Fred Baker

Sad saga of the swallow babies

by

Just before I went away for a few days this week, I photographed the swallow babies again.

Three were clearly visible, two in the nest and one on the rafter. I suspect the latter was the the same baby who has been the boldest ever since birth. I looked from all angles but could not see the fourth.

And then I did, but not by looking up. Down on the verandah, amidst all the droppings, was a bedraggled smudge of feathers: the fourth nestling. It must have fallen.

I consoled myself – and the parents – with the thought that three out of four wasn’t bad, given all the problems of feeding and squeezing into the nest and avoiding predators.

But now I am back, only three days later, and in the nest I can see two babies, fluffed up against the breeze, looking very fat and healthy, much more developed and alert. I can only see one parent bird at a time, looking much thinner and stressed, as you’d expect, keeping up with such growth.

Yet I see no sign of the third baby — up or down. No little body on the verandah. Have they smothered it in the nest?

All the next day I have waited for a parent to return, to perch on the fairy lights as usual. Perhaps I missed a quick visit, but all has been quiet out there too — no twittering.

And then I can see only one bird up there, and I guess that the parents have been staying away to make them leave the nest.

This is not how I have seen them do it before, when they perched in view and called, encouraging their young to join them. I could then watch the learning-to-fly sessions.

This time it feels like abandonment; I can’t see a swallow, young or old, anywhere aerially about.

An hour later, and I have missed the moment when the last nestling set off on its own.

This is truly ’empty nest’ syndrome. But only until next year.

The Old Brush magic

by


Recently I spent a few nights at the Old Brush reserve near Quorrobolong, in the Hunter Valley of NSW

It’s where I had my 60th birthday back in February, when it was so wet I didn’t get a chance to relax and appreciate its beauty.

Owner, professional photographer Robert Bignell, was to take the author photo for my next book, and I gladly accepted the invitation to stay longer and catch up with Robert and his wife Gail over dinner, outdoors of course in such a beautiful place.

The quaint little cabin where I stayed was Robert’s original owner-built home; called the Studio Hut, available for rent, it’s a delight.

Dawn birdsong and reflections on the still lagoon where a statue of Nefertiti reigns, a bush walk through palm forests, alongside busy creeks and giant mossy boulders, then an evening on the verandah by the outside fire, where a wallaby with joey on board visited, totally fearless.

Check out the charms of The Old Brush here.

Stop press: they’re coming out of the nest!

by


A few days ago I noticed that the swallow babies had their eyes open, but as they were still mostly hunkering down inside the nest, I could see little of their bodies.

On the warm days, with my door wide open, the parents were coming inside more often, no doubt as the demand for food increased. There’d be flies and plenty of spiders, if they fancied them, amongst the cobwebs on my rafters.

Then just today, I spotted one baby outside the nest, sitting on the rafter. Understandably, as the nest is starting to look quite befouled, and given the size of this bold baby, must also be quite crowded.

As the others stretched and perched higher, I could see that the adult feathers were begining to show though the baby fluff, and the tip of the beak is now dark!

My missing creek

by


The one thing missing here is a creek. I have many springs and a high rainfall, but I chose to be on a mountain rather than in a creek-centred valley.

So after a lot of rain when my spring-fed dam overflows and runs with a rush and a roar down the rocky gullies, I cherish the brief experience of having a creek on my place.

It will usually run white water for a day, then more gently for perhaps a week. At present the water table is so high that my precious creek ran across the track and down the gully for two weeks.

The mosses and ferns loved it and the elkhorns on the edging rocks looked on with great approval.

I could almost pretend it was a permanent creek, a compensatory gift for the dreadful bog of my access tracks after rain.

Swallow quads

by


Finally it was evident that there were four baby swallows after all.

Their fluffy heads were showing above the nest most of the time: eyes still closed, white-lipped beaks shut tight until a parent appeared.

They look quite comical; I suspect because they resemble the old blackface makeup of the Al Jolson era.

Then they snap their beaks open and show the yellow-orange interior for a long period, blindly hoping food will be placed in there.

The adult’s beak is black-rimmed, so it will be interesting to see just when the colour changes.

As the parent opened its own beak, I saw that the inside of its mouth is also orange, which I hadn’t realised.

Still no sound from the babies, but the parents chatter a lot, so I guess they’re silently learning, taking it in as babies do.

Library visits

by

I will be speaking about, and reading from, my book, The Woman on the Mountain, at two NSW libraries next week:

Parramatta Library, at 1pm on Tuesday 28th October (02) 9806 5159, and

Tuggerah Library at 10.30 am on Wednesday 29th October (02) 4353 5666.

Admission to the 30-minute talks is free, and they are followed by question times, which are usually quite lively!

Miniature frog

by


In my rainforest nursery shadehouse the sprinklers come on automatically, keeping it cool and wet and green. Naturally frogs love it.

Snakes like frogs, so as the snake season heats up, I was tidying up in there.

Snake-covering grass and weeds had grown up in between the foam boxes filled with recycled milk carton ‘pots’, uniting the varied seedling trees with a green drapery.

Having been rather neglected this past year, some seedlings had grown right through the bases of the boxes and had to be dug out and planted down in the regenerating gullies at once. Others had to be repotted into fresh milk cartons.

Sorting through one matted box, I spotted this tiny inhabitant. Its colour fitted right in for camouflage, but not its texture: a glistening greenish-brown, mottled in some lights, with distinctly bright green sides and cream cheek stripes.

It wasn’t disposed to move, even as my sorting brought me closer, so I gently tipped its home seedling towards a box that I wouldn’t be touching for a day or so.

I think it could be a Blue Mountains Tree Frog, which has been found here (even though it’s not the Blue Mountains).

There is something very appealing about miniature creatures like this, so perfect in itself, and in its own little world.

Bringing up babies

by


My Welcome Swallows seemed to have finished nest-building and were spending time sitting on what I assumed were their eggs.

Last week I found half of a tiny white eggshell on the verandah, and I feared a furred or feathered predator had robbed the nest and eaten the contents.

Then I noticed the mother was making poking actions when she returned to the nest. Since she was no longer nestbuilding, I guessed she was feeding babies, but could see nothing.

Five days later the first baby’s head appeared above the mud rim. Well, not much head was visible beyond the pointed white beak edging a very large and constantly agape mouth, bright orange-yellow inside. I thought I could see a faint halo of grey fluff on top of the head.

An odd large feather, perhaps part of the nest lining, was sticking up confusingly, but I doubt it is attached to a baby.

Then I spotted two or perhaps three more little heads, crammed in on the far side of the nest, their pink naked throats upthrust, beaks closed. They didn’t appear to open their beaks as much as brother greedy on the right; perhaps he was first to hatch and therefore boss.

No sounds yet; no squeaking or squawking, just a silent perpetual demand.

High sky

by


Here’s proof that the earth is round.

The sun had set on my horizon, down here on my tree-rimmed earth. Green details had given way to black filigree. The huge bank of clouds to the north had almost ceased to reflect the sunset.

Except for way, way up high, where the top of this massive cauliflower cloud was illuminated with sunlight from where the sun still reigned, far over the horizon’s curve, over the edge of the world visible to me.

The brightest of daytime white glowed, almost shockingly, above more gentle sunset pinks which were reflecting from closer over that curve, I imagine.

It’s these moments of natural grandeur that keep me glancing out my window, that make me determined to live more outdoors more of the time — in case I miss something.

Welcome Swallows

by


A pair of Welcome Swallows has turned up for the annual nesting adventure.  They took a few weeks to decide just where, but as usual, they have chosen poorly.

They’ve begun their mud dab nest on a rafter of my unlined verandah roof, up against the mud wall. It’s good adhesion, but bad positioning.

Far too close to the tin so it will be far too hot for the baby birds as the weather heats up. I’ll have to get up on the roof and weigh down a piece of plywood or something to give them some extra insulation.

The extensive verandah strings of fairy lights are providing them with circus type swings, from which they can more widely spatter their white and black droppings.

Sandals especially must now be checked first before allowing bare feet to make contact.

I do like these handsome little swallows and I look forward to the nestling stage, now that they didn’t choose to nest outside my bedroom window!

Mighty roo boys

by


Through the mist-swathed forest I saw three large dark rounded shapes, like rocks that were slowly moving.

As they grazed down the hill towards my gate, they suddenly sat up, erect  and on the alert.

They were unmistakably kangaroos, male Eastern Greys, the biggest native animals on my wildife refuge.

Strong featured, broad-chested, well-muscled, with powerful back legs and a tail to match.

I admire these grand animals, and I love the fact that they rule here — and that they let me watch from my verandah!

Where land and sky meet

by


High mountains belong as much to the sky as to the land.  They often meet with clouds in secrecy, their intercourse hidden from us land-dwellers.

I can see the lower edge of the clouds almost boiling up the deep upper gullies, frothing and rolling, but I can’t see inside.

The ridge and its peaks remain under dense white cover, in an otherwise cloudless sky.

No wonder moss forests and Antarctic Beech live up there in this dedicated Wilderness Area, and it seems clear to me that it’s not a place for humans. Gods, maybe.