Heartwood II

Apologies for the delay, these last 2 weeks have been somewhat manic and actually enjoyable.

They grow up so fast.

On average in just 62.19 days for the Yellow-shouldered Amazon. At the very beginning of my stay I peeked into the heart of a Mispa tree and was confronted by 3 tiny sceptical faces wondering why the face at their hollow was not that of a parrot.  In the few short (or exasperatingly long, depending on who you ask) weeks I have watched these 3 faces change.

I have watched the parents struggle to feed their brood, making endless ferry flights to and from the nest, faces often so covered in fruit that they are unrecognisable as Yellow-shouldered amazons. I have watched the youngest of the 3 fall by the wayside and die, as the youngest of bird broods are wont to do, and be buried by the parents in the bottom of the tree hollow to confuse later archaeologists.

Eventually I returned one day and, after much practice, gracefully swing up to the crook of the tree and peer into the nest. I poke my head over the cavity and, to our mutual surprise, there is a fledgling about 7 inches from my face.  We pause. With a grumble and a flurry of wings he releases the rim of the hole and drops to the bottom and glares. Curiously back up at me, as if half annoyed and half grateful that I have delayed his entry into the real world.

I smile, snap a few pictures and shimmy back down to my terrestrial world. But this will not be the last he sees of me. Returning to base I show the photo to Chris.

“Fuck, we need to get a move on.”

The precise season of the yellow shoulders varies from year to year and the best way of keeping a finger on the pulse is to have a conveniently located nest which to can scale and pear at to see how old they are. Ideally you catch them earlier than this, when there is a full complement of fledglings to be banded so that they can be identified in later life and to fractionally deter poachers. The move on we need to get now is a race around all the known, and unknown nests to band the fledglings before they become enraptured by their bright new world.

The next day we return to the Mispa tree in force. We do not have the radio collars we were also hoping to deploy but then again I can hardly blame them for not wanting to come to this island. We do however have bird bands, special pliers, a small draw string bag and a length of wire with a bend in the end.

“Who wants to go fishing?” asks Michelle holding up the piece of wire.

“I do”

 I reply before anyone else gets the chance. This is my nest. I have been tied to its fate just as long as the fledglings themselves.

There is, and has never been, the need for a harness or ropes here, I merely karabiner the small drawstring bag and fishing rod to my shorts along with a strong torch and skip up the tree as has become my custom.

Once again I eclipse the entrance of the nest. The fledgling is still there. He glances up from the bottom as sceptical as ever and, sensing my intent, hurriedly toddles into the darkest, most in accessible corner he can find. To find such a corner in a round tree trunk is a skill that no human possess. It is as if he has cast a spell and has simply disappeared, apart from the glint of his emerald tail feathers in the torch light.

The ensuing time is somewhat of an adrenalin and sweat filled blur. It could have been 5 minutes (although I am reliably informed it wasn’t) or it could have been 5 hours (which I am reliably informed it wasn’t).  The time, however long it was, is passed using the metal wire with a kink in the end and the full span of my arm attempting to break his invisibility spell. Gently corralling him into the visible spectrum of his nest the aim is to then hook his leg in the kink and drag him kicking and screaming into the real world.

Rest assured that whilst this may have the same effect as receiving your first real bill for something in adult human life; i.e. there is much screaming and panic, there is little chance of physical harm to the bird as their legs are designed to support their weight at any angle.

There are (more than) a few attempts made to bring the bird into the real world. However the bird shrieks at the very idea before, with a swift flourish, slipping his leg out of the shepherds crook and with a disgruntled *whump* and toddling back to his corner.

Eventually I succeed and suddenly I am face to face shrieking struggling bird, uttering howls of anger that would cower a wolf, pausing only to inhale with a noise that sound very much like a rubber chicken.

In this second I am keenly aware I am 12 feet off the ground with no safety lines holding the most precious thing I have ever held. I have to get his wings. He could do himself much harm if he continues to flap and struggle wildly.

I hesitate, he does not.

For all the years I have worked with Psittaciformes this is the first time I have had to grab a completely wild bird. The knowledge of their bite force is at the front of my mind. If I hesitate anymore he will get loose and possibly fall, I couldn’t bear it.

I grab him. He grabs me.  

The bite is strangely reassuring. It feels that despite the lack safety ropes someone has me and I am safe.

I open the drawstring bag and tuck the still snarling bird inside. He releases my thumb and falls quiet.

I sigh and gently pass him to the ground crew who I have quite forgotten about despite their constant vocal input. I return, shakily to the ground, sweating from the battle.

He is then gently handled, but kept hooded and with wings pinned at all times. He is banded, one colour for location, one colour, silver, for the 2013 season.

After banding he is swiftly returned to the nest. After a brief argument over ownership of the drawstring bag there is one last *whump* followed by the soft sound of swiftly toddling feet working an invisibility spell.

I return the next day to make check one last time on the Heartwood nest. 

It is empty.

The Bonairean population of Yellow-shouldered Amazons has one new member.

That is not the end of my frantic two weeks.  Climb follows climb follows marathon across grueling terrain as we desperately search the other nests but it is, for the most part, too late.  All are gone. 3 nests at least, I suspect, were taken by poachers, the rest have joined the rest of us in the sun and wind to try their hand at life as “grown-ups.”

But there is one nest left. And from within comes a growl that could cower a wolf punctuated with the sound of a rubber chicken.

The last three fledglings of the 2013 season.

They were  my companions on my last work day and we spend a pleasant evening fishing together.