writer and photographer CRAIG SEARLE
The view from inside a bird hide is necessarily quite restrictive. From where I sit, looking out the small opening through which the spotting scope peers, I can see a few bushes and trees, a stainless steel feed table on which sits a container of bird seed, and the corner of a pond. None of your sweeping panoramas, majestic mountains and vast button grass plains from this vantage point.
But I am not here for the view. I am waiting to see a particular bird and when that bird appears, there will be a collective sigh of relief from all those who are waiting and hoping, as they do every year, for news of the arrival of the first orange-bellied parrot.
The time is mid-September and the place is Melaleuca in the deep south-west of Tasmania. This is the breeding ground of the critically endangered orange-bellied parrot (OBP), one of only two migratory parrots in the world (the other is also Tasmanian – the swift parrot). These little birds, about the size of a budgerigar, spend the winter along the southern coastal strip of Victoria and South Australia and then, in September and October, fly south for hundreds of kilometres to Melaleuca to breed.
My wife Debbie and I are part of the volunteer cohort that spends four weeks at a time at Melaleuca monitoring the arrival of the parrots and assisting the bird scientists with other aspects of the OBP program. This season, we were the first volunteers, and for most of the four weeks we are the total population of Melaleuca.
. . .
We flew in by light plane on September 20 and have now been on duty for three days. We observe at two feed tables, two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon. Each OBP has a unique set of leg bands and as they come to the feed tables, where we have placed some supplementary feed, we are able to identify individuals. So far we have been watching the tables for a total of 20 hours with only the occasional beautiful firetail and green rosella for company.
The firetails do deserve more than a passing mention, however. At most feed tables they would be considered the headline act – a superbly coloured little finch with a vibrant red tail and eyes that look like they have been enhanced with eye liner. But with the stunning colours of the OBP and the publicity they attract, the firetails are reduced to support acts.
And so I wait. With me in the hide I have some puzzle books, a Kindle, my camera and a small UHF radio so that I can contact Deb.
As in the previous days, I started this shift at 7am and anticipation was high. But as the time ticks over, it looks like being another blank session. I work on a cryptic crossword, regularly glancing out at the feed table. Nothing. I puzzle over a sudoku. But apart from the accompaniment of the Common Froglets in the nearby pond, nothing. I see tree martins and swallows flying about. I hear yellow-throated honeyeaters singing, but of OBPs, there is no sign.
. . .
I am reading my novel when I hear the unmistakable call of an OBP and a fluttering of wings. I look up and there she is. The first of the season, sitting nervously but quietly on the perch above the table in all her green, yellow, blue and orange glory. I sit perfectly still, not daring to breathe. Then, carefully swinging the scope into position, I focus on the bird’s legs to read the bands. A green band with the letter E on the left leg, yellow band on the right leg.
Welcome home Green E Yellow.
I quietly reach for my two way radio to pass on the news to Deb. We are both overjoyed and relieved that at our daily safety call-in this morning, we will be able to break the news that the OBPs are back.
I fill in my datasheet and sit back. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I am probably the only person on planet Earth looking at a wild OBP at this moment. I reflect on how special it is that the species is still surviving. The fight to save the OBP from extinction has been underway for decades. So much time, effort, money and passion has been expended. For some of the scientists involved, work to save the OBP has consumed much of their careers. There are volunteers who have been involved with the program for more than 25 years. It has been a long road and there have been very dark days.
Only a few years ago the number of returning birds was 17, including only four females. We were faced with the unthinkable reality that the OBP might become extinct in the wild. But the tireless work to save the species went on. Different strategies were tried, and whilst some were discarded, others were successful. One such strategy involved releasing captive bred birds to augment the wild population.
And now there is light at the end of the tunnel. The battle is not won but numbers are slowly increasing – 70 birds made the migration back to Melaleuca last season (2021).
I know that one swallow does not make a summer, but this one OBP fills me with such optimism for the future.
Some 40 years after Melaleuca’s most famous resident, Deny King, warned of the diminishing numbers of OBPs, this little bird in front of me is proof that the species survives, and shows that where there is a will and good people, wonderful things can happen.
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STOP PRESS: Craig Searle heard in late December that the final count of returned OBPs for the 2022 season was 74, beating the excellent figure of the previous year by four. The tapping sounds you hear are Craig and Deb Searle, and a lot of other people involved in the OPB program, doing a happy dance.
Craig Searle is an eighth-generation Tasmanian who proudly hails from convict stock. A teacher for 31 years, he retired in 2011, having spent the last part of his career as an outdoor education specialist. He has a passion for wilderness, remote places and lighthouses and has spent two winters on Maatsuyker Island. He lives in Scottsdale with Debbie, his wife and partner in a lifetime of adventures.
