Just before we went
on holidays to the coast, my husband asked me to take our kids for a long walk.
We have motion sickness winding through mountains full of curves and hairpin
bends. While he drives, it’s better if the rest of us sleep through some of the
6-hour road trip. So, we went trekking downhill, wandering along a creek
to wear ourselves out.
October school holidays, it was
already hot in mid-spring. There were tadpoles of various sizes in shallow pools. Noisy male
frogs croaked about their amazing prowess to make another gazillion tadpoles
not far from where we stood.
A Willie Wagtail flew overhead,
admonishing us with aggressive chirping.
The bird pirouetted, tumbling and
twisting to get our attention and lead us away. That’s when we spotted the nest.
A neat, round bowl sat in exposed
branches nearby. Mum or dad Willie swooped over us so close we could hear wing-beats
near our ears. Responding to their chirps, 4 wrinkled nestlings popped up from
a space too tiny to fit. The babes were stretching high, more than half their bodies over the top; wings quivering in anticipation of filling open beaks with food.
The temperature had been in the low
30’s all week. The nest looked like it was formed from cobwebs. Besides a few
dead vine branches, it was uncovered. If warm weather continued, those chicks
would fry.
I needed those 4 little darlings to
live; to hop about my garden wagging their tails behind them.
‘I’m climbing to the top of the gorge
to cover the nest; those babies need shade.’
My son was saying he didn’t know why I’d
bother because chicks were ugly without feathers.
They would become stunning.
My daughter said I was going to kill myself trying to save chicks.
I almost did.
They would become stunning.
My daughter said I was going to kill myself trying to save chicks.
I almost did.
I tore off shrubs and large, leafy green
branches; placing them a metre above the tiny nest-bowl. Careful not to step on
the edge, I couldn’t reach the spot that would offer the most sun protection.
Trying to form a stable umbrella covering, I stretched my arms out when a
Willie flew at my face. I jumped, climbing the air to shoo her.
Crunch.
I slid down the embankment, a 3-metre descent. Collecting twigs, roots and rocks like a bulldozer screaming downhill, I scraped my back down the rough surface. It felt like someone stripped my skin with a potato peeler.
I slid down the embankment, a 3-metre descent. Collecting twigs, roots and rocks like a bulldozer screaming downhill, I scraped my back down the rough surface. It felt like someone stripped my skin with a potato peeler.
Standing at the base, my
children’s mouths were wide open in shock.
A parent Willie circled a lopsided
nest.
My thighs are cut and scratched, with a pile of undergrowth between
them. And blood, sticky blood. Filthy with dust and dirt, I could
sense my back bleeding where ribbons of skin had been shaved off.
Tears pooled; everything stung.
Tears pooled; everything stung.
Those poor darling chickadees; all but their legs were bobbing out sideways. The wonky nest had fallen low; practically
at ground level, where a fox or goanna could easily pick off the little mites as
snacks.
‘I was only trying to save them.’
The frantic Willie mum flapped between me and her nest of discombobulated bubs.
The frantic Willie mum flapped between me and her nest of discombobulated bubs.
‘I didn’t want them cooking in the
sun.’
‘You almost killed them.’
‘I know.’
Looking over, the wild and cranky
Willie Wagtail sits on top of the nest. She’s looking down at 4 skinny
squawkers who had just been on the ride of their life. God only knows how they
stayed wedged in that nest space, it was almost upside down. The mother bird
clicked and clacked, berating me for interfering.
The nest supports were as cracked
and broken as I was.
Only a small bird, these Willie Wag
parents were awesome. They wanted to gouge my eyes out. If you’ve ever been on
the sidelines of a football match with a loud-mouthed mother yelling abuse, you’ll
know about helicopter parents. But humans have nothing on these birds trying to
protect their freshly hatched babes.
Limping back home, the car is packed
and my husband is ready to go.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
I felt too horrid to say anything.
The kids worked in tandem, telling the tale of the nest and my fall from
grace. The part about me going from helpful
bird-angel to evil chick-destroyer
was particularly good.
Husband raises both his eyebrows, sighs and drops his
shoulders: ‘What are we going to do with you?’
‘I
tried.’
‘Yes, you’re very trying, but your
good intentions backfired again didn’t they?’
‘Hmm.’
This sound is about as close as I can manage
to an admission of guilt.
All the way to the sunny coast, I try sitting
forward to ease the pressure. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast, my
back sticks to the car seat in an uncomfortable way. My inner thighs have so
many welts the whole expanse of skin has turned red and lumpy.
The windows are closed and so are my
eyes as we wind into the foothills. I can hear the clear, high pitched call of Crested
Bellbirds; my favourite nature sound in the world.
Eventually the pain killers work their
magic. I’m nodding, bobbing my head as our car snakes around the first bends on the
next 14 km of winding road.
Last fortnight I’d been dreaming of
lying on white sandy beaches in my slick new swimsuit. Of paddling out through
the waves to body surf and coming back to shore to laze and lounge and sip icy drinks. Of long beach walks with sand in
my toes and cooling afternoon-tea sea-breezes.
Now, I’ll need to be covered neck to knees or people will think I’ve been bashed.
Now, I’ll need to be covered neck to knees or people will think I’ve been bashed.
Edging towards sleep and nowhere near
our destination, I think back to those weeny Willie Wagtails and wish I’d let
them be.
P.S. These fantails wind the newly hatched feet of their chicks with
spider webs. It’s done to anchor and protect the babes from falling out of a nest
that is smaller that any other made by birds their size.
P.S.S. I am aware my blog is called birdlifesaving. In this case I endangered chicks even more than they were before. All this happened eleven years ago. Since, I have become a little better at the saving part. Either that, or I am much more careful when stepping out.
P.S.S. I am aware my blog is called birdlifesaving. In this case I endangered chicks even more than they were before. All this happened eleven years ago. Since, I have become a little better at the saving part. Either that, or I am much more careful when stepping out.
Oh Thérèse! Nice try and thanks for your openness about being a destroying angel. I reckon you have made up for it with everything you did before this - and have done since.
ReplyDeleteThank you DDS for trying to relieve my guilt for nearly killing four darling chickadees who didn't deserve to be tipped sideways. When I read even a little bit of this blog my back tends to hurt; who knows why?
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