Wild Things

New Year feathers

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The first feathered visitor of the New Year was an Azure Kingfisher, a beautiful little bird, a visitor that sadly will not be leaving.

I found it lying on the back verandah, presumedly killed when it flew into the glass doors.

If this is to be a problem I will have to hang feathers all round, but so far I hadn’t heard any ‘thunks’. I am hoping this is a one-off.

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Next newly sighted feathered visitor was this unspectacular little bird, that I think is a female Rufous Whistler.

I have been hearing a very melodious series of calls that I think it was making. I hope somebody more knowledgeable can confirm its identity for me.

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On the same day, fine after days of rain, I heard the unmistakable and extremely unmelodious calls of the Yellowtailed Black Cockatoos, perched in trees very close to the house.

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I thought there were two, but then an incessant rusty whining led me to see a smaller third one, which I expect is the young. The father seemed to feed it — do they? — the eye ring and bill colour of the young are like a female’s.  Or was this the female?

Black Cockies are old rainy weather friends, and the similar proximity of densely forested steep gullies and slopes below the escarpment would make good habitat for them. I’ll raise and plant more of the local she-oaks to tempt them back.

Doves for Christmas

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I knew I was blessed with many bird species here that are new to me, but I’d forgotten how exciting it is to meet them!

This pair were poking about amongst the palm litter.

They are Bar-shouldered Doves and they solve the mystery of the repetitive calls I keep hearing.

My book reckons they say ‘cook-a wook, cook-a-wook’, but Ive been hearing ‘potgorok potgorok’.

Don’t ask me why; local dialect?

My book says the Manning Valley, where I now am, is roughly their southern distribution limit, and they stretch north all round the top to the Kimberleys.

Now I truly feel like I’m in a different climatic zone.

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Then they moved into the sunlight, no doubt to show off those lairy pink legs.

Not turtle doves or partridges, but they’ll do me for a Christmas treat.

Stay safe, all.

New mountain moods

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Now I am living on the mid-north coast hinterland, virtually in the subtropics, I am becoming used to high humidity and rapid changes in cloud behaviour and weather results.

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Thunder and lightning and stupendous short cloudbursts of rain…

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The ephemeral always fascinates me and there’s nothing so fleeting as clouds.

As in my previous home, mountains are critical for creating the varying special effects I love.

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Of course I love the fine blue-sky days too, but my attention is earthbound, not on the skyline. There are not enough eucalypts left here to make a forest but I am very grateful for what remains. Several of these tall, rough-barked fellows suddenly burst into blossom last week.

The show only lasted about a week, but what a display!

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Even more fleeting than the cloud movements are the appearances of the larger wildlife, like these two Eastern Red-necked wallaby males, spotted grazing amongst my weeds. Note the larger weed beyond them: the attractive but ubiquitous Camphor Laurel tree, and unfortunately not ephemeral.

Morning treats

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I am waking up around 5.30 a.m. here, and I am realising that, just as on my other mountain, I will be rewarded with ephemeral treats like this one when I do so.

There is so much to do that I don’t even want to stay in bed!

This house is built on a cut-and-fill site – much like where I was – but it’s quite a steep drop off the level strip in front of the house. By the time the sun was hitting the site, I’d breakfasted and unpacked three boxes of books.

Then I saw, through the rather grubby sliding glass doors, a pair of ears visible above the level of the bank.

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A young male, I think, and the same Eastern Redneck Wallaby variety that I am used to.

I said ‘Hello, you! Are you on your own? Welcome!! No harm here, mate; no dogs!’

He looked unimpressed, and took off across the slope. I saw him join a mate over on my boundary treeline.

I am overjoyed; there is wildlife here of the hoppy native sort, when I’d been half expecting rabbits.

Life and death

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As my last week here begins with sunshine — for a change — I have been snapping the wallaby mums and joeys as they feed their way over the ‘lawn’. I shall miss them.

This very leggy young one (above) was unsteady out of the pouch, but nibbling along beside mum in beween ducking its head back into the pouch for a drink. It could barely fit under her; she ignored it when she wanted to move on. It just had to catch up and re-connect.

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But then I noticed that over near the Nashis another joey was still lying in the same position as an hour earlier. Its mum was just sitting nearby.

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The joey was clearly dead… and cold. No evident injury. Mum stayed near there for hours, even after the joey was removed. Normally she’d have moved further in her grazing. She looked sad — or was she unwell too?

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I wish I knew what they felt or thought…

Rosey roosts

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The Crimson Rosellas are the main parrot here, but they aren’t always in as much evidence as they’ve been lately.

A group of five has been hanging about together, perching close by each other, if not all in the same tree. 

Three were quite enough for this young Red Cedar, especially as the recent shower was still weighing down its leaves. The others had to make do with the floppy vegie garden fence top.

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A few grey days later I spotted a group of birds silhouetted in the leafless Nashi tree. Hard to see just what sort of birds, but there were five…

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From a different aspect, with less contrasting backlighting, they were indeed the Rosella gang. I wonder where they’ll turn up next…

Taking turns

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As I rarely put bird seed in my makeshift feeder, the Crimson Rosellas just keep their eye on it.  As the weather gets colder, I notice the wallabies are eating plants they’d previously left alone when the growth of grass and preferred plants was lush. Feed is getting scarce.

This morning one Rosey landed on the empty feeder and looked at me — or so I thought — through the window in front of my desk. ‘OK, OK!’ I agreed, ‘It has been about a month’. So out I went to drop a handful of seed in.

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The Rosey had flown off to a very near bush as I did so, and then returned once I’d gone back in and shut the door. In a flash — or two flashes — it and a mate were tucking in. They were like two little clockwork birds, alternating the ducking down and the straightening up.

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But then a third Rosey arrived; great flurries and a re-arrangement. It seemed only two birds were allowed to feed at one time, and those two kept changing. 

One feeding bird would rush at the interloper, return to feed, while the outsider edged closer and closer until it was deemed a threat again.

The process would start again, but it seems there is a fair play system at work, and after a time the newcomer was permitted to feed.

Passersby?

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Heading outside late at night, I heard a telltale heavy rustle amongst the leaves of the Crepuscule rose that clmibs up one end of the verandah.

A guilty Brushtail Possum scrambled up under the rafters, hoping I couldn’t see it. Which I couldn’t, until I looked around the post — and used a torch. Unfair advantage, I know.

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Many people consider these critters cute; I don’t. They eat roses. And citrus.

One seems to hang about for a while and them move elsewhere. A brief stopover.

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My Nashi trees are dropping their yellowing leaves, which turn dark brown to black on the ground — if the wallabies don’t get to them first.

So it wasn’t surprising that a large black leaf had blown a little off course – at first distant sight. Too big as I drew closer…

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It was another creature I rarely see out and about, when it should be in the little dam downhill. A longnecked tortoise.

I’d found one near my clothesline a few days before and had put it back in what is really a large waterlily pond, thinking of the long distance to my other dam.

Clearly this tortoise was determined to leave home. This time I respected its instincts and let it be. Just passing by.

I hope it found its destination safely.

Python post

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It is always wise here to carry a torch when stumbling about outside at night. However I am usually looking down, not up.

The other night, it was merely out of the corner of my eye that the top of one verandah post looked different, amongst the labyrinth of twining vines and leaves that encase them.

Indeed it was different: decorated by a diamond python, who slowly curled up almost out of sight.

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Wrapped around itself into an extraordinarily tight bundle, that’s where it stayed all the next day, although as the day warmed up, the tin must have been too hot.

I assumed it had fed the night before and was quietly digesting. But I’d kept checking its whereabouts — just in case.

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Next evening the torch revealed that it was hungry again and on the hunt. Poised motionless, flexed ready to strike, above the erratically filled bird feeder, where small marsupials might come to nibble leftover grains.

Whether it was successful or not, I haven’t seen it since. But I still look, above the door for example, as I go outside at night!

Wildlife snapshot

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Arriving home in a rainshower, I of course took the opportunity to go outside when the sun reappeared for a brief spell and I heard some high ‘peep’ calls.

King Parrots in the Pittosporum. As soon as I got close, they took off into the Lemon Ti-Tree.

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Their tomato-red heads and fronts are almost unbelievably vivid, but when the young and the females turn their green backs and/or heads they can disappear.

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While I was photographing the Kingies, one of a group of lazing kangaroos was interested enough to prop and watch, so I snapped them too.

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Just then a bird flew overhead. It took a second for me to register a different shape … fat-bellied … then another flew over. The White-headed Pigeons were visiting again, and as I hadn’t seen them for some time, I was inordinately pleased!

There were five altogether, preening and cleaning, posing and perusing, in the branches of a grey gum near the house.

Soon the rain clouds drifted over again and sent me indoors. The sun had been out for perhaps just fifteen minutes, yet look what I’d seen!

Cleaning up

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As the cloud lifted and daylight tried to become sunlight, the kookaburras watched for emerging worms and the wallabies were out drying off. 

These two mums were close to the cabin.

The nearest had an inquisitive joey, lightly furred over its pink skin. Head out, but wisely not interested in venturing from the warm pouch.

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Mum had work to do, cleaning up after the muddy days and dealing with the fleas and ticks. Her joey just had to duck the odd angles that put her in.

First the tail, laid out in front, thoroughly scratched and the fur sifted.

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Then between the toes, licked and nibbled. This sent the joey back inside for a moment.

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Then the ears, which doubled mum up even more.

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It was all so exhausting that Mum decided it was time for a nap. She flopped sideways and almost at soon as she hit the ground bub disappeared to sleep in the soft silky pink world of her pouch. What a life!

Verandah bat

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On a very hot afternoon last week, I was visited by a tiny representative of a species that I rarely see. Bats.

There are 20 bat species recorded in these mountains, but as I am not a nocturnal animal, I don’t see them. But this one came to me as I worked on my verandah.

It flew up and down the length of the verandah a few times, attracting my attention, and then landed on the narrow strip of mud wall above the window. Far too close to the tin roof for comfort, I’d have thought.

And there it stayed for some hours, flapping its ears periodically. Its clinging power surprised me, as my mud wall’s not that rough.

I found it very hard to work out its features, but I think it’s an Eastern Horsehoe-bat, from the small size and the horseshoe shape of what my book calls the ’noseleaf complex’.

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About five o’clock it flew to a western end rafter and clung to a bolt. It was still there on dark, but gone in the morning. 

I know almost nothing about bats, but I am delighted to have met this little one, even briefly.