Bird Names

 Bird Names

A subject of considerable controversy has erupted anew: how should we choose names for bird species? Here’s my take on it.

The controversy centers on names derived from historical figures (Audubon’s Shearwater, Swainson’s Warbler, McCown’s Longspur, Williamson’s Sapsucker). These have been referred to as both patronyms and eponyms. The original logic behind this is that ornithologists wanted to honor serious and accomplished figures in the history of ornithology. A secondary goal was to name a new species after the person who discovered it.

Audubon's Shearwater, in the waters off Delaware and New Jersey.
Why not Long-tailed Shearwater?

The AOS, one of the major organizations in ornithological research, just made a breathtaking decision: eliminate all eponymous names in North America. Replace them with something better. What’s going on here?

There are multiple views. As you might guess, mine is different from the prevailing one. The motivation for renaming that is getting the most newsprint is a realization that some of these historical figures were not so honorable after all: for example, McCown was a Confederate general. (That name was changed a few years ago.) True enough. But the approach I like to take is that we should adopt names that are descriptive, not honorific.

Many long-time ornithologists are upset about the change. They have long subscribed to the notion that “established names should prevail,” and that changes should be instituted only very slowly to avoid chaos. There is something to be said for that. But not much.

Swainson's Thrush. Rock Creek Park, Washington DC.
How about Spectacled Thrush?

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Open up the hood on your car. There is an air filter, an oil filter, a radiator. The transmission, engine block, pistons. All of these words have meaning, have value to those trying to diagnose a problem and fix it. They are useful. They facilitate dialogue. They are aids in understanding the operation of the vehicle.

Why shouldn’t it be the same in ornithology? We should be using bird names that say something about the species: what it looks like, where it occurs, what it sounds like, what it forages for, what habitat is best for it. These are the elements of information to conserve these species and to educate the larger public about them and their needs. In this distressing era of declining birds, we should be using every tool available to inform governments and legislators to help save them and to convince voters that money needs to be spent. Cassin’s Sparrow, Brewer’s Blackbird, Bewick’s Wren – not terribly helpful, are they?

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Nomenclature is difficult in every branch of science. As time goes on, researchers find themselves running out of names for new things. That’s when the eponyms start to multiply. It’s also when goofy and ambiguous names start to appear, not to mention inappropriate, erroneous, and misleading names. I never liked “ultrafast laser” in physics – what’s wrong with “femtosecond laser”? “Deep neural network” is another: a hot topic in computational science that is badly in need of a better name. (Deep compared to what? Neural it is not. A set of layers is really not a network.*) So, to be accurate about it, “Audubon’s Oriole” is not a unique case – it exemplifies poor nomenclatural practice that has afflicted all sciences, for centuries.

Swainson's Hawk. This juvenile was in Santa Fe County, New Mexico.
Brown-chested Hawk, perhaps?

But we should also be honest. This problem is really a lack of imagination. It is laziness. If we need new words for taxonomic groups, then dammit let’s create them. If indigenous people have been using a name for centuries already, why can’t we adopt that, even if it needs a bit of anglicization? Scientists need to adopt the same seriousness in nomenclature as we do in the laboratory research. Some bird names make no sense at all (Palm Warbler, Ring-necked Duck, Mountain Bluebird); others use geographical names with little or no connection to the bird (Connecticut Warbler, Philadelphia Vireo, Nashville Warbler); others misuse an adjective. (Common Black Hawk. Oh yeah?)

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In the first week of May in northern New Mexico, each year that I worked there, it was thrilling and inspiring to hear a familiar sound in the stately Ponderosa Pine forests. It was a “rising and accelerating series of chee notes, perhaps too slow to be considered a trill, lasting about 2 seconds.” (J. Dunn, K. Garrett, A Field Guide to Warblers of North America, 1997, p. 336.) I would immediately look up in the higher branches of the nearest Ponderosa for a golden ornament, my first Grace’s Warbler of the year – and immediately feel better that the world was not in abject decline, that migration was successful, that spring was here again. A mystical feeling.

But I would be even more grateful to call it something else. “Grace’s Warbler” is among the worst names in all of ornithology. Grace was the sister of Elliott Coues, who was an important 1800’s ornithological figure. Mr. Coues had obtained the first specimen of the bird. Accomplished as he was, Mr. Coues (and Spencer Fullerton Baird, who named it a year later) apparently didn’t have much imagination. This warbler is beautiful, energetic, and sings very distinctively. Why couldn’t one of those character traits serve as a basis for a name? Even more neglectful is that the bird has a unique characteristic: it is found exclusively in Ponderosa Pine. It seems to be absolutely chained to Ponderosa Pine, to the point that one can never find it in any other species of tree. (The only exception I had was when a Northern Pygmy Owl [good name, by the way] was perched in daylight, causing the warbler to scold, whereupon it moved out of a Ponderosa to get closer to the invader. And it moved to another pine, a Pinyon!)

Townsend's Warbler, Galisteo, New Mexico.
How about Black-masked Warbler?

Sadly, “Grace’s” is not alone. Close by in the southwest forests are Virginia’s Warbler and Lucy’s Warbler, which got their names through similar unwise means. Anna’s Hummingbird is another. Bad nomenclature was spreading in the 1800s like forest fire in … well, in Ponderosa Pine forests. I think a renaming is due. How about “Ponderosa Warbler”? “Pine Warbler” would work, but is already taken – an example of nomenclatural challenge. Similarly, I would like to rename “Virginia’s Warbler” to “Oak Warbler,” and “Lucy’s Warbler” to “Mesquite Warbler.” Alternatively, we could name the lovely Grace’s after its appearance or song. Heck, I’d even take “Graceful Warbler” as a minimally-confusing change.

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I don’t mean to minimize the predominant impulse of 2023, to remove “exclusionary and harmful” names from bird lexicon. It is undeniably a good thing. Mr. McCown surrendered the right to be remembered in perpetuity when he took up arms with the Confederate Army scoundrels. Reverend Bachman, of sparrow and warbler fame, wrote maliciously of the African intellect as “greatly inferior to that of the Caucasian.” He upped the ante with “our defense of slavery is contained within the Holy Scriptures.” (Hmm… as good a reason as any to reassess the Holy Scriptures.) Leave them in the history books, but don’t force birders in the field to keep referencing archaic notions that prevent us from putting past inhumanity resolutely to bed.

A more complex case is John James Audubon, who was unquestionably at the forefront of 1800s North American ornithological study, and whose paintings still today stand as some of the finest depictions of wildlife. He spent most of his life on the brink of poverty, but owned slaves for a short period late in life. He wrote dismissively of abolitionism. Many people argue that his name should be stripped – from species, from parks, from organizations.

Audubon is in company with many other American figures, namely George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and three-quarters of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. While many eloquent writers try to find some reconciliation in this, I will express my own view that, rather than erasing these names from the stories of our national origin, we should instead take care to describe them simultaneously as important leaders and racist slave holders. Do not bury “slave holder” in the fine print in the back of the book: announce it right there along with “founding father.” That is how we will avoid forgetting the truth.

Cassin's Finch, New Mexico. How about Montane Finch?

Yes, we should remove offensive names from the lexicon. But the bigger picture is that we should use descriptive language at every possible opportunity, because it is sensible and useful. I believe that argument will win the day, even with the cranky retired ornithologists.

The birds bearing Audubon’s name are no different from the rest. “Green-backed Oriole” and “Long-tailed Shearwater” would work just fine. End of controversy. If the warbler is split off as its own species, how about “Mountain Warbler”?

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Many of the old-timers in ornithology are shaking their heads at this moment, and some are incensed. We are proposing chaos in the place of traditions, in their view. But wait: that is overlooking something. Ornithology already has a centuries-long tradition of using descriptive names. Let’s return to that cherished tradition. In addition, are we modern scientists incapable of fixing the mistakes of the past (Palm Warbler)? I think not.

Lincoln's Sparrow, Santa Fe Canyon Preserve, New Mexico. An early migrant in February.
"Lineated Sparrow" might work.

Here are some of my favorite names in North America. Why not use this list as a template for new names?

Rhinoceros Auklet, Rose-throated Becard, Least Bittern, Red-winged Blackbird, Yellow-headed Blackbird, Boblink, the various chickadees, the buntings (Indigo, Painted, Varied, Snow), Canvasback, Gray Catbird, Plain Chachalaca, Chuck-will’s-widow, Pelagic Cormorant,** Bronzed Cowbird, White-winged Crossbill, Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Long-billed Curlew, Dickcissel, American Dipper, Mourning Dove, Ruddy Ground Dove, Long-billed Dowitcher, Harlequin Duck, Ruddy Duck, Golden Eagle, Bald Eagle, Prairie Falcon, Northern Flicker, Alder Flycatcher, Ash-throated Flycatcher, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, Vermilion Flycatcher, Willow Flycatcher, Spruce Grouse, Laughing Gull, Ferruginous Hawk, Zone-tailed Hawk, Lucifer Hummingbird, Parasitic Jaeger, Pinyon Jay, Belted Kingfisher, Swallow-tailed Kite, Chestnut-collared Longspur, Red-throated Loon, Buff-collared Nightjar, Flammulated Owl, Long-eared Owl, Snowy Plover, Stilt Sandpiper, Grasshopper Sparrow, Saltmarsh Sparrow, Swamp Sparrow.

South America has Pheasant Cuckoo, Savanna Hawk, Ladder-tailed Nightjar, Pale-rumped Swift, White-fronted Nunbird, Amazonian Trogon, and Monkey-eating Eagle. And of course the hummingbirds: Glittering-bellied Emerald, Blue-tufted Starthroat, Fork-tailed Woodnymph, White-vented Violetear.

In Africa: Gorgeous Bushshrike (you won't understand until you see it), Spotted Thick-knee, White-fronted Bee-eater, Malachite Sunbird.

Let’s dispense with the old rationalizations and move on with language that works. Words matter, and clear language is needed for effective conservation.

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Note: be sure to check out Bird Names for Birds, a website with lots of good biographical information about named figures in ornithology.

* By the way, the term "Artificial Intelligence" is disgracefully poor. It is misleading, grandiose, arrogant, and erroneous. I despise it more than any term in science. I don't care how often it is being used in the popular press. The early computer science researcher who coined it made a very regrettable mistake. "Machine classification" might be a suitable substitute.

** Prof. Van Remsen of LSU pointed out to me that "Pelagic Cormorant" actually does not have pelagic habits. So scratch that one from my list.

A South African Journey -- Part 3: West Coast National Park to the Bitou River

 A South African Journey Part 3: 

West Coast National Park, the Karoo Desert, De Hoop, 

and the Bitou River

{Part 1 of our journey was Kruger National Park.}

{Part 2 of our journey was the Cape Peninsula area.}

Driving north from Cape Town, our destination was West Coast National Park. We drove through flat agricultural lands but took Darling Hills Road into semi-natural habitat, where we could find Capped Wheatears perched on fences. We found a Black Bustard, another huge representative of this group of birds with no North American parallel. We spied our first Blue Cranes, amazing creatures of great beauty, foraging in crop fields. How have they survived here with human hunters for so many millenia? European Bee-eaters were on the power lines, and a surprise Spotted Eagle-owl perched on a bush in the open. Cape Crombec, Cape Grassbird, Cape Weavers and Cape Sparrows were in the grassy vegetation. A small stream crossing was lit up by our first Southern Red Bishops, which seem impossibly gleaming red in the brown landscape. When god created the birds, did he use up his stock of red paint on these guys?

Capped Wheater on Darling Hills Road

Spotted Eagle-owl near Darling

Southern Red Bishop

We continued into the park, finding our way to Abrahamskraal Hide under cloudy skies. It is surrounded by coastal strandveld, another of those unique South African habitats. A striking Black Harrier moved slowly past, with huge wings outspread and rocking. African Spoonbills meditated in the marsh. A Chestnut-vented Warbler did its best to elude us, but we violated its privacy with quick binocular views. We pressed on to the Geelbek Hide, where shorebirds awaited. Geelbek is pronounced as expected (try “heel-beck” or “hill-beck”), but with that impossible Dutch throaty sound standing in for a “G.” I was a little worried that we did not have a spotting scope, but it seemed to work out okay. We started on the boardwalk, and almost immediately got close looks at Kittlitz’s Plover. We entered a very well-constructed hide, batting away the nesting White-throated Swallows, and took a seat to study Common Ringed Plover, Bar-tailed Godwit, Marsh Sandpiper, Common Greenshank, Curlew Sandpiper, Black-winged Stilt, and Little Stint. The slightly less exotic (for us) included Whimbrel, Black-bellied Plover, Ruddy Turnstone and Sanderling. We found these at a viewable range of 30 m or so, but they were standing against a seemingly limitless expanse of mud flat, known as Langebaan Lagoon. Recognized as a Ramsar site, it is the largest salt marsh in South Africa, and an obviously important one for wintering shorebirds.

Black Harrier
Abrahamskraal Hide in West Coast National Park

Black-winged Kite in West Coast National Park

Langebaan Lagoon. A shorebird mecca

The wetlands adjacent to Langebaan Lagoon

Kittlitz's Plover. Geelbek hide, Langebaan Lagoon

Curlew Sandpipers. Geelbek hide, Langebaan Lagoon

Hartlaub's Gull (non-breeding adult), Geelbek hide

Gray-winged Francolin, West Coast National Park

Wetlands near Seeberg Hide, West Coast National Park

Southern Fiscal. West Coast National Park

Geoff guided the van to the top of a small hill, Seeberg-uitsigpunt (“sea mountain viewpoint”), where we could get a full appreciation of the lagoon. The scale of these mudflats is difficult to comprehend, but protection is needed because this is a developing part of South Africa. Walking around on the rock outcropping, I had been thinking that the one category of animal life we were still missing on the trip was snakes. As we drove back down the hill, Geoff hit the brakes and called out “Mole Snake”. The dark-colored herp, the most common in the park, was stretched out and slowly crossing the road. We continued down and came to a sudden stop less than five minutes later. Geoff put up his binocs and announced “Cape Cobra!” It slithered out of sight too quickly to display the classic spread-necked look, but it was an exciting find indeed. Its venom is among the most deadly on the whole African continent. We drove down to Seeberg Hide, but stopped momentarily behind another vehicle. The driver had gotten out and was pointing into the bush. He called into our window, “There’s a Puff Adder here.” We looked out to the right just in time to see a thick-bodied snake moving off into the bush, away from the road. Yowza! The Puff Adder’s fangs can penetrate leather. The venom is among the deadliest of any viper on the face of the planet. Cool! After not seeing a snake in two weeks, we saw three in ten minutes. Perhaps it was wise that we did most of our exploring in this park by van, rather than on foot.

Cape Cobra. Crossing the road in West Coast National Park

We moved on to Seeberg Hide to photograph a nesting Kittlitz’s Plover. We added a Rock Kestrel, White-backed Mousebird, Black Kite, a briskly-flapping Peregrine, a Red-headed Cisticola, and a dull colored African Pipit: much like an American but with longer tail and bill. We drove on to the charming Le Mahi Guest House in Langebaan. We sipped our Groot Constantia wine on the back patio with Cape Weavers and Southern Fiscals singing all around in the diminishing daylight.

The Cape Provinces have some massive wheat fields

The next morning we headed south and east, to explore other parts of the Western Cape Province. The morning leg took us on a straight and fast highway through the flatlands. We stopped at one point to check out a distant raptor, a lovely Booted Eagle. As we started to pull away, Dawn let out a shriek from the back seat. “I’m pretty sure I saw something down there behind that bush.” Geoff spent a minute or two angling for a better view, and then exclaimed with equal urgence: “AFRICAN WILD CAT!” I pointed my lens out the car window, and fortunately got a few shots of a tiny, kitten-sized critter that was scampering back and forth, carrying a small rodent in its mouth to a place of cover. Our looks were brief, but we felt blessed to share the moment with one of South Africa’s smallest predatory animals. Identification of these rare cats can be problematic since they interbreed with the domestic variety, but Geoff seemed confident that this was a real one.

African Wild Cat

A small farm pond had water birds and Whiskered Terns. We got our first looks at those difficult, plain-looking larks that blend in so well with the brown grasses and dormant fields. The Roberts Field guide devotes seven full plates to larks; it might be the world center for them. Geoff tried his best to persuade us that we were looking at Cape Lark, Red-capped Lark, Large-billed Lark, and a possible Clapper Lark. Along with Streaky-headed Seedeater, they are nice-looking birds, but it’s a lot like identifying empidonax flycatchers back home. Near Malmesbury we got decent looks at an Orange-throated Longclaw, described in textbooks as an example of convergent evolution with the meadowlarks back home (Eastern/Western/Chihuahuan), which are not close in the taxonomy. We stopped for lunch in the town of Ceres, staring up at high treeless slopes of the Hex River Mountains that were paved with rocks as far as the eye could see. We may need to revisit the accuracy of “Rocky Mountains,” because these mountains take it to another level altogether.

Large-billed Lark

It began to rain a bit, so Geoff made a spontaneous itinerary change to get us out to the Karoo Desert. We like deserts, and the Karoo is an impressive one indeed. We were at the southern end of a basin that stretches a thousand kilometers with (wouldn’t you know) unique arid vegetation. A short walk in a high wind brought us up close to another whole display of alien looking flowers and shrubs. The birds were unique to our trip, too: intricately plumaged Namaqua Sandgrouse, Namaqua Warbler, Karoo Thrush, Karoo Scrub-robin, Sickle-winged Chat, Karoo Chat. Mountain Wheatear and Black-headed Canary stood out boldly in the landscape. The drive also produced some good power-line raptors, such as Greater Kestrel, Rock Kestrel, Pale Chanting-goshawk, Common Buzzard, and Jackal Buzzard. We returned to Ceres past fascinating looking gnarled rocky peaks, a reminder that one of these days I need to learn something about geology. The darkening sky was interrupted by a rainbow over the distant misty desert landscape.

The colorful Karoo Desert, at its southern end

Karoo Desert

Unknown flower in the Karoo Desert

White Nectarcup in the Karoo Desert.

Pale Chanting-Goshawk in the Karoo Desert

Rock Kestrel. In Ceres Pass

Geoff mentioned something about a telescope in the neighborhood. I looked it up, and was surprised to learn that an observatory was built nearby with a primary mirror of eleven meters! (It’s a segmented mirror.) The South African Large Telescope is a big one indeed, the largest in the southern hemisphere. It’s been operating since 2005 and making many new astronomical discoveries. The dry air and moderate elevation of the site (1800 m) is good for star watching.

The activity for the next morning was an early drive up to Gydo Pass, about 1000 m up in the mountains north of Ceres.  The air was crisp and the views were fetching. We found a Protea Canary, a Karoo Prinia, and we heard a Victorin’s Warbler singing. A Malachite Sunbird was visiting a nest frequently, and perched close for photos. At this point in the trip, it was clear that Malachite Sunbird is common in South Africa, and that is a wonderful thing. It is an amazing glistening green bird, elegant in flight with an extraordinary long tail, and perches on branches like a christmas tree ornament. 

Malachite Sunbird, Gydo Pass. Seen everywhere on the trip.

Water Heath. Gydo pass. One of the attractions for the sunbirds.

We made our way back down to lower elevations, and it was hard not to notice the fruit trees. This part of South Africa seems to be the center of the fruit-growing industry, and it makes an indelible mark on the land. The current favorite technology is a white mesh draped over the orchards to prevent wildlife damage. The mesh extends for miles at a stretch. It looks like a collection of crazy landscape art projects by Christo. I’m happy that the South Africans can take advantage of a favorable climate to generate significant income from fruit trees, but it’s sad to think about the massive scale of displacement of wildlife from native habitat. Wheat fields take up an even larger portion of the landscape. Much as Americans have lost the prairie to corn and soybeans, South Africa stands to lose much of its beauty in the interest of GDP.

Our next stop was a piece of land set aside to protect and nurse some examples of the native vegetation under threat. The Karoo Desert National Botanical Garden has a fantastic array of unusual plants with flowers of every color. We enjoyed an hour here seeing wildlife drawn into the succulents and the renosterveld plants. We found two mousebirds, Red-faced and Speckled, members of a family unique to South Africa. Horus Swifts zoomed overhead. 

Karoo Desert National Botanical Garden

Some of the weird stuff at Karoo Botanic Garden

White-backed Mousebird at the Karoo botanic garden

Pied Barbet at Karoo botanic garden

Angulate Tortoise at Karoo botanic garden

Some amazing geology in Cogmanskloof Pass 

We finished the day at Bontebok National Park, where the herds included Red Hartebeest, Gray Rhebok, and Cape Mountain Zebra. We got great looks at Dideric Cuckoo, and a Martial Eagle flew overhead. A Nicholson’s Pipit did its best to look like blades of grass. We checked in at Swellendam Country Lodge, a very pretty place at the edge of town that serves up an amazing breakfast. That night, a Red-chested Cuckoo behaved as if driven by amphetamines. It sang most of the night and all morning long. Impressive! We had an African Goshawk, Knysna Woodpecker, African Paradise-flycatcher, Olive Thrush, Cape Robin-chat, and Amethyst Sunbird while our coffee was heating up. What a place! 

Red Hartebeest in Bontebok National Park

Cape Julia Skimmer in Bontebok National Park

Fiscal Flycatcher at Bontebok National Park.
Fairly common in most of South Africa, but one of a few representatives of this group of birds.

We spent that day driving south, first through the Agulhas Plains. We used the chance to puzzle over larks, and four Cisticolas (Levaillant’s, Piping, Zitting, and Cloud). De Hoop Nature Reserve was populated with large herds including Cape Eland, Bontebok, Cape Mountain Zebra, and Gray Rhebok. Reaching the coast, we watched a few Southern Right Whales spouting just off the beach. At the other end of the size scale, we watched Dung Beetles toiling away beside the dirt road. The drive back yielded a Black-winged Kite, White-faced Whistling Ducks, and a few massive Cape Griffons flying high overhead.

Blue Crane with Spur-winged Geese. Agulhas Plains, near De Hoop Nature Reserve.

Cape Lark, Agulhas subspecies. (The former name was Agulhas Long-billed Lark.)

Chacma Baboons, tasting flowers at De Hoop Nature Reserve.
These were common throughout our trip.

A herd of Bontebok at De Hoop Nature Reserve. 
The "snow-capped peaks" in the background are just white sand dunes on the coast.

Cape Mountain Zebra, De Hoop Nature Reserve

Gray Rhebok, Agulhas Plains

Eurasian Hoopoe (African subspecies) at De Hoop Nature Reserve

Cape Flightless Dung Beetles, De Hoop Nature Reserve.
These two were scrapping over the spherical prize.

Cape Bunting, Agulhas Plains

Cape Griffon, soaring over the Agulhas Plains

White-faced Whistling Ducks, on a farm pond in the Agulhas Plains

Sombre Greenbul, Swellendam

Cape White-eye, Swellendam

The next day consisted of entry into the “Garden Route,” a portion of the Western Cape Province that is thickly forested and intensely green. As we sped along the highway, we made one quick stop to get great looks at a Secretarybird foraging in an agricultural field. In North America, I’ve always felt that Greater Roadrunner is the bird that stands apart from all the rest, in appearance, behavior, and foraging. In southern Africa, that niche (so to speak) seems to be taken by the bizarre Secretarybird, with its long legs, stalking gait, and terrifying looking hooked bill. This one marched back and forth in the field with a determination. Geoff told us that no snake is safe in the neighborhood from these guys, not even the most venomous. They will go after mongoose, hedgehogs, and large ground birds. Fearsome!

Southern Red Bishop. Heidelberg, on the Garden Route

Levaillant's Cisticola. Heidelberg, on the Garden Route.

Secretarybird. Beside the highway in the Garden Route.

Late in the day, we descended into the Bitou River Valley, the last region for the trip. We found a marshy area beside a side road where we could get decent looks at Lesser Swamp Warbler and Little Rush Warbler. These are both Old World warblers, quite different from the colorful forest birds back home. They are drab, but strong singers, when in a mood to declare territory. In the fading light, we got one-second looks as they perched briefly in the reeds. An African Swamphen and Eurasian Moorhen were nearby, and a Black-headed Heron flew over.

The Bitou River Lodge was, in some ways, my favorite of the lodges of this trip. It is nestled up against a still channel of the river with large elegant trees on the grounds, in a relatively quiet setting that is chock full of birds. I walked around at first light each day, enjoying singing White-browed Coucal, Black-collared Barbet, Cape Batis, Olive Bushshrike, Fork-tailed Drongo, Olive Thrush, Cape Robin-chat, Cape Weaver, Yellow Canary, Klaas’s Cuckoo, Speckled Mousebird, Southern Boubou, Terrestrial Brownbul, Cape White-eye, Amethyst Sunbird, and Black Cuckoo. Night brought calls of Fiery-necked Nightjar. The star of the show, though, is Knysna Turaco, which have taken up residence there in healthy numbers. They are large birds with glossy blue back and green heads and a prominent crest tipped with white. They sport a sharp red eye ring and black-on-white eye mask that makes them look like fashion models. When flying, large red wing patches emerge in a flash. Their sustained low-pitched calls ring through the valley for hundreds of meters, sounding more like a mammal than bird. “Knysna” is pronounced “nigh-z-nuh”; “turaco” seems most logically to me to have a middle-syllable stress, but some people accent the first. We were treated to three turacos on our route (with Purple-crested and Gray Go-away-bird in Kruger), and it was a welcome addition to our list of families, being endemic to Africa.

Cape Batis, Bitou River Lodge

Yellow-billed Duck, Bitou River Lodge

White-throated Swallow, Bitou River Lodge

Amethyst Sunbird. This photo was at Wilderness National Park,
but they were present at Bitou River Lodge

The amazing Knysna Turaco at Bitou River Lodge

Knysna Turaco! Bitou River Lodge

But that’s not the end of the wonders of Bitou River Lodge. A five-minute walk brings you to a wetland, where the Bitou River slows and broadens. There were Blue Cranes nesting there, showing off their ghostly blue-white heads and streaming tails. There were enough mudflats to attract Common Greenshank, Marsh Sandpiper, Three-banded Plover, Kittlitz’s Plover, and Black-winged Stilt. Yellow-billed Ducks, Cape Teal, Red-knobbed Coot, African Sacred Ibis, Eurasian Moorhen, and of course Black Crakes were easy to see well even without a scope. African Fish-eagles perched in high tree branches patiently surveying the scene.

Blue Crane on the Bitou River

Great Cormorant (White-breasted subspecies). Bitou River Valley

The lodge is also a good base for visits to beautiful places with diverse avifauna, including Nature’s Valley, Tsitsikamma National Park, Plettenberg Bay, a massive 800-year old Yellowwood tree, and the nearby mountains. Half-day trips around the area produced African Emerald Cuckoo, Scaly-throated Honeyguide, Yellow-throated Woodland-Warbler (actually looking like a New World warbler!), Mouse-colored Sunbird, Olive Woodpecker, Gray Cuckooshrike, African Black-headed Oriole, Black-bellied Starling, Greater Double-collared Sunbird, Red-necked Spurfowl, Lemon Dove, Forest Buzzard, Common Reed-warbler, and Chorister Robin-chat. We did a long mountain drive near Spitzkop Peak, on ridges affording beautiful views to mountain ridges to the north, and stopped when Geoff heard a Victorin’s Warbler singing. Knowing how hard it is to get a look at one, we crept slowly and silently along the roadside next to a slope of tangled forest vegetation and waited. The territorial bird eventually appeared right beside Geoff’s foot. It sang persistently and loudly, but from hidden perches close to the ground, which it exchanged every fifteen seconds or so. Employing patience, we got quick glimpses of the bird before it moved off and became quiet. A stunning Rameron Pigeon, with an array of white spots against a dark maroon background color, came into view, too.

Red-necked Spurfowl, Tsitsikamma National Park

Forest Buzzard, Tsitsikamma National Park

Victorin's Warbler, buried in the bush on a mountain slope near Spitzkop Peak

Bitou River Lodge was home to a few flycatchers, including Fiscal Flycatcher and African Paradise-flycatcher. But only a few. It was very interesting to be in a place that seemed like it should provide lots of aerial insects, but hosts so few flycatchers. Mosquitos were not a problem at all, despite the adjacent wetlands. In fact it was surprising to see that the windows of our room were propped open and did not have window screens. Overall, both the Western Cape Province and Kruger National Park have far fewer flying bugs than similar places in the western hemisphere. This is an indication that southern Africa is really a very different kind of ecological system. Maybe the insects are mostly the crawling type – I’m not sure.

Southern Fiscal (a shrike). Bitou River Lodge

Leprous Milkweed Locust, known locally as
Foam Grasshopper. Town of Wilderness

One of the final days of our journey featured a morning Whale-watching boat trip in Plettenberg Bay, which is home to Southern Right Whales that give birth on their wintering grounds. We arrived early at the harbor, per instructions from the tour company, and obediently accepted big cumbersome lifejackets while waiting for departure. It was a long wait, but we tried not to complain about it. We boarded the boat with a group of 15 or so, and were ready to go. At the last minute, a group of 6 Indian tourists hopped on board, too. The boat sped off and we were gazing at Southern Right Whales within 15 minutes. We were not lucky enough to see breaching, but the animals were huge and impressive. The female slowly emerged from below, exhaled a loud and V-shaped spout of air, and was followed by the smaller calf. We saw about 6 female/calf pairs in a one-hour time frame, all of them surprisingly close to the beach. Our guide explained that avoidance of Orcas was the main goal while waiting for the young to gain fitness. It was also great to see a large group of Cape Fur Seals porpoising around a flock of fish, close beside the boat.

Southern Right Whale, Plettenberg Bay

Southern Right Whale. Mother and calf near the beach, Plettenberg Bay

It was hard not to notice that one of the Indian tourists, a short youngish woman dressed very stylishly, had different ideas about boating safety. The life jacket clashed with her snazzy dress, so she took it off and abandoned it – the only one on board to do so. She spent most of her time on board at the edge of the deck posing for portrait photos taken by her husband, who had not a single hair out of place, against the stirring South African coastal scenery. It then occurred to me that the reason for our long wait to board the boat in the morning was that the half-dozen Indians had ignored the company’s plea to arrive early for departure. Apparently they figured they would just show up whenever they got around to it. Blissfully unaware of the inconvenience they caused the other fifteen customers that day, they seemed unimpressed when the tour guide informed them that we would lose a large chunk of whale watching time due to their tardiness. A tour guide later told me that this is typical behavior for wealthy Indian tourists. They have yet to grasp the concept of a clock. “As early tomorrow as you can manage” means, to them, “after a leisurely breakfast and a short nap followed by dressing as if for a formal banquet.” Perhaps if I had launched the two of them into the sea they would have appreciated the collective advantages of courtesy in boating. Alas, the charming nature of cultural differences that one can experience while venturing in foreign lands!

Agricultural smoke plume seen from Plettenberg Bay. South Africa
confronts air quality issues much like South America and Asia.

Plettenberg Bay mansion: a symbol of fabulous wealth
in South Africa, side by side with severe poverty.

After almost three weeks, we had reached the concluding day of our South African journey. Geoff, not wanting us to waste a moment of our precious time in this gorgeous place, took us on a last half-day birding excursion between Plettenberg Bay and the town of George.  We pulled into Kaaimans River Gorge for a quick look at a glowing purple Half-collared Kingfisher. Part way down the road to Victoria Bay, Geoff heard singing in the dense vegetation. We got out and checked every low gap between bushes, and eventually spied a skulking, all brown, but beautifully singing Knysna Warbler. A South African endemic, and a very difficult one to get, it was the final bird of the trip. A fitting one! Not long after, we were sitting in preparation for twenty flight hours to get home.

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Our excursion to the Cape was organized, executed, and guided by the one-man team of Geoff Crane. We heartily recommend Geoff as a birding guide. He was knowledgeable, pleasant, attentive, and very quick at finding stuff buried in the branches and streaking across the sky. During our long drives, he educated us a lot about South African history, ecology, botany, culture, family life, and politics, which expelled any chance of boredom! The Cape Provinces have an incredible range of habitats, wildlife, and non-stop scenery, and Geoff Crane seems to know just how to extract the most from it.