value upon species and delegate funds and effort accordingly.

Greater Bilby

If such a statement should invoke stirrings of emotion [and rightly it should], then know that the situation is as much to do with apathy amongst the citizenry as it is anything else. Sure, everyone knows about environmental crises such as the Mary River dam and the Launceston pulp mill, but only because in both these and other such situations, people would have been directly affected: the Mary River dam would have drowned properties and forced the relocation of several thousand people, and run-off from the pulp mill would have threatened Launceston’s main harbour, in addition to affecting employment in the area. Certainly, people did become aware of the effect such developments would have had on native habitats and wildlife, and obligingly flew the banner, but it is doubtful that they would have if they weren’t directly affected.

Bridled Nailtail Wallaby

It is increasingly the case that conservation and conservation of species are, in the heads of ignorant people, mutually exclusive. How many of those same people who fought so vociferously against the pulp mill know that at this very moment, less than 40 Orange-bellied Parrots struggle to maintain a foothold in northwest Tasmania? That the same bushfires so gleefully lit by arsonists in Victoria that devastated towns and lives also ravaged huge swathes of sensitive habitat and threatened to decimate wildlife, including the entire remaining population of Southern Corroboree Frogs? That not too far away from Launceston, at the mouth of the Derwent River, the same suite of problems that have people afroth at the mouth continue to threaten the only known wild population of Spotted Handfish? I wager very few do, and not only that, but as I find most damning, people will wilfully impinge upon nature, for no other reason than a belief that it is their right.

In late November I watched a fire, deliberately lit on the boundaries of a farm property, sweep into Mt Chinghee NP, burning hillsides that were among the last known habitat for Eastern Bristlebird in southeast Queensland. Did the land owner know that, if nothing else, his fire was in prime position to leap the fence into adjacent national park land? Probably. Did he care? Stupid question. Would he have cared any more had he known of the existence of a dumpy brown, inconsequential-looking bird? Someone stop me asking stupid questions. But propose to dam the adjoining valley and see what sort of reaction that might elicit. Doubtless the very same man would pump endless energy and money into campaigning to stop the dam, the same way such resources were pumped into stopping the Mary River dam, the Franklin dam and the Launceston pulp mill.

Sanctuaries like Scotia and other conservation efforts: High on requirements, short on cash

It just goes to show that Australia’s biggest environmental miscreants are not located in its upper echelons [which are inevitably its easiest targets], but amongst its general citizenry. The environmental management may be in some ways inadequate, but by developed nations’ standards its infrastructure and grassroots awareness are the envy of much the rest of the world; the main problem is there are still a lot of minds to change out there, a far slower process than just instituting legislative and policing change. Expenditure must also be wrought with more influence, and again with greater priority than it is currently afforded. I would wager that the expenditure made to screen five seasons of Big Brother or bring Oprah over for her frivolous jaunt would keep a station like Scotia running for a couple of months. So the all-important question Australians must ask is: which do they want, a healthy, environmentally balanced country with sufficient protections in place for its wildlife, or Oprah? In a perfect world, you can’t have it both ways.

Week 2- 26/10/10 - 2/11/10 (Part 1) Bird Surveys End, and The Trials of Taxonomy

Shy Heathwren

By this point we were halfway through our bird surveys, having covered two-thirds of the sanctuary and hitting the plateau of our species-area curve. We had long since abandoned the Black-eared Miner surveys, partly out of boredom, partly a desire to apply ourselves to other endeavours, and finally because there were other volunteers to take up the baton. There was also the advent of pitfall trapping to look forward to, not least because we would finally be nailing down some specialist arid-zone herps and mammals. Midway through the week, we were given a small taste of what could be. An old trapping site, situated in a patch of low-growing Eremophila and saltbush scrub, had to be taken down. While we were there, we spotted what looked suspiciously like a firetail skink (Morethia ruficauda), which would have been a new record for the sanctuary, and a range extension of some 2000km. Given the obvious attraction of verifying such a sighting, we were persuaded to open the traps for one more day.

As it turns out, we didn’t get the desired skink, but we did trap a few other species: a male Painted Dragon (Ctenophorus pictus) in all his dazzling finery, and some Ctenotus skinks: C. atlas, C. regius and C. schomburgkii. This last one, in particular, was a poignant demonstration of the importance of having herps in the hand: many skinks, and indeed a lot of reptile species, are distinguished by very fine-scale [and often subjective] features, ranging from details like the numbers of scales on different parts of the body and nature of keeling on the subdigital lamellae to such absurdities as the extent of a notch on the rostrum or the manner of contact between head scales. Involving terminology like ablepharine, mucronate, carinate and callose, it can all get a little befuddling for the uninitiated.

In addition, many species are part of large complexes, their members distinguishable only by the presence or absence of one scale here or one groove there, and at times not even through any morphological means- some are split along genetic lines, taking into account genetic differences between populations in the absence of any actual morphological variance. Colour and pattern are of little use; many species can vary significantly between populations and individuals, and still remain the same species, whilst individuals of two different species, say Ctenotus strauchii and C. schomburgkii, can occur sympatrically and look nigh-identical, but will be different due to one having nasal scales separated and the other in contact. It is often quipped that taxonomists are a different breed of scientist; I am at times of the belief that herpetological taxonomists are a different breed of taxonomist.

The inevitable question is, now that we’re on the level where we’re distinguishing species, not through any tangible morphological difference but on a molecular basis, and that occasionally right down to genetic differences of micro-populations within a larger population, where does one draw the line? Taxonomists [and I consider myself one] have yet to devise a proper answer, suggesting that there is no standard currently in place, nor has any significant union or academic body risen to seriously consider the issue. The truth is, so idiosyncratic a field is taxonomy, that to expect consensus out of what is essentially a loose collective of disparate individuals, each thoroughly self-absorbed with conundrums like the distinguishing textures of scaling on a butterfly’s thorax or the beak diameters of different reed-warblers, is to expect the impossible.

To be a taxonomist is to have a penchant for being obsessive, to be able to immerse oneself so thoroughly into deducing and naming the full and accurate diversity of species within one’s organismal group of specialty [some taxonomists build entire careers out of working on just one family or even species], that frivolities such as outside opinion are relegated to a secondary concern. It is easy to create a bubble around one’s work and self and get utterly lost in a world of micron and single base-pair-level painstaking obsessiveness; a classic ‘can’t see the woods for the trees’ scenario, except in this case one is so enamoured with the thirteen different lichens on one branch that one forgets there is even a tree, let alone an entire woodland.

I will hasten to add, lest I be accused of painting an overtly negative picture of taxonomists, that such methodical compulsiveness is not necessarily a bad thing. To say taxonomy suffers from a lack of definition regarding what is actually a species is to ignore the fact that there are millions of species out there, probably more than we will ever know. Nature is no respecter of boundaries; cut anything down to a certain level and grey areas quickly appear, if not ahead, then in the wake. If we do not yet know where the threshold of the species level lies, maybe it is because Nature itself does not know. Maybe there is no difference. Maybe in the grand scheme, the difference between Ctenotus schomburgkii and C. strauchii, one mealworm to the next, myself and the next person, is no more obvious to Nature than that between a cat and a cabbage [with concession, of course, to reproductive viability!]. Perhaps in the end, all that really matters [and let’s face it, it really does in taxonomy] is a name to a face. In that sense, one cannot blame taxonomists for operating within their own little cells of reality, progressing and developing in their own way but largely independent of any wider scheme. In a world where to be fundamental is to be profound, where even the finest workings of matter itself are yet to be fully understood, taxonomists’ strive, like all scientists, to achieve comprehension and organisation. The complexity and diversity of a world that appears, at times, designed expressly to thwart total comprehension, fails to neither frustrate them nor blunt their efforts. In this, they and their endeavours are to be lauded.

****
White-browed Treecreeper

We were on the home stretch for surveys, but the ticks, though less frequent, kept coming. On the same afternoon we spent searching for our mystery skink, we were checking traps when Jeremy raised the alarm: he had seen another Red-chested Buttonquail. While the chief ecologist sauntered over for a look [she had never seen one before on the sanctuary], I continued to process my trap line; no matter, I had seen this one. My complacency, however, was to be punished in the most predictable fashion: seconds later, Jeremy called out again: “It’s not a Red-chested, Russ, it’s a Little!” Stunned by the revelation, I sprinted across the thorn bushes, dreading but knowing the inevitable: by the time I arrived, the bird had vanished into the scrub. I searched the vicinity to no avail; I had missed my first Little Buttonquail (Turnix velox). So a tick for one but not the other; there would be a couple such incidents through this trip, either because we weren’t together or just unlucky. We almost had a repeat incident the very next day: out in the fire scar marking trap sites, we both happened to be looking in different directions and preoccupied when the chief ecologist said “White-fronted Chat (Epthianura albifrons)!” I got my head out of the car window in time to see two birds, their white chests and black bands distinctive, flying into the sun. Jeremy, outside of the car, got a better look, and so it came to pass that we saw one of the commoner southern outback birds, but were only afforded a brief glimpse. A believer in omens would say we’d hit the point where our luck had run out; a pragmatic birder would note that there is no luck, just nature, and cynical birders like ourselves just live by the simple mantra: Birds would be awesome if they weren’t such pricks.


Other things showed up in these last few days of bird surveys, not necessarily new but nonetheless notable: Sacred Kingfisher (Todiramphus sanctus), Striped Honeyeater (Plectorhyncha lanceolata) (above) and Varied Sittella (Daphoenositta chrysoptera). Familiar birds abounded: Australian Ravens (Corvus coronoides) were abundant, as were Galahs (Eolophus roseicapillus), Willie Wagtails (Rhipidura leucophrys), Black-faced Cuckoo-shrikes (Coracina novaehollandiae) (right), Rufous Whistlers (Pachycephala rufiventris) and Grey and Pied Butcherbirds (Cracticus torquatus & C. nigrogularis). Other things present but less abundant included Weebill (Smicrornis brevirostris), Striated Pardalote (Pardalotus striatus), Yellow-rumped Thornbill (Acanthiza chrysorrhoa) and White-eared and White-plumed Honeyeaters (Lichenostomus leucotis & L. penicillatus). As for new things, we saw our first Southern Whiteface (Aphelocephala leucopsis) on the base itself, while another sojourn in the fire scar brought us our first Black Honeyeater (Sugomel niger).

Day 7- 25/10/10 Fowl Play in the Mallee

Another day, another largely uneventful morning, though not totally devoid of highlights. Most of the birds were now exceedingly familiar, but we still got two new species: Stubble Quail (Coturnix pectoralis) flushed from the mallee, and a quick glimpse of a Grey Currawong (Strepera versicolor). We also discovered that far from being a rare bird, the Chestnut-backed Quail-thrush was actually present in some numbers; at one site, no less than five birds were calling, with one male in particular putting on a decent show. We were also getting good glimpses of Variegated Fairy-wrens, but oddly, hadn’t yet seen any Splendid Fairy-wrens (Malurus splendens), supposedly equally common to the former. Other things seen included Mulga Parrot [the most common psittacine on the sanctuary next to Cockatiels and Budgerigars](top of article), Sacred Kingfisher, White-winged Triller (above left), scarcer near the coast but reasonably common here, and a trio of Major Mitchell's Cockatoos (below).


Today we’d decided to chance our hand at finding a Malleefowl (Leipoa ocellata). Rare over much of its range and officially a threatened species, this was the last of our target trifecta of grail birds [the others being Black-eared Miner and Scarlet-chested Parrot]. We had already achieved the other two, and were desperately hoping to find this southern outback specialist. Protected by the electric fence, a tiny population of malleefowl hold out, surviving and nesting on an island in a sea of degraded pasturelands and feral predators. Most Brisbane-ites are so familiar with the local Brush-turkeys, that it is hard to comprehend the tenuousness of its closest relative’s existence: the breeding ecology of this species is still relatively poorly understood even though the nesting behaviour is famous, and the species’ rarity means that any indication of perpetuation is a cause celebré.

For us, the obvious place to start was the one known active nest on the property; the donors had been taken to the site over the weekend and managed to flush the attendant male. Having received the GPS coordinates, we made for the mound, passing over rolling dunes and through some of the thickest spinifex I had ever encountered. We found the nest (right) without any problems, but the bird was nowhere to be seen. Unlike the trusting Brush-turkeys which readily acclimatise to human presence, malleefowl are secretive, and as we were to discover, unbelievably cryptic. We spent the best part of twenty minutes circling the immediate vicinity without finding the bird. Aware that our continued presence might unduly stress the bird and conscious that a whole crowd was here just a few days previously, we did not linger, and decided to come back at a later juncture.

One’s luck can only hold out for so long.

Day 6- 24/10/10 Prized Parrots and Lovable Lizards

By now the pattern had been firmly established: a 6.30am wakeup call, a 7am start, and seven or eight sites done by mid-morning. As we became steadily more familiar with the terrain and wildlife, the ticks started to slow: this was our first morning in which we hit nothing new. Activity was generally low though; the previous day’s rain had been followed by a cold front that dropped temperatures down as low as 7 °C, and though conditions improved through the week, it was to be generally cool every morning, adding a further challenge to our survey effort. A few definite trends had been established: we would definitely see Chestnut-rumped and Inland Thornbills, Spiny-cheeked and White-fronted Honeyeaters, and hear at least one bellbird at every site.

Such familiarity had meant we were able to move quicker through our surveys and train some of our focus on that other great wildlife demographic of the outback: the reptiles. Scotia has over 40 recorded reptile species, and we were doing well finding some of the commoner ones, most notably the agamids, of which there were four species: Mallee Military Dragon (Ctenophorus fordi) (right), Painted Dragon (C. pictus), Nobbi Dragon (Amphibolurus nobbi) and Inland Bearded Dragons. There were also a few skinks around; most of the conspicuous ones were of the genus Ctenotus, notably Ctenotus atlas, C. regius, C. schomburgkii and C. strauchii. The latter two were nearly identical, and as is the case with a lot of herp taxonomy, different in cryptic ways; we would have to wait until pitfall trapping began, when we would be able to have the animals in the hand, to formally identify individuals.

We returned to an emptying station: the donors had left, bar a few who had stayed on to do some survey work. That afternoon, we decided to take a break from BEM surveys and make a serious attempt of finding the Scarlet-chested Parrots (Neophema elegans). It turned out the sighting was made in the fire scar, not far from where we were the other morning. Going down with Ian, we spent the best part of an hour fruitlessly searching for the birds. We did turn up some other new finds: Shy Heathwren (Hylacola cauta) (left) and Redthroat (Pyrrholaemus brunneus), but no parrots. We were sauntering slowly back to the car and ready to concede defeat when Ian spotted movement in a low thicket. Approaching it from all sides, we managed to flush two birds into a higher tree, where they revealed what they were: Scarlet-chested Parrots, a female and a juvenile; they were not 100m from the car. Like all Neophema-s, they were flighty and nervous, yet were surprisingly reluctant to leave the general area. When spooked, they merely flew from one tree to another a few metres away. It also struck us how silent they were; unlike most other parrots, these didn’t even have a flight call, and the most we heard of them was a soft twittering. Nevertheless, we had them firmly in our sights and managed to wring a good 15 minutes of sight time. The only downside was that we didn’t get to see the more colourful male, which would have been a real prize, but no matter, this year marked the first time this species had been seen in NSW for over fifty years, and the fact that we were one of the first dozen or so people to do so made this a very special tick indeed*.


Cracking open a beer back at base, we toasted an end to a great day, as the sky dipped to a dark blue and my first Spotted Nightjar (Eurostopodus argus) began hawking over the buildings. We were in jubilant mood: we were averaging one rare bird a day, when would it end?

*I feel obligated to pen this aside. The Scarlet-chested Parrot is understandably a ‘grail’ bird to many birders, and their appearance at Scotia is undoubtedly a special incident. The AWC however are, at this time, hesitant to excessively publicise the occurrence of this species on this property [a small-scale announcement was made regarding the first sighting in May], understandably to prevent the descent of hordes of twitchers onto their property, for no purpose other than to tear about the mallee searching for the birds. That the birds are there at all is a hallmark of the good work the AWC have done to maintain and regenerate suitable habitat for such species. My personal plea: if you are a twitcher and want to chance your hand at finding these and the other rare birds in the region, donate or volunteer with the AWC, and turn part of your endeavours towards aiding a genuine conservation effort. Otherwise, they’re often seen at Danggali, across the border in SA.

Day 5- 23/10/10 Rain

We awoke to a grim sky, with regiments of leaden clouds rolling in and scattered showers over the horizon. It hadn’t rained yet, though, and we had to chance it. By now we were surveying sites within the electric fence, and while that didn’t have any bearing on the birds, it meant seeing a lot more animal activity. Burrows were far more common, and footprints of myriad bilbies and macropods –boodies, nailtail wallabies, the odd rogue kangaroo- were a constant feature. The greyness, allied with the early light, made identifying birds difficult, and the odd sprinkles of rain made for suboptimal viewing conditions. Nevertheless, we managed to do half our day’s quota before the rain well and truly began, and came away with a few highlights: a Yellow-plumed Honeyeater nest, good views of a Crested Bellbird (above), our first Gilbert’s Whistler (Pachycephala inornata), and most exhilaratingly, our first Striated Grasswren (Amytornis striata), a male who put on an incredible show, singing loudly for over a minute from an exposed twig. The rain, however, soon put paid to any additional birding for the rest of the morning, and we retreated to base.

We arrived back at base with the donor event in full swing: members of the public who had made significant donations to the AWC had arrived the previous afternoon for a weekend on the sanctuary, and that morning had been trucked around the property to view the infrastructure and wildlife that their money had gone towards. Word at camp was that the Scarlet-chested Parrots had been seen again the previous day, and there was also an active malleefowl nest mound. Heartened by the news, we determined to seek both these birds out at some juncture. The weather cleared sufficiently for us to go out in the afternoon for BEM surveys. After our success of the previous two days, would it have been unreasonable to gun for the hat-trick? As it turns out, yes. Even though we were surveying 500m down from where we last were, the miners didn’t show.

Even so, the afternoon was not entirely devoid of highlights: we heard the Horsfield’s Bronze once more, and had great views of Pallid Cuckoo (Cacomantis pallidus) and Variegated Fairy-wren (Malurus lamberti). We also found a small soak simmering with Neobatrachus tadpoles even bigger than the last, further proof of this species’ dominance of the region. Driving back to base, we saw a small quail-like bird scurrying away from one of the many puddles formed in the road. Post-hoc ID through some hurried photos revealed it was a male Red-chested Buttonquail (Turnix pyrrhothorax), by no means an unexpected species, but certainly not an easy bird to find anywhere and yet another new tick for me.

Day 4- 22/10/10 Frogs and fire

This morning saw us head for the fire scar, a vast swathe of burnt-out mallee in the southwest sector of the sanctuary. The fire occurred in 2006, and it was interesting to see how the vegetation had regenerated in the years thereafter. The mallee bushes had obviously perished in the fire, but the plants themselves survived and were growing profusely from their bases. The bush was now studded with young desert poplar (Codonocarpus pyramidalis), and the undergrowth was lush with various wildflowers, all in bloom due to the recent rains. The range of colours gladdened the eye, and we marvelled at the presence of plants that had lain dormant for the last 20 years, awaiting just such a wet period. I lament to this day my lack of proficiency as a botanist, though I could appreciate the diversity in what, to most people’s minds, would be a sterile, unremarkable region. The mallee was a long way from regenerating to its true self, but the plants were obviously taking full advantage of the spike in resources, and it would surely be a matter of time before the mallee reclaimed the land for itself, phasing out the poplars, eremophilas and wildflowers. Ecological succession in action.


One reason I enjoyed the fire scar was the sheer openness to the habitat: nothing grew much above head height meaning obscuring foliage was nonexistent, and the dead mallee branches left ample perching spots for birds. Rainbow Bee-eaters (Merops ornatus) were ever-present, while woodswallows were exceedingly common, and we soon saw every species on the sanctuary: Dusky (Artamus cyanopterus), Masked (A. personatus) (above), Black-faced (A. cinereus) and White-browed (A. superciliosus) (left). The latter two were new for me, and were the ones I needed to complete my own clean-sweep of the group. We also got our first Red-backed Kingfisher (Todiramphus pyrrhopygius) and our first good looks at Crimson Chats in full breeding plumage as well as Crested Bellbird (Oreoica gutturalis), a new one for me, commonly heard but only rarely seen. Our penultimate site, a scrub patch away from the fire scar, yielded a true gem: Southern Scrub-robin (Drymodes brunneopygia) (top of article), two in fact, all too ready to pose for photos. I also heard my first Horsfield’s Bronze-cuckoo (Chrysococcyx basalis), which we endeavoured to find, but alas our efforts were futile. We finished up our morning at a belah (Casuarina pauper) woodland, which produced White-browed Treecreeper (Climacteris affinis) (below), also a new one for us, and a new herp for me, my first Tree Skink (Egernia striolata).


That afternoon was Round 2 of Black-eared Miner surveys. Once again, we did transects over the dunes, stopping to play that reviled recording every 500m. The previous day, it took us nearly half the afternoon to find the birds; this time the reward was instant: a quick burst on the megaphone at our first stop, and seven miners swooped in. This time they were more cooperative, staying close in for almost ten minutes, which allowed us to not only get photos but decent visuals as well. We managed to observe social behaviour: half the flock was a family, with full-grown fledglings following and begging from a parent. The photos later revealed two BEMs; interestingly one of them was a begging youngster, soliciting food from a hybrid parent along with its hybrid siblings (left). Our first two full days here, and we had two BEM sightings. Endangered? Hardly.

We watched as ominous clouds swept in from the southwest: rain was coming, and it was expected to hit either later that night or the next morning. As before we finished the transect on the look-out, not just for miners, but for anything else that might cross our paths. Towards the end, we were rewarded, albeit in a rather confusing fashion. We first heard a Black-eared Cuckoo (Chrysococcyx osculans) calling cryptically from a low bush. Our attempts to flush it caused a bird to take flight and land in a high tree. Going after that, we noted distinctive pied plumage; I recalled the book’s description of a Black Honeyeater call [quite similar to the cuckoo’s, a high pitched ‘seee’] and speculated it might be that, just as it turned around and revealed its true identity: a male White-winged Triller (Lalage sueurii). All the while, our attentions were divided between that and a commotion behind us, which turned out to be the desired cuckoo (below) being mobbed by a family of Chestnut-crowned Babblers. A hashy ending to the day, but still a decent tick. The lesson:

A cuckoo.

Not a cuckoo.

After dinner, we took advantage of the warm night to walk to a nearby dam for a spot of herping. The walk brought instant yield -our first Beaded Geckos (Lucasium damaeum) (below), and a very large yellow scorpion- but the dam itself was a little disappointing, just a few crayfish (Cherax sp.), although one had a very large and engorged leech (Hirudinea) attached to it. At a nearby soak, we noted some very large tadpoles; Scotia has, unusually, only one species of amphibian, a burrowing toad (Neobatrachus sp.), the exact identity of which is a little confusing. It was first thought that two species were present, N. centralis and N. pictus, but the present consensus is that there is only one, listed as N. sudelli. There is, as yet, no definite explanation as to why Scotia only has the one species; desert-dwelling amphibians are reasonably diverse elsewhere including species such as burrowing frogs (Cyclorana sp.), desert treefrogs (Litoria rubella) and other burrowing toads e.g Notaden sp. The answer seems to lie both in the ephemeral nature of the water supply [Scotia has no running water], and in the burrowing toad’s life cycle, in which the tadpoles exhibit cannibalism.

Burrowing toads produce two kinds of offspring, one a slow-growing algal feeder, the other a fast-growing meat-eater. In good rain periods, both will be able to mature without issue, but in drier periods, when resources are limited and the pools far more ephemeral, the fast-growers have the edge, and through cannibalising smaller tadpoles, ensure that at least they mature. Given this penchant for cannibalism, it is possible that the burrowing toads have successfully excluded other amphibians from the region, literally eating other species out of house and home.

All this while, the clouds continued to build, and as the winds picked up and the first spatters of rain began to fall, we were forced to turn back. It didn’t bode well for the next day.

Day 3- 21/10/10 First day of surveys

It’s easy to forget how cold the outback can get; thankfully in this regard I was well prepared. We awoke at 6.30am to 11°C temperatures, and pretty much immediately piled into the car; the day goes fast in the desert, and we had a fair bit to get used to, whilst covering a fair amount of ground. We were to do seven sites that morning, all within relatively close range of one another. Navigation was to be done entirely by GPS; as Jeremy was the driver, I had a nervous promotion from passenger to chief navigator. As pieces of technology go, GPSs are by no means difficult to use, though at this point I had never extensively used one, so it was a pretty steep learning curve. We never got significantly lost, though I will outright admit I am much better navigating cities and reading off maps than I am thrown into a wild setting with precious few landmarks. I’m pretty sure Jeremy got narked on a couple of occasions, though in fairness he probably also appreciated that I got better at it.

With little experience of the fauna suite present, we were faced with quite a challenge. Many of the birds were utterly new, and many species had several highly different calls. In addition, most birds restricted their activities to a narrow band of time, roughly between 8.30 and 11am. Such behaviour was obviously dictated by the daily heat, and as such it made birding outside of such times a frustrating endeavour; earlier in the day, and we would hear birds calling but never see them; later in the day, and everything would fall silent and motionless. All this meant we had to develop an affinity for calls very quickly, and while we got better over time, we were still frequently second-guessing ourselves by the end of surveys.


All said, it was still exciting whenever we got visuals of anything in the first few days, as it would almost invariably be new. That first morning, we saw our first White-fronted Honeyeater (Purnella albifrons), which, along with the Spiny-cheeked Honeyeater (Acanthagenys rufeogularis) (above), would prove to be the commonest honeyeaters on the sanctuary. The Chestnut-crowned Babblers from the previous evening were seen again, and proved to be a nesting family group, while we also had good views of Yellow-rumped Thornbills (Acanthiza chrysorrhoa), Brown Falcon, Mulga Parrot, and a handful of other new ones: Grey-fronted Honeyeater (Lichenostomus plumulus), Red-capped Robin (Petroica goodenovii) (top of article), Chestnut-rumped Thornbill (Acanthiza uropygialis) (above) and Inland Thornbill (A. pusilla). Morning activity quickly warmed up, then died down, and we retreated to base for a spot of lunch.

In the afternoon, we teamed up with the third volunteer, a friendly bloke named Ian, to do some Black-eared Miner (Manorina melanotis) surveys. For the uninitiated, the Black-eared is a close relative of everyone’s favourite suburban bird, the Noisy Miner (M. melanocephala). One of Australia’s most endangered birds, less than 300 still survive, mostly in northeastern South Australia, with small isolated populations in Victoria and NSW. Interbreeding with the much commoner Yellow-throated Miner is one of the main threats to this species, a fact made very clear by the info sheet we were handed: there were a few BEMs on the sanctuary, but heavy interbreeding meant that there were far more hybrids than pure-breds, there would be more of the former than the latter, and would be distinguished by thresholds- a little more black on the face, a little more white on the rump. Given that the total number of pure-breds was estimated to be not more than 20, it was a daunting prospect.

So it transpired that we ended up in the mallee at 3pm, with a loudhailer and mp3 player for voice playback, blasting the most god-awfully brain-grating call this side of the Great Divide, hoping to find one of Australia’s rarest birds, and wouldn’t you know we found them (left). The playback brought in first a flock of three or four, followed quickly by another flock of five. Immediately the visual differences were striking: most of the birds were hybrids, with only one or two promising-looking individuals. Jeremy pelted about the bush, frantically trying to keep up with individual birds as they flitted through the trees and getting as many photos as possible. Five minutes later, they were gone.

We were confident that we had spotted up to two potential candidates, but it was only upon close examination of the photos back at base that we could confirm what we had seen: at least one pure Black-eared Miner, amongst another six hybrids crossing the entire range of hybridisation from almost pure Yellow-throat to not-quite-Black-eared. If nothing else, this was a great vindication for the employment of photography for birdwatching. The fleeting nature of the sighting, the unfriendliness of the terrain and the tricky features of the animal all meant this was one of the hardest spots we’d ever done, and it really was only because we had photos, taken not for aesthetic but purely to aid diagnosis, that we could have known what we had seen, and this by birding standards was one of the easier birds to diagnose, reasonably tricky but with sufficiently distinct features to warrant a relatively straightforward diagnosis. The birding world is replete with infinitely harder groups of birds-greenbuls, reed-warblers, phylloscopine warblers, whole complexes of dozens of species, many with overlapping ranges, distinguishable only by a darker dash of brown here, a shorter streak of white there, a broader bill here, a longer tail there.

In a world where the difference between buff and rufous at 200 yards is all the difference, it is confounding that there are still people, styling themselves traditionalists, who scoff at what they perceive as the intrusion of tech-head whippersnappers into the slow-paced, methodical world of birdwatching, refusing anything more advanced than a telescope to aid their diagnoses. Ostensibly, the reason for this is that it would take too long to operate a camera rig, and most birders balk at such complication. Forgetting that this is palpably untrue –most camera rigs fit for the purpose can fire off reels of shots in the same time as it takes to observe the bird through lenses, and it in any case misses the point that aesthetic is not the aim- how quickly though does an argument devolve into one of principle! To them now, anything not viewed through the lenses of binoculars, scopes or their own eyes and ID’d on the spot is ‘cheating’. The irony is that many such people are some of the most passionate pursuers of ornithological interests, falling firmly in the “twitching” rather than the “birding” category, yet they resent a method that not only allows for a more accurate diagnosis of the organism, but would actually aid their ticking cause.

The only explanation I can offer is that these people have yet to appreciate the inherent value of birdwatching [ironically devaluing it], that there is a point where it has transcended from being the summer evening past-time of old duffers to an endeavour that can actually aid research and conservation. Not only that, but they fail to acknowledge that birdwatching can be made more efficient. These are, I suspect, the same people who dredge up the tedious and frankly ludicrous argument that twitchers do more good for the birding world than ornithologists. Such resentment of encroaching efficiency and professionalism is thankfully only upheld by a minority of birding enthusiasts, folks held back by the inflexibility of their own standards, increasingly out of place in a world of progressives. To borrow a quote, they are analogue players in a digital world. Photography as a tool can add a professional dimension to the world of ornithology, and it augurs well that the younger generations are embracing it as such.


Suitably exhilarated after our miner encounter, we finished off the rest of our transect, cutting through thick mallee punctuated by swales of spinifex growing on the gently rising dunes. It was the late afternoon and activity was picking up. Making our way through some scrub, we hit a flurry of birds: Inland Thornbill, Jacky Winter (Microeca fascinans) (above), White-browed Babbler (Pomatostomus superciliosus) and Chestnut-backed Quail-thrush (Cinclosoma castanotum). The latter two were new for both of us. That evening, we arrived back to news that Scarlet-chested Parrots (Neophema splendida) had been seen again on the property. We were understandably excited: this is one of the harder parrots to find in Australia, due to its erratic irruptive movements and general rarity. A sighting, made in May, was the first time this species had even been recorded in the state for over 50 years. Unfortunately, the sanctuary was thoroughly preoccupied with preparations for a donor event, which meant pestering for sighting coordinates would have to be put on the backburner.

Day 2- 20/10/10 We arrive

The cold light of dawn revealed where we were: in the middle of treed flat downs, rolling out to the far horizon. We were two-thirds of the way to Scotia. Thoroughly fortified, we de-camped at 5.30am for an early start. Breakfast on the road, like so many other things, became a familiar ritual: a handful of almonds and Spekulatius biscuits washed down with water. We were not ten minutes into our drive when we spotted our first Bluebonnets (Northiella haematogaster), new for both of us. Not five minutes later, I had my first Mulga Parrots (Psephotus varius), and three minutes after that, my first Cockatiel (Nymphicus hollandicus). A ten-minute hat-trick of genuine arid-zone parrots, all new! Not only that, but we soon sped past my first flock of Hooded Robins (Melanodryas cucullata); four new ticks by 6am, we could not have gotten off to a better start. Amidst all the excitement, I barely noticed that I had also seen my first wild Common Wallaroo (Macropus robustus).

A stop at Wilcannia was preceded by a pass at the outskirts of Paroo-Darling NP, and a genuine gem: my first Black-breasted Buzzard (Hamirostra melanosternon) (right) circling frantically as a magpie did its best to ruin the romance, while nearby an Australian Hobby (Falco longipennis) did its rounds. The buzzard, though, was the real highlight; nowhere common, and certainly not a bird one can expect to see at any one point. Throughout the drive, we had a steady stream of raptors, mostly Nankeen Kestrels, Brown Falcons and Black Kites, with a smattering of Black-shouldered and Whistling Kites, Little and Wedge-tailed Eagles and Brown Goshawks. One of the main aims, though, was the elusive Grey Falcon (Falco hypoleucos), widely regarded as Australia’s rarest raptor. A genuine dry-country specialist, this was a connoisseur’s tick: elusive, requiring some degree of effort and chance to track down, and a sighting to brag about. I’ll just come through with it and say we didn’t see one; Jeremy had by the end of this trip covered in excess of 30,000km through reasonable habitat without ever getting it. We were also hoping for, and didn’t get, Australia’s second-rarest raptor, the Letter-winged Kite (Elanus scriptus).

We were by now on the home stretch en route to Broken Hill, where we planned to stop for lunch and bolster our supplies. Sixty km out the land opened up to the most gob-smackingly flat terrain I had ever seen (below). Flat, treeless plains so featureless one could drive a straight line to the horizon, all the while marvelling at the curvature of the Earth’s horizon bending away into the distance. The day was warming up nicely and a few herps were starting to get about, mostly goannas and Inland Bearded Dragons (Pogona vitticeps), though at this point all the lizards we'd seen since leaving Cobar were road casualties. About 45km out from Broken Hill, we found a Shingleback Skink (Tiliqua rugosa) (below), a first for both Jeremy and me. This being a notable occasion, it was time to break out the camera gear and get a few pics. While Jeremy worked the lizard, I did a brief scout-around and was rewarded with our first-ever White-winged Fairy-wrens (Malurus leucopterus). I found a small group of females and juveniles; Jeremy finished with the shingleback and duly found the male nearby. It was thoroughly heartening to know we could stop at a random spot in such utter desolation and come away with such reward. On a high, we fairly flew to Broken Hill, barely affording me glimpses of my first Crimson Chat (Epthianura tricolor), Yellow-throated Miner (Manorina flavigula) and Brown Songlark (Cincloramphus cruralis). This stretch was also notable, less happily, for our first live Inland Bearded Dragon (Pogona vitticeps) of the trip, and I got to see my first ever individual of this species, a hundredth of a second before it copped half the tyre count of an 18-wheeler road train. A reptick is a reptick [they don't count unless they're alive], but there are surely far less tragic ways of securing them.

After doing all we needed to do in Broken Hill, we made a beeline for Scotia, now just 160km away. Travelling along the Silver City Highway, we noted lots of Emu families, some over a dozen strong. Everything was green, and even out here, streams were merrily flowing. So much rain had fallen, in fact, that the dirt roads leading into Scotia were actually closed by the local council earlier that week, and only reopened the day we arrived. Just before the Scotia turnoff, we achieved one more tick: Major Mitchell’s Cockatoo (Lophocroa leadbeateri). It wasn’t new for Jeremy, but like the Turquoise Parrot, it was an improvement on his one previous sighting. Turning off onto the dirt roads that would become so much more familiar than tarmac over the next couple of weeks, we noted a Gould’s Goanna (Varanus gouldii), seemingly welcoming us to whatever laid ahead.

We were there, but we weren’t. Scotia itself was still another 30km away, abutting the South Australian border and enveloped by other current and former grazing properties. Getting there meant negotiating some pretty sodden roads, with large puddles threatening to bog or fling us into the trees at the slightest miscontrol. Jeremy’s expert gear-handling meant we got to the gate thoroughly muddied, but without mishap [he will modestly treat them as none-too-severe conditions, but I was and still am impressed]. The property itself was 64000ha, about a quarter of which was enclosed by an eight foot-high electric fence for feral animal control. Within the fence were a half-dozen of Australia’s rarest mammals, either reintroductions of animals gone extinct from the region, or insurance populations of animals not actually found there but highly threatened elsewhere. The land was a former cattle grazing lease, since regenerated into its former ecotypes: mallee and saltbush scrub, with swathes of spinifex and belah woodland.


We arrived at about 3pm and walked smack into my first Singing Honeyeater (Lichenostomus virescens); I was starting to believe in omens. We introduced ourselves to the sanctuary’s chief ecologist, who gave us the down-low of what we were expected to do: there were 64 sites marked out across the sanctuary, in all the different ecotypes. We had arrived at the tail-end of birding surveys, and were expected to complete at least one rotation of all the sites in about ten days. It was a bit rushed, but a lot of birding which can only be a good thing. In between there was other research being conducted: black-eared miner surveys and driving transects for numbats. All those would take up half our overall tenure, the other half would be dedicated to pitfall trapping using the same sites, in order to survey for other wildlife.

Having settled in, we decided to use the remaining daylight to check out the first of our sites in advance. This first site was a mallee scrub grown thick on the recent rains. Our quick peek landed us a few more new things to close out the day: Brown-headed Honeyeater (Melithreptus brevirostris), Yellow-plumed Honeyeater (Lichenostomus ornatus) and Chestnut-crowned Babbler (Pomatostomus ruficeps). We also found the remains of a Southern Boobook (Ninox novaseelandiae), evidently predated upon. After dinner, we decided to have a quick foray inside the electric fence, and were rewarded with our first Burrowing Bettongs or Boodies (Bettongia lesueur), Bilby (Macrotis lagotis) (left), and my first Bridled Nailtail Wallabies (Onychogalea frenata). Heading back into base, we quickly fell into bed. We were tired, and there was a lot of work to do ahead. As a final afterthought, I had earlier lamented that we would not have been able to achieve much driving non-stop at speed; in the end, we had positively identified 80 species of birds, 18 of which were novel to either or both of us.

Day 1- 19/10/10 Lift-off

The brief was clear: drive 1736km to Scotia, in far-southwest NSW, and do it in two days. Unless we saw something genuinely interesting, we wouldn’t be stopping for anything. I was understandably a little disappointed, seeing as I was so precariously close to fulfilling a cardinal goal for the year [achieving 300 native Australian bird species seen; at this time I was on 295] and we would be zooming past heaps of novel things at 110km per hour, but I knew it had to be done.


Seven am saw us peeling out of Brisbane and through Cunningham’s Gap. By 8:30 we were past Warwick, and I was officially in uncharted territory; this was the extent of my previous journeys southwest-ward. Everything till that point was quite routine, but it wasn’t long before we achieved our first notable sighting: Apostlebird (Struthidea cinerea), a familiar bird to anyone who’s ventured sufficiently far west, but a novel one for me. Jeremy quickly picked up a new tick himself: Long-billed Corella (Cacatua tenuirostris). We were streaking towards the NSW border, and soon hit our first petrol stop at Goondiwindi. There wasn’t much in the way of notable wildlife, but there was a lot of water around, the product of all this rain sweeping in from the west. The rain would become a running theme through the course of this trip; the outback was saturated, rivers normally dry or mere trickles were overflowing their banks and everything was a verdant green. This was a good thing for all the obvious reasons, but it also meant that mobile wildlife like birds, normally constrained by the availability of resources, was now spread widely throughout a wider range, implying that they’d be harder to find.

As we headed south past Moree (below) and then Narrabri, we passed through a large patch of dry sclerophyll-dominated forest known generally as the Warrumbungles, broken up into Piliga Nature Reserve, Mt Kaputar NP and Warrumbungles NP. Here we got a good look at Turquoise Parrot (Neophema pulchella), not a new bird for either of us, but not a common species, and a much better sighting than our one previous glimpse earlier in the year at Ballandean. It was a good sign: the wildlife was becoming steadily more unfamiliar, and we would soon be in thoroughly new territory for both of us. It was a little past our next petrol stop at Gilgandra when I noted that this was the point where Torresian Crow would start to phase out and be replaced by two new corvids, Little Crow (Corvus bennetti) and Little Raven (C. mellori). Sure enough, we were soon firmly in Little Crow territory and also had a couple of sightings of Little Raven; Torresians were nowhere to be seen, and we had two new ticks apiece. Jeremy also noted a White-browed Woodswallow (Artamus superciliosus), which would have been new for both of us, but as I missed it, I couldn’t tick it. This was also the one that completed the suite for Jeremy; he had now seen every woodswallow species in Australia.

Nudging out past Nevertire, we hit the Barrier Highway and were soon rewarded with my first wild Emu (Dromaius novaehollandiae); we were definitely in dry country now. By now it was late afternoon, and we were on track to reach our main target of reaching Cobar by nightfall. The roads were straight and empty, and nothing could go wrong! Well, at least until Nyngan, anyway, where we proceeded to miss the vital turn to Cobar, and instead went 40km up the road to Bourke. As navigatory infractions go, this wasn’t too serious, and thankfully was to be the only major blunder we would make all trip. The wrong turn also had an unexpected benefit: we scored our first Australian Ringnecks (Barnardius zonarius), and my 300th Australian species was achieved. Within the hour, I had also seen my first wild Budgerigar (Melopsittacus undulatus), and thoughts started turning towards a new aim: achieving 350 birds by the end of the year. Little were we to know how close I would come to fulfilling this aim. Also of note: I saw my first wild Red Kangaroos (Macropus rufus).

We reached Cobar right on nightfall, and after a quick dinner at the local RSL, decided to truck on out of town to cover more ground and find somewhere to spend the night. We were hoping for a few herps, but ended up having to settle for no reptiles and a poke around a flooded creek which yielded six species of frogs, including Desert Treefrogs (Litoria rubella) (right) and our first Holy Cross toads (Notaden bennetti), though we weren’t able to see the latter and could only ID them off calls. It was getting late and we were starting to tire, but decent places to pitch up at were nowhere to be found, and so it transpired that my first ever formal camping experience was to be on a truck stop [literally an expansion of tarmac off the main road] on a lonely highway, with road trains whizzing by every couple of hours. Out of sheer exhilaration and exhaustion, I slept soundly.