This Birding Life (27 page)

It all happened while I was eating my breakfast. I had just sat down to a nice plate of bacon and eggs when I caught sight of a huge bird as it glided past the window. Ignoring the rapidly congealing fry-up, I rushed outside to see this magnificent seabird in its full glory, an II-foot wingspan enabling it to fly effortlessly above the waves. I had finally fulfilled my ambition to see a Wandering Albatross.

I was a long way from home: on a Russian icebreaker, at roughly 65 degrees west and 60 degrees south, on my way to Antarctica. The night before, we had set sail from the Argentinian city of Ushuaia. After a rocky night's sleep, we had awoken to a clear, bright morning on the open ocean.

This was not the first albatross I had seen. The previous afternoon, as we boarded the
Kapitan Dranitsyn
, I was gazing idly out into the harbour when I saw a black-and-white bird gliding on stiff wings in the far distance. It was a Black-browed Albatross, the wanderer's smaller cousin (although when comparing albatrosses, small is a relative term).

As we sailed through the Beagle Channel I saw plenty more Black-brows, with up to 50 circling the ship at any one time. I also saw my first penguin: a young Magellanic, looking like a lost duck as it swam along in front of the bow. As soon as the ship got too close, it disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Within a couple of days I had enjoyed my fill of both penguins and albatrosses. In the South Shetlands we visited several colonies of Gentoo and Chinstrap Penguins, marvelling at the noisy spectacle of these delightful birds. Later, as we headed further south, we came across little groups of Adélie Penguins perched on ice floes, fleeing in panic as we crunched through the ice towards them.

The highlight, ornithologically speaking, was a single Emperor Penguin, sighted as we crossed Marguerite Bay. At first it was just a distant black-and-white speck, but as we approached it transformed into a magnificent specimen of the world's largest penguin species. These incredible birds are the archetypal Antarctic creature, spending virtually their whole life on the ice sheet.

But ultimately, it was neither the Wandering Albatross nor the Emperor Penguin that has stayed with me the longest. Nor was it the frequent encounters with seals and whales. It was the place itself: a constantly changing panorama of ice and snow, with more shades of white – and blue – than you can begin to imagine. A place unlike anywhere else on the planet: a virgin wilderness where the usual state of affairs is reversed, and you feel like an alien life-form visiting the Earth. A place where the silence is only broken by the hum of the ship's engines and the crack of breaking ice.

We had sailed for two days and two nights across the southern oceans, followed by a four-hour flight to Buenos Aires, and a late night out in the Argentinian capital. So at two o'clock in the morning, as I sank into the comfort of my hotel bed, you might think I would have been looking forward to a lie-in. Instead, like any self-respecting birder, I set the alarm for 6 a.m.

When there are birds to be seen, an early start is essential. Even more so when the taxi to the airport is booked for midday. Fortunately my hotel, the Buenos Aires Hilton, was a mere stone's throw away from one of the best urban bird reserves in the world, Costanera Sur. Located alongside the Rio de la Plata, in the heart of a city of three million people, Costanera Sur is a patch of green amidst a sea of concrete – its reedbeds and lagoons acting as a magnet for breeding and migrating birds.

As a newcomer to South American birding, I had done my homework, checking out the species seen by a birding friend when he visited the reserve a few years ago. Even as I approached I could see flocks of Picazuro Pigeons flying overhead and hear the harsh calls of Monk Parakeets. Alongside the road was a thrush-sized bird with a reddish tail, which I identified as a Rufous Hornero (the first of many birds with extremely silly names).

I reached the reserve at ten minutes to seven, only to discover that it does not open until eight. Fortunately the road overlooks a long lagoon, which was simply packed with birds, including Wattled Jacanas, Snowy Egrets and the first of three different kinds of coot. A bizarre black-and-white bird with a long tail flew past: a Guira Cuckoo. And in the reedbed was a Masked Yellowthroat, with a song that reminded me of a cheerful Willow Warbler.

A patient wait paid off, with brief but excellent views of a Plumbeous Rail and Wren-like Rushbird, a diminutive little creature flicking in and out of the reeds. All this before I had even entered the reserve. When I finally did so, I was almost overwhelmed with the array of birds on offer. New species of grebes, ducks and swans; a stunning Fork-tailed Flycatcher; and a Glittering-breasted Emerald, a type of hummingbird which moved up and down the path so fast I could hardly focus my binoculars.

By now the temperature was starting to rise, and I was sharing the path with an army of joggers and cyclists. I was also struggling to put a firm identity to some of the new birds I saw. First, a huge finch-like
bird with a bright orange bill, singing from the top of a stem of pampas grass: Great Pampa-finch. Then a black bird with a striking white mask around the eye: Spectacled Tyrant. And a thrush-like bird with a white stripe above the eye: Chalk-browed Mockingbird. One by one I worked my way through the various birds on offer, checking them out and ticking them off.

The sun continued to rise, and my time in this birder's paradise was fast running out. A last look round, then a swift walk back to the hotel, and the start of a long journey home. And the prize for the bird with the silliest name? It goes to a small bird with a truly magnificent moniker: the Many-coloured Rush-tyrant.

Every birdwatcher has his or her ‘bogey bird' – a species that despite years, even decades of trying, they have never seen. Occasionally you share your bogey bird with a fellow enthusiast, which explains how Bill Oddie and I came to be spending a night, last month, in a small hut in the middle of Sweden. Our quest was to see, after a total of almost a century of birding experience between us, a male Capercaillie.

You might not think that Capercaillies are a particularly difficult bird to find. After all, males are the size of a turkey, and spend spring mornings strutting around the forest floor displaying to each other. Indeed, compared to females, males of this species are so huge that a paper in an eminent ornithological journal once posed the rather dubious question: ‘Why are Capercaillie cocks so big?'

Its name is also a bit of a puzzle. Derived from the Gaelic, is has been interpreted as meaning either ‘old man', ‘horse' or ‘goat' of the woods. Whatever its derivation, over the years both Bill and I have been heard referring to it in less polite terms because despite many
visits to its British stronghold, Speyside, we have never seen one. One reason is that Capercaillies are now very rare birds in Britain, due to a combination of shooting, collisions with deer fences and cold weather during the breeding season, which means many chicks die of exposure.

Every now and then, you hear of a rogue male Capercaillie, which instead of displaying to his fellow cocks, decides to threaten human visitors instead. Several television wildlife presenters, including Simon King and the great Sir David Attenborough, have been attacked on camera, but not, alas, the small bearded gentleman I work with. Perhaps they think he wouldn't put up much of a fight.

So, back to a long night in a Swedish pine forest. Our companions had left us there at 8 p.m., with strict warnings not to make a noise or emerge from the hut for at least 12 hours. When I say hut, I am stretching the point a little: a better word would be shed. Fortunately the excitement at the prospect of finally catching up with our quarry overrode any thoughts of comfort, so we squeezed inside and settled down to a night of fitful sleep.

Before we could doze off, however, we heard a loud rustle in the trees behind us. Carefully opening a tiny wooden observation slit, we gazed outside. At first, we saw nothing, but then, as we scanned upwards, there he was – an unmistakable, silhouetted shape. ‘Can we go home now?' asked Bill. But we had clear instructions not to move, and besides, we had no idea where we were. So, tired but happy, we went to bed.