Example One

The Australian Brushturkey is a member of the Megapode family Megapodidae. In parts of Australia the bird has adapted to living in suburban gardens. Unfortunately the unusual nesting arrangements of this species involve heaping up masses of vegetation to allow the heat from microbial decomposition to incubate the eggs. This is what can happen when an Australian brushturkey decides to build in your garden:

A few years ago, far northern Queensland experienced a rare drought. For the first time in living memory our creek dried up and the local firemen had to revise the firefighting protocol. We were ready for evacuation, cat basket to hand, vital documents on top of the cat box. We were not the only ones to be affected. Brushturkeys are mound builders and rely on a combination of heat and rain to get the mound composting nicely so the eggs are kept at the optimum temperature for incubation. This year there were piles of dead leaves to be raked up into mounds, the drought-stricken trees were shedding them like mad, but no moisture to start the composting.

Our dominant male turkey made a lovely mound. He cleared the forest floor of leaves for metres around it. It was about a metre and a half in diameter and about half a metre high. Nothing happened. After a few days he decided to move the mound. He raked it all up and within two days there it was again in an entirely different spot as he searched for better conditions.

In all he made at least ten position changes, the most inconvenient of which was immediately outside our son’s bedroom door. He came home from school and found a turkey mound blocking the way into his room. He had to sleep on the sofa in the living room for the next three nights and to dive into the ironing basket for a change of clothes. He couldn’t get into his room at all.

During the fourth day our male decided that that position wasn’t going to work either and when our son got back from school that night the way into his room was unblocked. [Sue Gregory, Kuranda, Australia]

Example Two

The California quail is a glorious little North American gamebird with a strange forward-pointing crest that flops down almost to the bird’s eye level. Its jazzy appearance inspired one contributor to liken it to ‘a cross between Charles Dicken’s Mr Pickwick and something out of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado.’ The bird’s adoption as the state bird of California in 1931 inspired her to the following poetic reflections:

All my sightings of them have been in the beautiful Marin Headlands across the bay from San Francisco. Here the scenery is on a grand scale. Towering redwood forests give way to magnificent vistas across the Pacific flanked by imposing hills. I last saw a quail here in early April when the hills had burst into their technicolor glory before drying to their summer brown. The bird seemed to echo in its small form every colour that blazed in this huge landscape: the blues and violets of the sky and the lupins that covered the hills, the white flashes of the patches of wild garlic and the bright surf of the ocean, the golds and sun-bleached yellow-whites of sand and driftwood and the rich red-browns of the redwoods’ soft bark. Its face was the deep charred brown-black of the burnt trees and scrub left by past wild fires. At first I felt surprise that California should have picked so diminutive a specimen as its state bird. I suppose I rather expected a condor, or an eagle or some other equally grand symbol of power and strength. Now, however, I see an aptness in the choice of this small, more (literally) down-to-earth bird. California is, after all, the place where the little guy can make it big.’ [Bella Bigsby, California, USA]

Example Three

Antpittas are extremely shy, small, ground-dwelling South American birds of deep forest that hardly register on the human consciousness. They have no cultural references EXCEPT for birdwatchers, for whom they are one of the most sought after families on the planet. Exactly why is difficult to pinpoint, but one brave birder attempts to diagnose their extraordinary appeal.

I can’t fully explain why birders are fascinated by antpittas. It may be that they combine the general interest in antbirds with some associated magic of the Asian pittas. I wouldn’t describe them as beautiful in the sense that most ordinary people would recognise beauty. They look rather like out-of-proportion thrushes, with usually grey and brown plumage, huge eyes, long legs and almost non-existent tails. But for keen birders they have a magical under-stated quality. This combined with the challenge of simply seeing them in dense forest with very low light levels, makes them highly sought-after. Many are not particularly rare, but it is their elusiveness that provides the challenge. Robert Dean, the artist who illustrated the Costa Rican bird guide, charmingly reveals on the inside cover that the tiny ochre-breasted antpitta is his favourite bird - this in a country with the resplendent quetzal and dozens of stunning hummingbirds to compete with!

Once in Venezuela we camped among dense forest near Mount Roraima (Conan Doyle’s ‘Lost World’) for three weeks, and used mist nets to catch and ring a range of rare and beautiful species. We never caught an antpitta, despite setting nets very close to the forest floor, and began to think we would miss them. Then one afternoon I heard a rustling just off the path and after some time located a recently fledged Tepui Antpitta Myrmothera simplex (found only in this area), being fed by its parents. I was able to watch the family group at close range for some three hours, until dusk, with them apparently oblivious to my presence. I noted the adults making a considerable noise and ‘paddling’ in the leaf litter to disturb prey. The challenge of finding the birds, combined with such a long period of observation, made them one of the highlights of the whole trip. [Adam Gretton, Suffolk, UK]