It’s Sunday – my one day off of the week – so Steve and I headed out for a morning of birding. Since I’ve been at Mornington Station for more than four months now, the pickings are getting slim for new birds.

Today we scored, though, with four lifers within hours of each other: Yellow-throated Miner, White-browed Crake, Wandering Whistling-Duck, and Red-browed Pardalote. Steve knew the right spots to check for my targets. We spent the bulk of the morning inside a blind at Lake Gladstone, the largest wetland in the Kimberley, taking photos and scoping the distance. Steve set up his 500mm lens with a 1.4x extender on a tripod and let me have a go at this beautiful Rainbow Bee-Eater – nice!

I have only 18 days left at Mornington. More adventures planned afterward, though…

Australia is sometimes called the land of parrots (I think there’s even a TV series called “Australia: Land of Parrots”) – and we’ve got abunchathem here at Mornington.

Most common are probably Little Corellas – tall as my forearm, pure white, with a crazy crest and even crazier facial expressions. We’ve also got Sulphur-crested Cockatoos (huge, white parrots with a full-on screech), Red-winged Parrots (like the photo), Varied Lorikeets (little flocks of green cruise missiles), Red-tailed Black-Cockatoos (huge, black parrots with cool tail feathers), Northern Rosellas (relatively quiet and understated), Galahs (entirely neon pink), Rainbow Lorikeets (loud and colorful), and Budgerigars (like a pet shop). Once in a while someone sees a Cockatiel fly over (also like a pet shop) but I haven’t seen one yet. Lots of parrots!

Just back from two days in the field. Joey and I surveyed fairy-wrens all day Saturday, hiking 15 kilometers along the Hann River, then camped out to spend Sunday morning birding Lake Gladstone. Our camp site turned out to be mosquito-infested, so, instead of spending Saturday night relaxing by a campfire, we were both jammed in a tiny mosquito dome by 6:30pm, ready for bed. Probably for the best, since we’d been up and going hard since 3:30 in the morning.

Caught these Spinifex Pigeons looking typically dapper by a clump of spinifex grass yesterday as it got dark. Usually these guys fly off in a whirr before you get close, but I guess these ones thought they were camouflaged. Nice!

Yesterday, while searching for fairy-wrens along the Adcock River, I suddenly felt something big crawling up my pant leg. Assuming an ant, I swiped it out – but then the thing flew off, and it turned into a very large, beetle-like bug with long, bright orange antennae. It bit me a couple times on the way out, but no big deal – just a little sting.

At least, until today. My left knee has swollen to twice its normal size! I showed it to Steve, who told me a story of a lady who needed a skin graft after getting bit by some virulent beetle around here. That wasn’t too encouraging, so I typed “australian black beetle with orange antennae” into Google Images. Amazing what you can find out these days – turned out to be something called a Spider Wasp, which attacks spiders larger than itself (but not, apparently, a bug that kills people). Just a regular old wasp bite. Anyway, it’s itchy!

It’s been raining for the last eight hours – very strange for the dry season at Mornington. This morning all the roads are closed, campers and tourists are trapped, and interns and staff are dealing with soggy tents. I walked into the office to find Martha asleep on the couch – her tent had turned into a lake several inches deep.

Predictions are for clearing later in the day, but, meanwhile, it’s kinda nice to have some cooler temperatures around here. The rain sorta reminds me of home…

Michelle, Joey and I spent a rigorous day yesterday exploring some new territory on Mount House, a neighboring active cattle station about 2 hours drive away, looking for fairy-wrens along two sections of the Adcock River.

We found some fairy-wrens, but particularly exciting were two Black-headed Pythons, one in the morning and one in the evening, at different places along the dirt road. Both snakes were about two meters long – longer than me – bigger than any I’ve seen yet in Australia.

Black-headed Pythons are non-venomous, but still have fangs, and might bite, and, who knows, might strangle you, so we were pretty careful. But it’s hard to resist the urge to pick up anything slithery (especially for Joey), so voila: photo op. This particular python had a lot of scratches on its skin, and a large number of ticks (who knew snakes get ticks?), so maybe it’s due for a shed. In any case, an awesome piece of wildlife.

There’s a reason these guys are sometimes called “flying foxes” – just look at that face. Like a fox with wings. Or maybe a baby gorilla (actually, Joey just told me that fruit bats used to be considered as relatives of primates, but it’s been disproved).

These bats, called Black Fruit Bats, hang around during the day in communal roosts before flying around after dark. I stumbled across one roost of about 200 bats the other day in a pandanus clump – full of weird sounds, like cackling, and a smell like ammonia. Each one is almost two feet tall. Definitely the biggest bats I’ve ever seen.

They’d be creepy if they weren’t kinda cute in a way. With that fuzzy face and round, curious eyes, I’d almost want to pet one. Except it would probably bite me and give me rabies – or something more exotic, since rabies apparently doesn’t exist in Australia (true story). Wonder if I could train one to hang from my shoulder, like a reverse parrot.

Yesterday was freakishly cold here – it only reached 19.5 C (67 F), with heavy clouds and scattered drizzle throughout the day. It might have been the coldest day in several years at Mornington. Today, though, it’s back to the mid-30s (mid-90s), more typical winter weather, with the usual blazing sunshine.

Which is good because Michelle, Joey and I are headed out for a 3-day survey of a distant section of the Adcock River this weekend, and we’re planning on sleeping out (no tents). Should be excellent.

Even though it’s winter, a few Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens are nesting, and we’ve found several nests in the last couple weeks. They probably got into gear after the extended rainy weather in late May, which really greened up the landscape. Nice to see green spinifex against red termite mounds – perfect contrast.

On Saturday night a few of us headed to take advantage of the full moon by canoeing down Dimond Gorge. We reckoned it would be epic, even before knowing there would be a lunar eclipse!

Turned out that about 70% of the moon was obscured by Earth’s shadow as we prepared to launch our canoes. It sorta defeated the purpose of doing a full-moon paddle (not much light), but whatever, it was awesome. This particular eclipse was near-total in central and eastern Australia (and not even visible in the U.S.). At one point, I thought I saw my own shadow outlined on the moon’s surface, but it might have been wishful thinking…

“Hey guys,” said Gary, “Paul Kelly’s sitting over at the restaurant right now.” The whole table lit up with impressed Australians – “What?” “No kidding!” “Here?” But Ethan and I, as representative Americans, looked at each other quizzically. “Who’s Paul Kelly?”

Apparently Kelly’s real celebrity stuff in Australia, one of the country’s greatest singers and songwriters, known especially for some rock-ish songs in the 80s. He’s a household name down undah. Anyway, he’s here, at Mornington. Michelle, Joey and I watched the back of his head as he ate his 4-star dinner last evening, sitting next to some blonde at the restaurant. Sophie, on the hospitality staff, said she cleaned his room, er, safari tent, and reported Kelly did have a guitar. But, alas, the singer was brooding and antisocial, slipping off quietly after dinner without so much as a nod, probably psyching himself up for his concert in Broome this coming Saturday – unlike Xavier Rudd, who sang songs for us around the pizza oven when he visited a couple months ago. Celebrities are an odd bunch, especially when they show up unexpectedly in the middle of the desert…

Michelle, Joey and I headed out early to catch two particular fairy-wrens which hadn’t been banded yet (meaning they are immigrants to the Annie Creek population). Basically, we try to predict where the wrens will fly, set up mist nets in those areas, wait, and hope.

Last time we tried this, we got up at 4:30am, set up the nets, spent six hours staring at them, and went home without having caught anything. But today it worked perfectly! Must have been time for some good mistnetting mojo around here, because both target birds flew straight into the mesh. As a bit of a bonus, we also caught four Yellow-tinted Honeyeaters, a Restless Flycatcher, and a Double-barred Finch – always fun to get some bycatch!

Winter has set in across northern Australia, and the weather couldn’t be better. Every single day is sunny, not a cloud in the sky, highs in the upper 90s F (35 C), lows in the 40s (9 C). June and July are the best months here. It’s high season at Mornington.

Apparently yesterday Australia instituted its first-ever female Prime Minister. “Instituted” being the key word, since she wasn’t elected. Somehow the existing prime minister got unpopular enough that the government turned him out without telling anyone until half an hour before the switch was made (imagine that happening in the US!). So the general population here is reeling with the sudden news, two months before the next real election.

All of which has negligible effect on life at Mornington Station. The fairy-wrens have mostly lost breeding colors, so males are gray instead of purple. I saw another life bird this morning – a Horsfield’s Bronze-Cuck00 – which makes two in two days!

After more than three and a half months at Mornington Station, I’ve seen almost all the birds here. It’s been several weeks since I came across a new one (serious withdrawal) so, today, when a pair of Pacific Bazas flew into my fairy-wren territory, it was time to celebrate! A lifer!

A Baza is a small hawk with a crest. These ones were hunting in the outer foliage of paperbark trees, flapping ridiculously as they tried to grab prey with their feet. Definitely the highlight of my morning afield.

At night, from my tent, I typically hear all sorts of noises: howling dingoes, hopping wallabies, screaming Bush Stone-Curlews, gruff Boobook owls, and yapping Barking Owls. It’s a jungle out there – or, at least, a tropical savanna.

Most of those things are hard to find during the day, though, so I’ve been happy to see the same Barking Owl twice this week during fairy-wren surveys along the north end of Annie Creek. It probably wasn’t quite as happy to see me, since I flushed it from its nap, but there you have it. Even got a photo to prove it.

I have now managed to see almost all the nocturnal birds around here on day roosts. Spend enough time outside, and you’ll flush them from hiding: Spotted Nightjar, Australian Owlet-Nightjar, Tawny Frogmouth, Southern Boobook, and Barking Owl. The only night bird I haven’t yet seen in daylight is the stone-curlew; they must hide exceedingly well, since they’re common enough on the roads after dark.

People here say the Fitzroy River, at its highest flood stage, has the 3rd highest flow of any river in the world. It’s a pretty flashy system, though, which means the water empties out quick. The rest of the year, like now, the Fitzroy is meek and mellow, shallow enough to wade across in some places – perfect for swimming, save the occasional freshwater croc.

We don’t worry too much about the freshies (they keep to themselves, except when they occasionally bite people). There’s a perfect swimming hole about 9 kilometers from Mornington Station, called Blue Bush (no idea why), which makes a nice afternoon getaway. A few of us went down there this weekend to float around in inflated truck tires and stare cautiously at some tourists. Rainbow Bee-Eaters and Agile Wallabies flitted and hopped, respectively, until the sun set around 5pm. Solstice has hit – the days are getting longer now!

We found this mother-of-all-frogs one Sunday at a place called Bluff Pools, a permanent catchment set between massive limestone walls. It was near a Mulga Snake which seemed to be intent on hunting smaller frogs. The amphibian seemed less apt to kill me, so I stuck my camera in its face.

The frog didn’t mind a bit of wildlife paparazzi, and even smiled a bit for the photo op. It was big enough to cover the entire palm of my hand, with floppy padded feet sprawling over the sides of my wrist. James said it was a Magnificent Tree Frog (but the latin name is something to do with “splendid”). Anyway it seemed magnificent enough, pretty much the coolest frog ever, actually. I’m just glad Jess wasn’t there – the only person on station with an aversion to hoppy wet things. Don’t know how she survives with all the wriggly things in our outdoor toilets.

Last Saturday I surveyed fairy-wrens past lunchtime, bushwhacking about 14 kilometers along the Adcock River – a tough morning outside. At about 2pm, Katherine spotted me arrive back at station grimy, sweaty, hungry, and sunburned.

“Hey, we’re leaving for Mount Leake in 20 minutes,” she said. “Want to come?”

Well, sure. Instead of a nice shower and smoothie (my typical after-morning routine), I corralled together some water, food, sleeping bag, pad, and a few other necessities, threw them in a backpack, and jumped into James’ truck along with Bernie, Katherine, Claire, and Martha for the 2-day excursion. James drove us 40 minutes to the end of a 2-wheel track, dropped us, waved goodbye, and we spent the afternoon climbing Mornington’s highest prominence.

It was my second time up there this season, and, since none of the other four had been there before, I could point out the route. Watching sunset from the sandstone rocks, sleeping out under the stars, watching sunrise from my sleeping bag, snuggling down against a cold wind all night – yeah, it was pretty nice. But I was most proud of lighting a small fire with only grass and sticks – and just 2 matches – in the stiff wind. Say what you want, harnessing fire makes us human. In fact, it makes us men, full of hair and testosterone. Everyone, at heart, wants to be an annoying cub scout… (I tried singing Kumbaya, but it didn’t go down too well.)

And, yes, I’m still alive out here. Recent trouble with nonfunctional internet, nonfunctional camera, and nonfunctional Photoshop. Hope to get it all functional again soon…

For Sara’s last day (today), four of us were treated to an incredible breakfast.

At 5 a.m. Butch, Swanie, Sara and I climbed into Butch’s tiny helicopter (flying with all the doors off) and rode in pre-dawn darkness to a secret overlook on a remote sandstone escarpment, where a dry waterfall cascaded hundreds of feet to a palm-covered valley, accessible only by chopper. As the sun exploded over the horizon, we were admiring the view, just finishing a bottle of champagne (three flutes each – tipsy by 6 a.m.!), and Swanie already had a good fire going for breakfast.

While it burned down to ashes, and a fresh morning breeze kept us cool, he pulled out all the stops, as if we were VIP donors: fresh pancakes, eggs, toast, coffee, and ginger tea – and we sat perched atop the cliff face, talking over the season and just feeling the best part of life, lost in an immense and empty landscape. The depth of relaxation, intensity of being – it defies description. Especially with good friends – something no tourist experience could ever capture! After a couple magic hours, we loaded back into the chopper and meandered back to the station in time for another day of field work. Just a quick morning breakfast flight!

Yesterday morning I woke in my tent, ate breakfast, suited up, hopped on a quad and drove several kilometers down a dirt track to start a fairy-wren survey of the central Adcock River. It turned out to be an eventful morning.

After a couple hours of pushing my way through a nearly impenetrable tangle of freshwater mangroves, I arrived at territory 219 – where all the action happened. I found the pair of fairy-wrens there, but they quickly skulked away into a wall of spiky pandanus along the water’s edge. When I tried to follow, the whole place exploded – with enormous bats!

Hundreds of Black Fruit Bats were roosting right where the fairy-wrens had disappeared. Each bat, with a face like a fox (hence the nickname “flying foxes”), was furry, jet-black, with a three-foot wingspan, and cranky. Every time I took a step, the bats screamed, flapped noisily, picked fights with each other, growled, cackled, and brought all kinds of debris to the ground. They smelled rank, with an acrid, musty, ammonia flavor, overwhelming the senses, and, as I crawled through the jungle-like vegetation, bats were on every quarter, some within several feet, all hanging upside down from branches, clinging with their feet and wing-claws, each the size of a small cat, black as night, pressing closer and closer, staring, jostling.

Half an hour later, I was a little way upriver when a very large bird came gliding around the corner – a White-bellied Sea-Eagle, the first I’ve seen at Mornington. In its talons was a Black Fruit Bat! The eagle was pursued by three smaller Whistling Kites, vying for position, hoping for a handout, but seemed nonplussed by the extra attention as it flapped powerfully above the water, disappearing silently around the bend. So much for that particular fruit bat.

Apologies for the dearth of updates this week. We’re still in a cloudy, sticky, humid weather pattern (more rain forecast through this weekend), and our internet has been quite unreliable – crikey!

Anyway things are going good at Mornington Station. I was out for an evening run day before yesterday and, while hurtling down the dirt track, heard a slithering noise just behind me. Looked over my shoulder just in time to see a very angry, meter-long Mulga snake zipping toward the grass, head raised in agitation – I’d missed stomping its tail by mere inches. That’s the one that, if it bites you, gives you about five hours to live – and I was miles from the station. Got the adrenaline going a bit! Tegan very nearly stepped on one yesterday while wearing flip flops, so I’m not the only one taunting snakes around here.

A group of 60 tourists with a charity group called the Variety Club arrived yesterday to be wined, dined, and accommodated in safari tents. It’s a lot to put up with for the hospitality staff (all hands on deck kind of thing), but the group’s total bill for one night’s stay was $11,000 – a nice big check for the Wildlife Conservancy! (Not to mention the $2,000+ the group apparently spent at the bar alone, or the additional $12,000 shelled out at a charity auction after dinner.) Meanwhile, tourists are wandering around Mornington Station like zombies on patrol as we head into peak season here. Interesting to have a bit of extra company during my field work.

We’ve been locked in a weird weather system at Mornington – haven’t seen the sun in more than five days! Heavy clouds have been sitting over us, dumping rain and humidity.

Me, I’m ready for the dry weather to return. My tent is wet, my mattress is wet, my blankets are wet, my sleeping bag is wet, my clothes are hanging soaking on the line. It’s still reaching almost 90 F during the day, giving us a sticky, damp existence. Sweat doesn’t evaporate. Humidity varies between 80 and 98 percent. The power went out because solar panels aren’t operating, and the showers are ice-cold without solar heaters. The roads are closed and some people have been trapped here for almost a week. This is very unusual weather for May – which averages just .3 in of rain. So far, we’ve had more than ten times that in the last few days – and more in the forecast!

Agile Wallabies are the most common kangaroo-like animal around Mornington. There aren’t any actual kangaroos here (no kidding), but these guys are close enough. They hop. Put their babies in pouches. That kind of thing.

We also have Euros, sometimes called Wallaroos (a cross between a kangaroo and a wallaby?), and Rock Wallabies with long tails which hop around cliff faces like springy mountain goats.

The trouble with all these big marsupials is they’re so shy. Aside from grazing on the watered, mowed grass near the restaurant, wallabies generally hop away in a furry blur before you can get a bead on them. So I was happy this morning to catch a pair of Agile Wallabies in a pensive mood, at least long enough to get a quick photo. After some keen looks of suspicion and curiosity, they bounded away to join their mates in greener pastures.

I was doing field work yesterday morning in a rough section along the Adcock River, minding my own business (and a pair of Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens), when a guy in a green shirt popped out from behind a bush. He looked a bit nonplussed.

“What are you seeing?” I asked, wondering where he came from.

“Ah, some bird, looked like a kingfisher,” he said. “Here, take a look.” He showed me a photo displayed on the back of his digital camera.

“Nice – it’s a pair of Rainbow Bee-Eaters,” I said (close enough). “Where are you from?”

Turned out he was from New Zealand (shoulda guessed, green shirt), on a 3-week holiday with his wife, had driven half of Australia already, was camping in an RV, and was headed for a day at Dimond Gorge. His name was Warren. We got talking about New Zealand, since I’d been there last year, and I mentioned I’d climbed a prominence called Avalanche Peak at Arthur’s Pass, inland of Christchurch.

“Yeah, I climbed that once,” he said. “When I was six years old, my dad took me up there. Mind you,” (he scratched his head) “that was sixty years ago.”

With that, Warren disappeared into the vegetation, making his way back to the river crossing. The tourist season here has officially begun – Mornington Station boasts a 4-star restaurant (regular entrees are $49!), safari tents ($300/night!), campground, tours, etc. It’s an expensive place to vacation; punters get charged for everything (just to drive down the driveway commands a $25 “road fee”) but at least people can experience this place without actually working here. Me, I’m happy to get paid (however little) to live in such a place – so much better than being a tourist!

I couldn’t believe what I was doing this morning as, inside my tent, I dug around in pre-dawn darkness to find a warm sweater, and actually put it on! Gone are the hot, sweaty nights in front of a blasting fan. This morning the temperature reached 12.1 C (54 F). Downright cold, if you ask anyone around here.

It’s nice to have a break from the heat. Afternoons are barely reaching 37 C now (100 F), quite enjoyable compared to constant 42 C (108 F) of a couple months ago. Funny how relative things are.

Yesterday (Sunday) I went for a bit of a wander from camp, trying to find a set of wetlands to see what birds might be around. The wetlands were almost dried up and I ended up walking 27 kilometers (17 miles) in transit. However, I did see two new birds: Fairy Martin and Gray-fronted Honeyeater – so the hike was well worth it! After more than two months here, it’s getting tough for me to find new birds…

But what a tent! I’m used to lightweight, backpacking-style tents, but when Michelle mentioned some kind of montrosity wedged in the rafters of the storage area, I was curious. Turned out to be an enormous car-camping tent. Perfect! Its floor is 4 x 3.2 meters (13.1 x 10.5 feet) and the entire space has a ceiling so high I can stand, stretch my arms over my head, and still not touch the roof. Every wall has a foldable flap, exposing mesh all the way around. The tent even has front and back entrances – seriously, it’s a castle!

I moved in a full-size bed, with frame and mattress, which fits in one corner. On the other side, I arranged two shelving units and a chair, leaving plenty of space to walk around in between. During the day, I can sit in the chair and look at birds (including a resident pair of fairy-wrens) from within my mosquito-proof home. At night, I fall asleep to the thumping of wallabies and distant choruses of howling dingoes. And now it’s getting down to 18 C (65 F) in the wee hours, it’s not too hot to sleep without a fan. I’m glad to call this place home.

Today’s date might not seem particularly notable, but I know three ways that it is.

First, it’s Michelle’s birthday today – I won’t say her age, but it’s a nice round number halfway between 10 and 70… and an excuse for a party! All of Mornington’s staff turned out for a celebratory potluck, with cake (adorned with sparklers) and an amazing amount of food. Michelle was taken for a birthday helicopter ride this morning for breakfast at a scenic pool beyond Spider Gorge, but her biggest present (to herself) is a 5-week trip to Peru, starting in two days. She deserves it for being a great fairy-wren boss!

Second, today is Cinco de Mayo, that awesome Mexican holiday. I tried to instill some latin excitement by announcing at the table, “It’s Cinco de Mayo!” but was greeted by a host of blank stares. Guess they don’t celebrate that one in Australia – I spent the next five minutes explaining what people do on Cinco de Mayo (drink margaritas and Corona, wear big sombreros, eat Mexican food), but it was no use on these Aussies. They didn’t really get it.

Finally, today I have been at Mornington for exactly two months (I arrived on March 5). I don’t know where the time has gone – flown away on a sizzling sun. Good thing I still have a while to go, because I’ve only begun to explore this place! May the next three months bring as much adventure as the last two.

I’ve been kicked out of my room and moved into a tent (more on that later), which means one thing: it better not rain for the next three months. I don’t want my bed getting soaked (yep, I have a whole bed in my tent).

Not that the weather gives any indication of it. We’re now firmly into The Dry, with blue skies and cooler temps through the northern Australian winter. Two months ago, it was about 42 C (108 F) every afternoon; now it’s only reaching 38 C (101 F). Downright cold! Mornings have been around 18 C (65 F), almost chilly.

After about the driest wet season on record, we’re also getting deeper into a major drought. The Annie Creek road crossing, normally underwater, dried up this week, which is unheard of this time of year. Normally it flows year-round, and, in dry years, it’s been known to go dry in October, but we’re only just getting into the dry months. Even the mighty Adcock River (a tributary to the Fitzroy, which, at its highest flood stage, has the 3rd highest output of any river in the world) is down to a trickle small enough to step across without getting your feet wet. What does it all mean? Only time will tell.

Sara and I have spent the last couple afternoons sorting frozen bugs. It’s at least an excuse to stay in the air-conditioned office…

Basically, we sample insects once each month to get an idea of fairy-wren food abundance. This means running around one afternoon with a butterfly net, sweeping it energetically through the grass (at predetermined spots along Annie Creek), then dumping the loot in a gallon-size ziplock, freezing it for two days, and picking through the subsequent mess with tweezers, carefully sifting insects from grass seeds. It’s a tedious process, but I’m learning some useful Latin. Want to know the order of grasshoppers? No worries. (It’s Orthoptera.) How about the order of beetles? Got that one, too. (Coleoptera.) And want to know what a ziplock full of half-thawed dead bugs smells like? Barfinabucketa. Official term.

Sunday, and a reprieve from the end of a tough week. So what do we do? Sit around and eat all day!

I’m stuffed. This morning I slept in, then wandered up to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Then came the pancakes, egg frittata, and sticky rolls (the Aussies call them “scrolls”). After that, regular food was dispensed with entirely and I spent the rest of the day pigging out on chocolate, trifle, and other desserts. For dinner, another bowl of cereal. The farthest I walked today was a short amble from my bed to the kitchen and back – hardly a strain!

But it was well-deserved, since Jen and I ran a dusty half marathon yesterday afternoon (for the heck of it). And, speaking of Jen, she’s out of here tomorrow, on a plane back to the U.S. after five months working on a Crimson Finch project. Roughly half of Mornington’s staff will be turning over in May, so we’re getting ready for a new crowd around here. So, to kick things off, according to specific request from her mother, I hereby post all my best Jen photos – retribution for a soon-to-be-lacking communal dinner cook. Take that!

Among intense days, today was intense. Sara and I surveyed the upper Adcock River for fairy-wrens, the longest stretch we’ve done yet.

Things started early when Michelle dropped us before dawn at the closest road crossing. Sara and I hiked to our first point by the light of the full moon, watching the sun rise as we bushwhacked through mangroves and across twisting gravel bars. From there, we scrambled and surveyed upstream, stopping every 100 meters to play a fairy-wren tape, all day long.

From the farthest point, we turned around and navigated back to the dropoff crossing. By the time Michelle picked us up, we were once again hiking in the dark, using headlamps to illuminate the muddy mangrove mazes until well after dinnertime. Overall, we covered about 17 kilometers (11 miles), stopping only briefly for lunch and a couple snacks along the way.

Hiking was at times smooth, rough, passable, and brutal. In the afternoon the temps surpassed a hundred degrees (as usual) while we hauled ourselves over logjams, skidded out in slippery mud, climbed up and fell down riverbanks, shoved through springy mangroves and 8-foot-tall sorghum grass, swatted clouds of flies, faceplanted into orb spiderwebs, and avoided prowling crocodiles, sweating bullets at every turn. The terrain here is raw and unforgiving.

We found a few fairy-wrens, but a more unexpected discovery kept us guessing. About five kilometers from the nearest entry point, I stumbled across a full-size, stainless steel kitchen knife resting on a gravel bar. Who leaves that kind of thing lying by a river? And who was out there anyway, far from the remotest signs of civilization? The property belongs to a neighboring ranch, Mount House, and I wondered if maybe some cowboys were carving up a steer and misplaced their knife (another little ways and we found an entire cow skeleton, complete with perfect skull). Sara, though, pointed out it could have been a murder weapon, so we worked out our alibis just in case. But the knife was duller than high school geometry, too blunt to stab anyone, so I shucked it in my backpack with plans to find a sharpener back at Mornington.

It’s a bird seemingly too colorful for reality, but the Gouldian Finch really does exist – barely. It’s one of Australia’s rarest, most endangered, and most sought-after birds, and Mornington happens to be one of the best places to see it. In fact, the Gouldian Finch is one of the main reasons the Australian Wildlife Conservancy acquired this property at all.

Gouldians formerly ranged across northern Australia but populations were decimated by trapping (for the pet trade) and habitat loss. Today they’re found in just a few scattered areas, and may number fewer than 2,000 wild birds. At Mornington, though, they’re fairly common, and I see these guys just about every day. Researchers here have studied Gouldians intensively over the last decade since they’re a good indicator of tropical savannah habitat quality.

Interestingly, there are three color morphs. About 80% have fully black heads, but 20% have red heads (like the one in the photo, which I took this morning). If you’ve done your math, that leaves zero percent for the last morph, the near-mythical golden-headed Gouldian, which is so rare that it basically exists only in captivity. The genes are out there, though, so, even though a golden-headed one has never been seen at Mornington, it could happen…

Roasting flavored marshmallows while watching the lava-like glow of prescribed fires close below, lying flat on the sandstone to watch constellations, knowing that the closest company (other than Mornington Station itself) were a few folks at Fitzroy Crossing represented by a flickering light on the horizon 95 kilometers away – what could be better? And waking up to all-encompassing sunrise, in a grand place off-limits to all but Mornington staff? Nothing, really. Yesterday and today were days I will remember for the rest of my life.

Four of us sweated through an uphill, 2.5-hour hike yesterday afternoon to make it to Mount Leake’s summit by sunset. Butch, our near-resident helicopter pilot, had graciously flown a supply of water to the top so we didn’t have to carry much on the ascent. After a night in the sky (my sleeping pad was spread on the peak’s literal highest point, with steep dropoffs on both sides) and subsequent sunrise, we dropped into a deep gorge for the return hike and spent today meandering between swimming holes between sheer red cliffs. Not even a sidewall blowout on our truck tire could dampen high spirits all the way home.

Thursday and Friday, Sara and I spent every waking moment surveying for Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens along the Throssel River — a backcountry stretch too long to cover in one day.

We got up at 3:30 on Thursday morning and Michelle drove us more than an hour from Mornington Station, dropping us at dawn along a rough track near an escarpment called the Cliffton Range — pretty much the middle of nowhere. From that spot, Sara and I picked up the Throssel River and followed it south for 13 kilometers of dense, off-trail hiking, stopping every 100 meters to play a 2-minute tape recording of fairy-wren songs (and observing birds which responded to the tape).

The Throssel is particularly known for being infested with crocodiles, of which we saw a good assortment. A year and a half ago, a student looking for Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens stepped into the water here to find a large croc latched around her knee. The croc wouldn’t let go, and the muddy river banks were too steep to climb out with the animal attached to her leg; luckily, someone else was there to pull her out, croc and all. They had to gouge its eyes out before it relented and flopped back into the muddy water. The student had to be evacuated by helicopter to Derby (a couple hours away), and subsequently underwent surgery back in the U.S. to reconstruct her kneecap. They say such attacks are extremely rare, but, six months later, a staff member at Mornington was bit in the calf while swimming and still has the scars to prove it. Two croc bites in two years at a place with an average population of 12 people – it’s something, that’s all I’m saying.

Anyway we went all-out, hiking and surveying, dawn to dark on Thursday, 12 hours straight with just a short lunch break. We went right through the heat of the day, over 100 degrees F, carrying 11 liters (25 pounds) of water in each of our packs, wearing long pants, and just generally gutting it out through thick grass, hot river rocks, and spiky pandanus stands. When it got dark we rolled out sleeping mats and flopped down to sleep at 6:30 p.m. under the stars, but mosquitoes descended with darkness, and I was up for 4 more hours alternately swatting mosquitoes and hiding from them under my sauna-like sleeping bag before it was cool enough to sleep. A kilometer or two in the distance, five prescribed fires burned like molten lava, lighting up the night underneath a half moon.

Friday morning Sara and I finished our survey, walked out to a road, and radioed for a pickup. It was sure nice to return to the land of air conditioning and smoothies – but not for long; this afternoon we’re headed for another night of camping. This time, though, it’s just for fun; four of us are climbing nearby Mt. Leake with plans to sleep under the stars tonight on the highest point in this region. We’ll see how it goes!

Just back from an intensive 2-day survey of the Throssel River (which is why it’s been quiet here lately).

Lots of hiking with heavy packs in the heat through wild terrain, and one night under the stars and mosquitoes.

It was pretty full-on, as the Aussies say, and I’m off to bed, happy to once again have a fan and shower. Funny how relative civilization can be!

Photos and stories tomorrow…

The Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens have stopped nesting as we head into the dry season, but that doesn’t mean other birds aren’t hard at work. Even after one of the driest wet seasons on record, the grass is green, leaves are on the trees, and babies are all over the place.

Crimson Finches and Double-barred Finches build some of the most obvious nests, which I stumble across almost daily; they’re both enclosed with side entrances (like fairy-wrens) and usually eye level in a pandanus or paperbark. Dove nests are at the opposite end of the spectrum, so flimsy that the eggs seem to hang suspended by a thread. Kingfishers nest in tree cavities, honeyeaters build suspended sock nests, Magpie-Larks construct solid mud structures, and Buff-sided Robins seek out a flimsy fork at the tip of a mangrove branch. Sara found a Pheasant Coucal nest on the ground amid tall grass, probably the most interesting nest so far. As for the fairy-wrens, they’re probably done until August at least, so our work now mostly involves weekly censusing and resighting efforts. Winter is coming!

After more than a month without seeing a dingo, I have seen two in the last three days, both at close quarters.

The first one I ran into (almost literally) on a long evening run late last week. As I approached on the dirt road, it stood on the shoulder and didn’t budge while I jogged past within a few feet. Then I glanced back and noticed it loping quietly along behind me, keeping pace. Suddenly I didn’t like this encounter so much; though dingos aren’t really a threat, to have one stalking me at sunset, several miles from the station, started to sketch me out. “I’m running away from it!” I thought. So I stopped running, turned around, and faced down the dog, which paused just a few feet away. After a sort of tense stare-off, it seemed to lose interest and quietly stepped into the grass.

On Saturday I saw another one by the Adcock crossing, though it was more properly wary and ran away on sight. Pretty much, they’re your standard, run-of-the-mill dogs, except they’re roaming around the Australian desert. Gives you a start to realize it’s not just someone’s pet. They seem to be active all day, which surprises me since it gets so hot (well over 100 F today, as usual). Imagine having all that fur!

I guess the rough week caught up with me, as I woke in an unusual depressed mood this morning. Could have had something to do with the all-staff dance party late last night (everyone was a bit tired this morning) compounded by a touch of homesickness after three hard field days, but I was surprised to find myself lackluster, aimless, lonely, and frustrated by it all today. My free Sunday morning seemed empty.

But an occasional soul-searching session doesn’t go amiss. The lows accentuate the highs, and it was good to have a very slow day today, rest, and recharge a bit, even in a drained mood. New plans are afoot later this week – literally – with two different overnight camping trips on top of regular field work. So there’s plenty to keep us busy!

Sara and I rose at 4am so Michelle could drop us at the upstream end of Roy Creek, about a half hour’s drive from here, just before sunrise. The two of us set off, each with GPS, field notebook, binoculars, speakers, food, and five liters (12 pounds) of water, for a long, rough day of fairy-wren surveying.

We walked a transect along the creek for seven kilometers to a point farther south, playing fairy-wren tapes every 100m. Diabolical grass seeds, heat and humidity, sunburn, thick vegetation, ticks, slips, falls, and scratches combined for tough going, and it took us almost 11 hours to cover those seven ks. In early afternoon, both of our GPS units failed simultaneously; one went in the creek (along with data sheets and, well, the whole researcher), and the other simply died – suicide, maybe. By the time Michelle picked us up at a prearranged point in mid-afternoon, we were happy to retreat with observations of 11 fairy-wrens, as well as 15 Black Fruit Bats, a pair of Golden-headed Cisticolas, and several Brown Quail. Popsicles and burritos for dinner were well-deserved!

This morning I collected the three remote, motion-activated cameras we set up at a dead wallaby carcass two days ago, and hit paydirt! We caught a wild Dingo in the act of scavenging some of the rotting meat. This is a snippet from the low-res video.

Dingoes are Australia’s version of coyotes. They’ve only been here about 10,000 years and are basically just wild, brownish-colored dogs; they’re one of the top predators at Mornington Station (along with crocs). I heard some Dingoes howling near camp the other night, and have seen tracks everywhere, and Sara has seen two in the last week, but I have yet to properly set eyes on one. Soon enough! Meanwhile, it’s fun to watch our camera-trap video. You can see the two other remote cameras on the right side of the frame (neither one caught much of interest, so it’s good we set up three).

Everywhere but here, that is. Thunderstorms have roamed around the Kimberley for the last four days, sending humidity soaring and giving us some interesting sunsets, but every single one has missed us so far. An Aboriginal community two hours north of us got more than four inches (110 mL) of rain overnight while we had zilch. We need some precip!

Not that the rivers aren’t flowing. Since it rained upstream, I was a bit startled to see the Adcock River raging yesterday morning, fifty feet wide, muddy, frothing, with large logs and other debris floating down, where I’d merely stepped across the previous afternoon without getting my toes wet. Lucky for us, Paul was able to get the truck across all the stream crossings yesterday on the tail end of a 2-day resupply trip, so, once again, I have all kinds of fresh food (30 bananas! 9 liters of milk! 3 kilograms of apples!). Life is good; it could just use a bit of rain.

Sara found a dead wallaby day before yesterday at the edge of camp, and had the brilliant idea of surrounding it with remote cameras to see what showed up at the carcass. So we put up three motion-controlled cameras, one set to take 30-second video clips and the other two to take still photos, and left them there.

If things go well, we’ll get a shot of a dingo or something. If not, we’ll have spent time next to a rotting carcass for nothing. The stench is now wafting all over camp on the breeze. Hope it works!

Lightning is visible most nights, flickering like distant strobe lights while we bask under  starry skies. Last evening was no different, but one thunderstorm passed close enough to see actual forks and bolts.

Since it was going off in a giant, brain-like thunderhead, I grabbed my camera. Of course, no good bolts hit while the shutter was open, but you get the idea. Out of about 200 photos, most at 2 seconds, lightning lit up every single one. Quite an energetic cloud.

Long day, so today’s entry is sentence fragments. Canoe trip. Dimond Gorge (not sure why it’s spelled that way). Swimming and crocs and croc attack stories. Sunburn, ouch. New all-rounder hospitality recruits. Thunder, lightning, dry, green, red, 12 drops of rain. A bevy of volunteers in an air-con van which lacks any refrigerator.

Melty Tim Tams and warm ice water and sandy forks. Pigeon, Wallaby. Heat. Slippery rocks, stickery grass. Mud. More mud. More rocks. Great company. Awesome!

I’m glad it’s almost Sunday, because the last two days have been long ones. After our canoe survey yesterday, I went for a long run, then stayed up past Mornington Midnight (otherwise known at 9pm, a brutally late hour) with some freshly-arrived hospitality recruits. And today I’ve covered more than 25 kilometers (15.5 miles) on foot, much of it off-trail.

This morning the roads were damp with a skiff of overnight rain. I was headed to cover a distant group of Fairy-Wren territories, which required a 4-kilometer bike ride followed by a 4-kilometer off-trail hike, but things got off to a bad start when my bike became hopelessly bogged and seized less than five minutes out. I ended up walking the whole distance; it took me two hours just to get back from my farthest point, a brutal hike in 92% humidity. I don’t think I’ve ever sweated so much in my life! I still had enough energy for my daily run in the evening, but was pretty cashed by the end of it. Tomorrow, we’re planning to sleep in, then go swimming at Dimond Gorge (yep, “Dimond”). Can’t wait!

Michelle and I rose early this morning – 4am – because we had a big project for today: surveying 13 kilometers of the Fitzroy River for Fairy-Wrens, by canoe.

Julie drove us out to Sir John Gorge in predawn darkness and paused there just long enough to see us drag the canoe down the rocky bank – a task that would become all-too-familiar throughout the rest of the day – before hightailing it back to station for breakfast. Michelle and I, with radios, provisions, and drybags (er, trash bags; don’t ask), hopped in the canoe and set off downriver.

Nine hours later, we hauled out at a prearranged point downriver, called for a pickup by radio, and gratefully extracted sore butts and backs to shore. In the interim, we stopped every hundred meters or so to play a 2-minute recording of Purple-crowned Fairy-Wren song in hopes of finding birds along the riparian strip. As it turned out, we found just three birds: a lone female, unbanded, and a banded pair that Michelle already knew about.

Most entertaining, though, were various sets of rapids. Unfortunately, the ongoing drought has resulted in lower-than-usual water levels, so we often got stuck on rocks and had to drag the canoe through whitewater. I think we did that eight separate times. A few rapids shot us like an amusement ride, and I could see why, on the last two surveys of this river, the canoe flipped at some point. No such catastrophes today; just a nice day on the river!

As I walked up to my room this evening, just after sunset, a crowd of half a dozen people were gathered just outside my door. I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but, just then, Ben arrived on a quad, screeching to a halt in a cloud of dust, and jumped lightly to the ground. “Where is it?” he asked.

Trish pointed at a dark shape in the grass, and things suddenly happened fast. Ben crouched and dove, and, in the blink of an eye, held a wriggling 4-foot snake dangling by its tail. With his other hand, Ben opened a cloth bag and lightly dropped the snake inside, twisting the opening so it couldn’t escape. Then, almost jovially, he hopped back on the quad to transport the snake “a couple k’s down the road” where it might live a bit more peacefully.

I turned to Paul. “Was it a Mulga?” I asked. “King Brown,” he affirmed (two names for the same thing). The most feared snake in this part of Australia. One bite can kill you in less than five hours, so I appreciated Ben’s bare-handed snatch. But, then, he worked with Death Adders in a past project, so no big deal. I was just glad to see the snake taken somewhere else – away from my front doorstep.

Tomorrow Michelle and I are planning a big day, surveying a long stretch of the Fitzroy River by canoe for Fairy-Wrens. It’ll be good, she says, if we don’t tip over in the rapids at some point, which apparently happens more often than not on this survey. Stay tuned!

“Don’t add the yeast with the boiling water, or you’ll kill it,” said Richie Rich this afternoon (a nickname derived from the unfortunate coalescence of four different Riches at Mornington, after they all declined to be known as “Richard the First,” “Richard the Second,” and so on). “There are many ways to bugger a brew.”

Sara and I were learning the intricacies of home brewed beer from a master. “The cheapest beer at Woolworth’s [where we order groceries] is $1.30 per stubby,” he calculated. (A “stubby,” to us Americans, is a regular old bottle.) “But home brew works out to about $0.20 per stubby and tastes about the same as the cheap stuff anyway.”

So, we mixed the yeast, sugar, and some treacle-like magic “draught” mixture into a 23-liter tank, and set it aside to bubble away for the next week. Meanwhile, another batch from last week was ready for bottling, and the three of us spent 45 minutes disinfecting old bottles, siphoning in the new brew, adding carbonation sugar tablets, and sealing on new caps. Another two weeks, and it’ll be ready to drink – though the beer will probably taste better after a month.

Home brew is a major part of Mornington culture. The staff has been at it for years and people here have it down to an art. “You can’t mess it up,” says Swanie, but, almost in the same breath, “a lot of things can go wrong.” So, we’ll just have to see how this latest batch turns out!

Not that I’m obsessive about the heat, but here are a few benchmarks I’ve noticed lately: (1) Afternoon high temperatures are usually near 107 F (41.5 C) and don’t vary much between 105 and 108; (2) The other morning it was 84 F (28.5 C) when I got up at 4:30 a.m.; (3) When I headed out for a run day before yesterday, an hour before sunset, it felt nice and cool – until I realized it was “just” 95 F (35 C) – then the sweat really started dripping!

As we head into fall and winter here, things should settle down a bit. Out of curiosity I looked up climate data for Fitzroy Crossing, which is about 90 kilometers from here; average highs in June and July (the coldest months) were closer to 90 F (31 C). Sounds lovely; can’t wait!

Someone told me these are called “St. Andrews Cross Spiders” because, sometimes, the extra webbing forms a cross shape around the spider at rest. I have no idea if this is true.

Still, it’s an easy name to remember. I see these spiders hanging out all over the place, often suspended above Annie Creek, and I’ve wondered many times how they manage to connect the first strand of webbing across five feet of open water – do they jump, climb around, or piggyback on unicorns? Their webs are nothing to mess with, either; two Crimson Finches have been found caught in spider webs here this season (the spiders, apparently, balked at finding a bird in their net, so nobody benefited). Not something you want to walk into!

I have a case of heat rash on my ankles and calves, bad enough that I only slept one hour last night (too itchy to sleep). It’s kinda like poison oak – bumpy, scabby, and just generally gnarly. If it gets any more photogenic I’ll post a photo here – after all, misery loves company! For now, I’m spending 30 minutes at a stretch with my feet immersed in a bucket of ice water, twice a day. It’s actually quite pleasant, even if the rash continues, to feel a touch of frostbite once in a while.

This afternoon the high temperature hit 107 degrees F (41.7 C), as usual, but everyone was sitting around on Easter Sunday, so it wasn’t too bad. We spent the afternoon playing Cranium (a board game) in the air-conditioned office. And at least this holiday wasn’t as hot as Christmas, which was a roasting 113 degrees F here (two months before I arrived); a bit different than the snowy Christmases back home!

Paul and two accomplices (er, the Easter Bunny) hid 87 chocolate eggs around the premises last night, in the research lab, in the kitchen, outside – and no doubt they’ll be turning up for weeks. I shudder to think what 107-degree heat might do to a chocolate egg over such a long period; guess we’ll find out soon enough. Meanwhile, every time I stumble across one, it makes a nice treat.

Easter is just beginning in the U.S. – have a good one!

I was excited to discover a Fairy-Wren nest with three eggs a couple weeks ago. When Michelle and I went to band the seven-day-old chicks, though, we found only one giant baby in the nest, almost twice the size of an adult Purple-crowned Fairy-Wren. A cuckoo!

Cuckoos in Australia are like cowbirds in North America: they lay eggs in other birds’ nests, hoping to pawn off parental responsibility on other species. Cuckoo chicks hatch quickly and push out all other eggs in the nest. Sometimes, the outcome is a bit ludicrous; I recently observed a tiny Bar-breasted Honeyeater feeding a Brush Cuckoo fledgling more than three times its size. You’ve got to wonder what they parents are thinking at that point – are they proud to raise a giant?

Fairy-Wrens aren’t often parasitized by cuckoos, probably because their nests are enclosed. Last season, one female Horsfield’s Bronze-Cuckoo laid single eggs in four different wren nests along Annie Creek (DNA confirmed that the eggs all originated from one female). The nestling we found this week could have been a Horsfield’s, or maybe a Brush Cuckoo; after taking a blood sample, we’ll eventually be able to figure it out in the lab.

In this case, the cuckoo didn’t make it. At 10 days old, it was eaten in the nest by a goana at 11am on March 30. How do we know? A motion-sensored camera trap positioned on the nest actually caught a 15-second video of the lizard sneaking up to the nest. The video lines up with my field observations: happy Fairy-Wren parents feeding the cuckoo chick at 6am on March 30, and an empty nest the next morning. Life is rough in the wild.

The first time I saw a five-foot lizard walking around here, I was a bit surprised. Now, I’ve seen so many that they blend in with the wallabies and crocs.

The biggest ones are the Yellow-spotted Goanas. They look pretty much like giant lizards with blocky heads, thick legs, and long tails, and walk with a curious sideways gait. They’re no danger to people, but goanas are the main predator of eggs and baby birds here. Eighty percent of baby Fairy-Wrens are eaten before they even leave the nest.

Sometimes a goana will be hiding in dry leaf litter or grass when I come walking along, and it will shoot out from under my feet at the last second with all kinds of noise. Mostly, though, they regard humans with a kind of impassive, aloof stare, and meander on their own business, perenially searching, probing, and shuffling along, eating whatever they can find – bugs, frogs, baby birds. Oh, to be a goana!

JoJo, who has worked at Mornington Station for the last five years, left today for new adventures elsewhere. So, last night, most everyone headed to Sir John Gorge for a farewell party.

The idea was to take in the sunset before the full moon rose an hour later. The sunset held its part of the bargain, extra-fiery with smoke and glow of a large prescribed burn to the south. But, as darkness fell, rain began to sputter. The moon stayed hidden. (The night before, I rode my bike by moonlight without a torch, er, headlamp, and cast a sharp shadow.)

Rain or shine, though, Swanie had made a pot of dhal (Indian lentils), and we ate while sitting on the warm sandstone, actually glad for the rain. It’s been one of the driest wet seasons on record; this place needs it! JoJo, though, will be missed.

After 22 days without being replenished, we finally received a new shipment of food this week – $1,700 of groceries, to be exact. For me, after nearly running out completely, it was like Christmas all over!

The system here is simple. Every couple of weeks, everyone at Mornington fills out an Excel spreadsheet with what they’d like from the store. It all goes in one big order, which, on arrival, is carefully doled out according to who requested what. Overall, it runs pretty smooth.

Trouble is, though, you don’t know how much anything costs until after you’ve bought it. So, I was a bit surprised to find that Gatorade powder mixes were $12 each; with five of them, I spent $60 on Gatorade alone! Same goes for sports bars, which are apparently $5 each, so I threw down approximately $50 on Powerbars.

The day before our order was processed, the grocery store rang up Mornington Station with a few questions, most of them about items I’d requested. They were very confused about “peanut butter flavored snack bars,” of which I’d ordered 20, until the clerk learned that I was American, and burst out laughing over the phone. “That explains it!” she cackled. “Oh, and what are black beans?” Australians, it seems, haven’t caught on to black beans at all, and don’t even know what they are. Overall, though, I was very pleased to restock my supplies. Let the eating begin!

This morning, while tracking Fairy-Wrens, I noticed a lot of activity around a small, shallow puddle in the gravel along Annie Creek. So, I took out my camera, sat still for five minutes, and photographed the action.

Within seconds, birds were all around me. In such dry conditions, water is a precious commodity around here, and this particular puddle was perfectly shaped, with a long, gradual ramp of gravel where the birds could wade and drink. In just a few minutes, I watched Peaceful, Bar-shouldered, and Diamond Doves; Brown, Rufous-throated, Yellow-tinted, Black-chinned, White-throated, and White-gaped Honeyeaters; a Sacred Kingfisher; and Crimson, Long-tailed, Double-barred, and Gouldian Finches, all vying for a spot next to the water, not paying much attention to my presence. I was more than happy to snap this photo of five Long-tailed Finches, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, with perfect reflections!

Yesterday evening, a tight truckload of us headed to Lake Gladstone (about an hour and a half from here), bird guides and gin and tonics in hand, to see what was up. Maybe, being a lake, it might have some waterbirds.

A spartan bird blind was built there last November, at the end of the dry season, but not a soul had visited the place in the intervening four months. Thick sorghum grass grew eight feet high over the track, hiding deep washouts, and we bumped over logs and anthills (one massive termite mound required circumnavigation, solid as a brick wall).

The remote lake’s water level, predictably, had risen through the wet season, necessitating a wade through two feet of water to reach the blind. Leeches the size of my pinky finger thronged the water and attached to our legs, turning our calm wade into a frantic dash for cover. Once installed with a clear view of the sunset, though, we happily watched jacanas, cormorants, and a few large crocs while sipping drinks and munching snacks under the broad Australian sky – a perfect end to the week.

Michelle abruptly diverted onto a claypan as six of us absorbed shocks in the truck this afternoon. “I think this is the track,” she said, peering at a faint tire smudge in hard-baked mud, and cranked the wheel. Soon, we were literally driving through a forest, with 20-foot high trees whipping under the front grille. We folded the side mirrors, so they wouldn’t be snapped off, and plunged ahead into the bush, following faint traces of ruts.

After careening for a while, crammed four across the backseat, we  stopped next to a grove of ancient Boab trees. Heat crackled the dry grass. “Check out the carvings on the trunks,” Michelle said, pointing at a particularly large one. “And the graves underneath.”

Two (or maybe three) rough sandstone crosses were arranged on the ground. On the boab tree was etched in long-overgrown letters: “Harrey The Hon. W. Allen Esq.” and a date that looked like 18-8. “It’s said that some explorer stopped here in the 1800s,” said Olya, “but who, or why, I’m not sure.” In any case, at least two bodies were buried here, absolutely the middle of nowhere, and I wondered about their fate. I suppose an ancient boab would mark a fine resting place, but this one was really off the edge of the map; we’d driven an hour and a half, far from even any decent 4×4 road, and it looked like nobody else had visited this year, anyway. The boabs, inscrutable, inverted-looking, weren’t telling. We left shaking our heads, with piqued curiosity about the people who came long before.

If you’re from the U.S., you might not have heard of Xavier Rudd – one of Australia’s most famous musicians. I’ve been a fan of his music since last September, when I went to one of his concerts near San Francisco. In fact, two of his tracks are in a playlist that I just listened to yesterday morning.

So imagine my total astonishment when Xavier Rudd himself washed in here yesterday afternoon! At first, all we heard was a garbled radio message from Swanie that “two tourists” had driven past all the CLOSED signs and were asking questions about Diamond Gorge. Swanie was about to tell them to turn right around and go home, but something clicked. Ten minutes later, everyone at Mornington knew we were hosting a rock star. It wasn’t unlike having Johnny Cash unexpectedly knock on your front door, assuming you lived in the middle of the Sahara desert.

Turned out, Xavier was just traveling around this region with his girlfriend, and they decided to make the six-hour 4×4 drive to Mornington Station on a whim (closed signs notwithstanding; they even had to cut a cable-tied gate to get in here). After some initial confused communication, they stuck around to watch the sunset at Sir John Gorge and joined us around the pizza oven late into the evening, eating pizza, hanging out, and telling stories. Xavier was obviously ripped, and took in the scene as any famous musician/surfer dude should; when I explained to him, at one point, over a beer, how I had lived with penguins in Antarctica, Xavier sank deeper into his seat: “Far out, man,” he replied. “What were the polar bears like?” Even if he had his wildlife facts a bit backwards, it was surreal to be talking to the celebrated musician under a starry sky, staring into the flames of the pizza oven, and feeling the heat of the day wafting up from red soil.

In the end, the singer grabbed a guitar from his rig, gave us a couple songs, and said his goodbyes just before midnight; he had to drive out to appear at a “Save the Kimberley” fundraising event the next day, then was off for an 8-month world tour of Australia, North America, and Europe. We told him not to run over any owls on the way out, gave him a piece of Jen’s chocolate cake, and watched our random guest drive into the dark, back to surfing trips with Jack Johnson and gigs with Ani DiFranco. Here, though, he was just another tanned, Aussie surfer dude – maybe a bit out of place at a wildlife research camp, but welcomed nonetheless; and one random encounter I definitely won’t forget!

While hacking through the hot, riparian jungle, we encounter a lot of bugs (and, once a month, even sample them scientifically – but that’s another story). Among the most interesting are the green ants.

More specifically,  Green Tree Ants (Oecophylla smaragdina). As the name implies, they’re green, and they nest in trees, building softball-sized enclosures of dead leaves stitched together among living foliage. But you see a lot of them on the ground, on logs, rocks, mud, wherever, doing what ants do.

On one of my first field days, Michelle picked one up, gently gripped its head between thumb and index finger, and delicately licked the ant’s butt. “Try it,” she suggested, as she released her victim. “Tastes like citrus.” Sure enough, when I cornered my own green ant, it shot an unexpected, strong taste of lime on my tongue, actually quite agreeable. I wondered what was passing through the insect’s tiny mind. What would you do if a giant licked your backside? In this case, I had a quick answer as the ant latched its jaws on my finger before I set it free. Definitely wouldn’t want to lick the wrong end of that one!

I spent the day commuting between far-flung Fairy-Wren territories, and, by afternoon, had hiked 4 kilometers off-trail and biked an hour and a half on 4×4 roads, getting progressively dustier, sweatier, and generally grimier as the sun climbed scorching overhead. In the afternoon, with the temperature over a hundred degrees, I hit a patch of red sand on my bike and flipped over the handlebars; luckily, the sand was soft (though very hot), and so was my landing. Just another day at work!

I’ve been at Mornington Station for 20 days now and haven’t been resupplied with food. My stocks have dwindled quicker than I thought, and I’m down to basically empty shelves: a couple boxes of bread mix, one can of baked beans, three wrinkly onions, and a bit of cereal. For breakfast today, I ate cereal; also cereal for my mid-morning snack, and more cereal for lunch; for dinner, I think I’ll stir-fry the onions with the beans.

Handyman Paul departed in a truck this morning for the 12-hour round trip to Derby’s isolated grocery store, and should be back tomorrow with heaps of supplies carefully ordered by each person at Mornington (the grocery store pre-organizes the orders into crates for a small fee). No transportation here is guaranteed, though; last year, this food run was delayed four days when the truck broke down in the middle of nowhere. If that happens, I might have to start eating dirt – not that I haven’t had enough sand in my teeth already! I suppose it would fulfill my daily dose of iron, at least. But a nice, fresh tomato sounds much more appetizing…

The Fairy-Wren crew got up at 4am this morning and, in predawn darkness, drove to a relatively distant territory along the Adcock River, where we hoped to catch one particular female Fairy-Wren which had been seen without a band last week (meaning it had just immigrated to this area).

We drove to the end of the 4×4 road, then hiked in the dark to reach our target just before sunrise, wading the river and bushwhacking through thick vegetation en route. Setting up four mist nets was relatively straightforward until Michelle slipped on a treacherous patch of mud by the second net and fell in the river, immersing up to her neck with her binoculars, field notebook, headlamp, and GPS. The clay bank was sheer enough she had to swim around to a different spot to haul out, dripping wet, with a wan grin; under a hot morning sun, though, it didn’t take her long to dry out.

Meanwhile, the Fairy-Wrens were being wily today, flying around and over the nets without getting caught. After about four hours of this (and unintentionally catching five Yellow-tinted Honeyeaters, a Brown Honeyeater, a White-gaped Honeyeater, two Crimson Finches, and a Peaceful Dove, along with the male Fairy-Wren), Michelle finally managed to trap the targeted female by playing a recording of Fairy-Wren song. After a quick blood sample, band combination, set of measurements, and molt assessment, the bird was released, and we packed up for the long hike to lunch.

When I casually mentioned to Paul this afternoon that I hadn’t seen a snake here yet, he smirked. “I’ve seen five in the last two weeks,” he said, “and had close encounters with four of them.” When I asked just how close, he smiled, and said, “Come with me.”

We headed to a hole in the ground behind the kitchen. “I had a children’s python in there yesterday,” Paul said. “Let’s stick a stick in there and see what slithers out.” Today, the hole was empty, but Paul wasn’t done yet.

“I was sitting on the toilet in the dark day before yesterday,” he said, “and felt something brush my leg. Figured it was a frog, but it slithered up my shorts. Turns out a tree snake lives in that toilet – he just used me for access.”

Paul’s most wicked snake encounter this week, though, was a bit more dangerous. He discovered a five-foot mulga snake in the kitchen – or, rather, the snake discovered him when he opened a cabinet at eye level. “That thing struck at my face,” he said; “I could see the whites of its fangs, and shut the cabinet door as quick as I could. It got pinned with a couple feet of its body on either side of the cabinet hinge. I called for help on the radio, and JoJo and Jen showed up. We got the mulga into a box but it stuck its head into a plastic grocery bag, got disoriented, and slithered straight at us across the kitchen floor. JoJo tried to pick it up but it squirmed away and hid behind the freezer. And that’s where we left it.”

A mulga bite can kill a man within five hours, so all of us have been tiptoeing around the freezer ever since. That snake hasn’t reappeared, but mulgas are pretty common; I should see one soon enough – hopefully from a safe distance.

Another hot one at Mornington; I’m coming up with lots of definitions of heat. In the afternoon, it’s too hot to step barefoot on rocks (they singe). Metal objects can’t be left in the sun or they burn to the touch. Black ants disappear when the temperature is just under a hundred degrees, and, above about 105, direct sun feels like a hot towel on your skin. And, speaking of towels, nobody takes one to go swimming, since the sun dries you within minutes of leaving the water.

Our Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens are on strike after the super-dry “wet” season has left us in a drought. Of 39 territories, only 4 pairs of wrens have active nests – when this should be the busiest time of the year. Fairy-Wrens can nest in any month, though, depending on the weather, so we’re praying for rain to amp things up – but it’s not looking good. March marks the end of “The Wet” and the beginning of “The Dry” – six months of sunny skies, often without a drop of precipitation.

Jen and I set off at 6am this morning toward some old Aboriginal wall paintings accessible by a 10-kilometer off-trail hike. The directions were simple: where the road ends, start walking. Continue past two sets of rapids until you see a gorge open up on the right. Swim across the river, bushwhack up the fork, and the paintings will be obvious. Easy, right? I packed light snacks and a couple liters of water, expecting to be home by lunch.

In fact, we rolled in to camp at 7:30 pm, well after dark, just before the staff here was ready to start searching for us (they soon got distracted, though, by distress calls from two Mornington staffers in a broken-down vehicle halfway to Derby). The hike was much longer than anticipated, and Jen and I never found the paintings.

By 9am, I had drank all my water and resorted to creek water to avoid dangerous dehydration. Jen’s camera became waterlogged when we crossed the river and shut down completely. We spent all morning searching sandstone rock faces for ancient artwork to no avail – either we missed the spot, or didn’t go far enough. Meanwhile, though, Tin Can Gorge was full of enticing swimming holes, idyllic waterfalls, and other interesting bits seldom scanned by human eyes.

After regretfully turning around in early afternoon, we floated back downriver using inflated truck tires brought for the purpose. It was a nice way to travel except for the three freshwater crocodiles we spotted swimming alongside us; though they don’t usually attack humans, two people have been seriously bitten by crocs at Mornington Station in the last two years, and the ones I saw today were at least 4 or 5 feet long.

When we finally hauled out downriver, just after sunset, I discovered that my drybag had failed and everything inside was soaked. This included my Canon 20D camera, Leica 8×32 binoculars, and cell phone. The camera and phone are probably toast (completely wet inside), but my binoculars survived their two-hour sloshing just fine. Luckily, I have a backup camera body. Unluckily, it was an expensive way to end the day. But still a worthwhile adventure – capped by a nice Australian Owlet-Nightjar sitting on the road after dark!

This week’s high temperature forecast (in C) for Fitzroy Crossing (the closest place with an official forecast) goes like this: Sunday, 42; Monday, 42; Tuesday, 42; Wednesday, 42; Thursday, 42; Friday, 42; Saturday, 41 – with a chance of thunderstorms. That’s 108 F every day this week, down to 106 on Saturday – thunderstorms apparently make all the difference!

What do you do in the heat? Go swimming, of course. This afternoon, about 7 of us trucked out to Sir John Gorge, about 14 kilometers from Mornington Station, to soak in the Fitzroy River and soak in the sunset. I also soaked in a new “life bird” – Variegated Fairy-Wren – and saw a couple Rock Wallabies (like little kangaroos with long tails), White-quilled Rock-Pigeons, and Spotted Nightjars. The heat emanating from the flat, red sandstone escarpments actually felt refreshing after dark, and we watched until the Southern Cross stood outlined on the Milky Way like diamonds on soft, black velvet.

There’s a big white board outside the research lab at Mornington Station for general updates, scheduling, and communication. Today it said “drinks and snacks for sunset on the hill – 5pm.”

So, after another long day in the field with Fairy-Wrens, people gathered in late afternoon to make the short drive to a nearby escarpment, where a picnic table overlooks an expansive surrounding region of bush. In the distance, red bluffs meld with green trees and brown grass. As the sun went down, most of the Mornington crew munched on various tasties and meditated on life beyond the “real” world. And played with Taegan’s 7-month-old baby, Archer. Sometimes, life is simply incomparable.

Most everyone was in bed by 7pm, even on a “social” evening. I’m still up at 7:30 because I got 10 hours of sleep last night, even though my alarm went off at 4:30am (as usual) – work that one out! Anything after about 8:30 goes by “Mornington Midnight” and is a dark hour indeed.

My first question was: Do they celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day in Australia? In fact, they do; Australians are just as happy as Americans to obsess about green things. My second question was: What do we do?

We quickly determined that green food coloring does not exist at Mornington Station, so green drinks were out. But Jen latched on to the drinking idea (Irish-style) and decided to make a round of hot cocoa to commemorate the holiday. Never mind that it’s over a hundred degrees, she said; we’ll all stand inside the walk-in refrigerator, pretend it’s cold out, and sip our delicious treat.

So that’s exactly what we did. About six of us crowded inside the refrigerator last evening and waited for its chill to overcome our grime and sweat. Then, with the idea of a northern, early spring nip in the air, we drank Jen’s special hot cocoa: mint chocolate, coconut milk, sugar, butter, and one or two secret ingredients, spiked with a bit of Di’s whiskey for extra heat, while staring at shelves of refrigerated food. For a few brief minutes, I could almost imagine the coziness of a temperate climate.

When sweat began dripping uncontrollably off my nose at 5:45 a.m. this morning, I knew it was going to be a hot one. I was just beginning a long march down the Adcock River to census a distant group of Fairy-Wren territories; basically, this involved a six-kilometer bike ride followed by a eight-km bushwhack downriver (roundtrip).

It took me 20 minutes on the bike and another hour of hard, sweaty, overland hiking to reach the wrens. Think of the Discovery Channel’s “Man Vs. Wild,” subtract the backflips and gross snacks, and you get an idea of today’s hike: slipping, crawling, climbing, falling, up and down riverbanks, over logs, navigating by GPS, and wearing jeans and a long-sleeve in 105-degree sun. At midmorning, the humidity hit 90% – brutal conditions to slog through. By noon, I had waded the muddy river twice above my waist, stood in a red ant’s nest, fallen in mud three times, and used leaves for toilet paper. When I eventually returned to the station in early afternoon, nothing could have been more satisfying than standing inside the walk-in fridge, eating an apple, and downing liter after liter of cold Gatorade.

Here’s some pics to keep all you birders happy!

Michelle and I just finished banding three baby Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens in their nest. They are seven days old and being fed by mom, dad, and a “helper” (Fairy-Wrens are cooperative breeders, remember?) so those babies are getting a lot of attention today!

Each youngster got its own combination of color bands; the tiny bands will stay on for life, and can be forever used to identify individual birds without recapturing them (you can see the colors with binoculars).

The chicks each weighed about eight grams, or a nickel and a half. Their nest, hanging over water in a pandanus tree, was not reachable by land, so Michelle went for a swim in the creek to fetch them to shore, using a tube to safely ferry the baby wrens back and forth. After putting the bands on, taking a couple measurements, and a quick blood sample, the young wrens were back in their nest and being fed again almost immediately.

Michelle and I spent this afternoon guiding a couple of visitors. Two guys are at Mornington this week with 30 remote, motion-activated cameras. The idea is to point the cameras at bird nests, leave them in place, then download the images later. If it works, we’ll get photos of predators at Fairy-Wren nests, and see what’s eating the baby birds.

Of every five Purple-crowned Fairy-Wren nests with eggs, only one will fledge at least one chick. Predators eat the rest (except for a few that are flooded during rainstorms). The most regular villains are probably goanas (5-foot-long lizards) and snakes, but who knows? We’ll have to check the photos. With these cameras, we’ll even be able to tell what’s happening at night, because they switch to infrared during darkness – except, of course, if a cold-blooded snake hits the nest at night, the infrared won’t pick it up.

Another sunny day here, hot, sweaty, and sticky. Yesterday I hiked up a small escarpment next to camp to get an overview of Mornington Station. In every direction, arid bush undulated unbroken to the horizon – this is really the middle of nowhere!

Last night I woke, startled, at 1am, to an unfamiliar sound: raindrops drumming on a tin roof. Lightning and thunder rocked Mornington Station for a couple hours.

Overall, we got 44.4 mL (1.75 inches) of rain overnight – the most precipitation in any 24-hour period in almost a year! March usually marks the end of “The Wet” – six months of scattered rainfall – but this wet season has been about the driest on record in northwest Australia, so last night’s thunderstorm was greeted with enthusiasm.

Lingering clouds made for a nice, cooler morning, in marked contrast to yesterday’s more-typical high of 41.9 C (107.5 F). Roads are now impassable muddy messes, and the creeks have flooded their banks (no canoeing today). One river that I waded just four inches deep last week is now too high and swift to swim across safely. We’re stranded at Mornington – not a bad predicament!

Forecasters are predicting thunderstorms the next couple days, which may foil plans to canoe Diamond Gorge tomorrow (more likely, though, we’d just go in the rain). For now, things remain sunny and hot.

Last night everyone gathered around the outdoor pizza oven for a pizza party, Mornington-style. The raised, open-door oven bakes nicely when filled with hot coals. Pizza-making festivities were as creative as the potential ingredients (or lack thereof); Sara and I layered baked beans, salsa, onions, cheese, and chili powder on our dough. Tasty! Two of our closest “neighbors” even came over for the occasion, flying in from an outlying station 2 hours away.

When I went to bed, though, my feet were itching like crazy. I counted more than 40 mosquito bites on each leg below the knee (that’s probably a hundred just on my legs). Everyone says not to scratch, because it causes heat rash, and at least one field tech has landed in the hospital this year with severe heat rash after a week of unbearable agony – while several others have come down with less extreme cases. Not something to be trifled with, so I try to leave my itchy mozzie bites alone.

Michelle, Sara and I got up at 4am this morning, packed mist-netting and banding gear into the truck, and drove a 4×4 road to a particular Purple-crowned Fairy-Wren territory in hopes of mist-netting the wrens there.

Fairy-Wrens are cooperative breeders, so many territories have more than one male and/or female. Groups can be as large as eight individuals, all of which help tend one nest. Today’s group had three; an adult male, adult female, and subdominant male, all of which we hoped to catch in the nets.

After several hours, we’d caught two of the three target Fairy-Wrens, as well as several incidental Yellow-tinted Honeyeaters, a pair of Buff-sided Robins, a Willie Wagtail, and a Striated Pardalote which became ensnared in the nearly-invisible netting. We measured each of the wrens extensively, took photos, blood samples, and sperm samples, and released them; in between, the three of us lounged on the riverbank in a shady, grassy spot, glad to be out of the furnace for a while (by noon, it was well over 100 F, as usual).

About 90% of Purple-crowned Fairy-Wren nests at Mornington Station are placed in one particular kind of tree, called Pandanus. It’s a spiky, palm-like plant that grows along the banks of permanent, deep pools along creeks and rivers.

They look cool, but Pandanus fronds are lined with rows of sharp, serrated edges. My arms are scratched up from pushing through them for the last week. Fairy-Wrens love them, though; territories are built around large clumps of Pandanus, and the wrens spend most of their time skulking through the densest stands. Since the wrens are there, so am I. My days are spent alternately crashing through thick riparian vegetation and making quiet observations along the creek, searching for color-banded birds and hoping to find their nests. All the time, Pandanus is my guide, close at hand; it’s a jungle out there!

Barking Owls, so-named for their dog-like sounds, are the second-most-common owl around Mornington (next to Southern Boobooks, which look relatively similar).

Last evening, I spotted one silhouetted against the starry sky while I was walking between buildings. The owl perched on an exposed snag long enough for me to run for a flashlight and camera. Cool bird! It sallied out a few times, flycatcher-like, and finally snagged a bat (visible in the owl’s talons). After taking a few pictures, I left the Barking Owl to its tasty snack. Steve, a local bird/wildlife expert, tentatively identified the bat as a sheath-tailed bat. So there you have it!

This morning Sara and I accompanied two other researchers to try mist-netting Gouldian Finches, since they had caught 20 at once yesterday. Today, zero – we saw a couple Gouldians fly overhead, but none hit the net (set up at a waterhole). So, it was back to the Fairy-Wrens; I found my first nest today, with three eggs – but checking it required a sketchy climb up a spiky pandanus tree overhanging the river. Clouds this morning have dampened the temperature a bit, but humidity has more than doubled (to about 70%) – if not one, it’s the other!

Mornington is a giant reserve in the Kimberley, an untracked wilderness in northwest Australia, just north of the Great Sandy Desert. The station is an old cattle ranch (they call them “stations” here), accessible by mail plane or a six-hour 4×4 drive from the nearest down, Derby.

Now, Mornington is run and owned by the Australian Wildlife Conservancy, with the intention of protecting wildlife and promoting research. The project I am working on – studying Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens – is just one research project happening at Mornington right now. Other people are studying Crimson Finches, Gouldian Finches, spinifex grass, and similar aspects of the natural landscape. I’m here for six months (until August), but other researchers live here more or less permanently. There are currently 17 people at Mornington.

The station is made up of scattered buildings in various states of repair. The relatively plush (or, as Aussies say, “swish”) research lab, is the only air-conditioned space (Aussies shorten it to “air-con”). I’m sitting in the lab right now, since the temperature outside is about 106 F; with couches, counters, and a nice atmosphere, it’s a great place to hang out and get some work done.

The communal, open-air kitchen is the other nice building; it’s decked out with tons of counter space inside and all the amenities of food, including a large walk-in refrigerator. Otherwise, researchers sleep in scattered huts around the premises. I’ve been sleeping in a vacant room in a disused building on the edge of things, but will get kicked out soon as more staff are hired to handle the upcoming tourist season. Then, I’ll set up a tent on the hot grass, and hope it doesn’t boil me alive while I sleep!

It was about 106 degrees F today (41 C), but, when I complained about the heat, Olya (who studies Crimson Finches) expressed little sympathy: “It’s cool out there,” she said, with a smirk. “I had to put an extra blanket on last night!”

Though I had to admit that I turned my fan down to the next-to-highest setting at 1am, nobody can convince me that 106 degrees is anything close to “cool.” It’s so hot that I can’t distinguish mosquit0 tickles from sweat dripping down the back of my leg. Rocks are too scalding for bare feet. Water from my bottle tastes like fire, and I pack three liters to survive a morning of fieldwork. It’s so hot that I sleep on a bare mattress with a fan on the highest setting (usually) blasting me in the face. By 7:30 a.m., the air feels like a furnace. By noon, I feel like a baked potato even when sitting in the shade.

I have discovered a great antidote to the heat, though: Mornington’s walk-in refrigerator. It’s used to store food, but, after 10 minutes in there, communing with hanging slabs of fresh-butchered bullock, my body temperatures cools right down, too. Sweat on my shirt whisks off in impressive, hot-cold steam plumes inside the refrigeration room.

I spent the day censusing Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens along a hot stretch of the Adcock River, which required walking, er, hacking, about 8 kilometers (roundtrip) through dense riparian vegetation. I fell twice on slippery spots of mud, but the extra dirt just added to my sunscreen. Anyway, the fairy-wrens are quite engaging – it’s gonna be a great field season!

Most everyone takes Sundays off at Mornington, so today Sara and I went swimming with Di (in charge of the tourism program here) and Paul (the camp handyman). We piled into a truck with a canoe, paddles, and inflated tubes, and drove about 10 miles to a waterhole along the Fitzroy River.

The pickup truck was a piece of work: it had a missing headlight, no rearview mirror, a broken hood latch, broken spedometer, broken starter, no clutch, and no brakes. The last three (starter, clutch, and brakes) were temporarily fixed by handy Paul, and off we went rattling across the red, dusty roads.

The temperature here reached 41 C yesterday (105.8 F) and today was about the same. The forecast isn’t expected to vary within the predictable future. It’s hot out there!

Michelle, the Fairy-Wren guru, spent the day getting Sara and me up to speed on our duties for the next few months. Basically, we will follow a population of Purple-Crowned Fairy-Wrens here at Mornington Station, trying to find every nest and monitor every individual bird. The Fairy-Wrens live along a section of Annie Creek, which flows right through the station, and particularly like a spiky, palm-like plant called pandanus.

Which means that Sara and I will spend our time tramping back and forth through riparian undergrowth, peering at Fairy-Wren legs to read color bands, and avoiding the worst afternoon heat. We will wake up at 4:30 each morning, work outside for a few hours, then do another field session late in the afternoon.

Michelle showed Sara and me our territories today along a 3-kilometer stretch of Annie Creek. I saw my first Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens – the males are gorgeous, with bright purple foreheads, black ear patches, and long, expressive tails. In the afternoon, we went swimming to cool off. After sunset, I looked up to see the Southern Cross and distant flashes of heat lightning, while night birds made unfamiliar noises.

After a bit of errand-juggling this morning in Derby, four of us set off for the long drive to Mornington. From Derby, the Gibb River Road takes off like a dirt arrow through untracked bush; we followed this single-track route for three hours before turning on to Mornington Sanctuary’s “driveway.” This added another 90 kilometers and involved fording several creeks.

All told, the drive took between five and six hours, not including rest stops to pamper Teagan’s six-month-old baby, go swimming at a creek crossing, and take photos of enormous boab trees.

In all that distance, we passed only one other car, and saw just one or two buildings alongside the road. This is one of the greatest wilderness areas left on Earth. Kangaroos, White-quilled Pigeons, and Wedge-tailed Eagles skittered from the road as we drove past endless expanses of red dust, green grass, leafy trees, and impossibly blue skies.

I’m now at Mornington Station, getting settled in to my home (for the next six months) and meeting the staff. There are 17 people on station at the moment. Fieldwork starts at five a.m. tomorrow, to avoid the worst daily heat; Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens await!

My alarm went off at 2:15 this morning in Perth. When I subsequently presented myself at the airline check-in counter, the attendant said, “Derby? You’ll be off to the mines, then?” I assured her that my business in Derby had more to do with wildlife than ore, and, after the captain quipped, “It’s way too early to be flying,” our plane reached into the Australian sunrise.

Derby is a tiny hamlet (“shire,” actually, according to the airport sign) on the northwest Australian coast. The town’s 4,000 residents, half of Aboriginal descent, are caught between the second-highest tide in the world (usually more than 40 feet) and the most expansive unsettled area of Australia (where I’m headed tomorrow). It was hot enough at 8:30 a.m. that sweat dripped down the back of my neck as I stepped on to the red dust.

I spent the day buying groceries (my last visit to a store for six months) and prowling mangroves. It’s nearly 100 degrees outside with little shade. Tomorrow, I’ll make the half-day drive on a single dirt road to Mornington with two other researcher-conservationists. It’s a grueling, desolate, and beautiful trip by most accounts, with nothing but bush along the way.

Last week, two guys attempted a creek crossing while driving the same route to Mornington. Their vehicle submerged in a flash flood and they both swam to shore, tried to build a signal fire, then walked 30 kilometers in 95-degree heat without water, slept by the side of the road, and reached help the next day. I sure hope we have a smoother trip!

Maris picked me up in Perth at five this morning to give us plenty of time to make the two-hour drive to Dryandra before the sun came up. We managed not to run over any emus or kangaroos en route, though I saw both by the side of the road (the emus are wild and native here, though some farmers also keep them as pets). The kangaroos ran away, and Maris and I spent the day prowling the birdy forest preserve, among Eucalyptus trees, spiny Dryandra bushes, and red dirt.

Incidentally, after waking up at 5:00 yesterday morning and 4:30 this morning, I can attest that jet lag is an excellent way to stave off early-morning sleepiness. Even with the ridiculous morning hours, I have woken well before my alarm yesterday and today feeling totally refreshed. After all, the middle of the night is actually mid-afternoon back in the US!

It’s a good thing, because I have to wake up at 2:15 tomorrow morning to catch a plane to northern Australia. After seeing about 100 species of birds in the last two days in Perth (more than half of which were “lifers”), I’m headed to bed early, at 7 pm, in anticipation of a day in Derby, on Australia’s north shore, tomorrow.

At 5:45 a.m. this morning, I found Maris Lauva waiting outside my Perth hostel, ready for a long day of birding around town. We spent most of the time with Marcia and Bob, from Maryland, who had the day ashore in Perth on a 2-week cruise to Thailand. Turned out Marcia had been on a tour I led during the American Birding Association convention in Eugene a few years back. Small world!

Maris, a local birder, was extremely kind to show us Americans some nice birds. We hit wetlands, lakes, and “the bush,” racking up about 60 species throughout the day, half of which I’d never seen before. Not a cloud in the sky, temps in the 90s. After dropping Marcia and Bob back at their cruise ship for a 4:00 curfew, Maris and I headed into the foothills to watch several dozen Baudin’s Black-Cockatoos fly into an evening roost. The large, impressive parrots, silhouetted against the sunset, capped off an impressive day.

After cutting every line in the Sydney Airport, watching Customs take all of my jerky away, teaching a woman from Venezuela to use her in-flight entertainment system (in return for half a blanket and a packet of M&Ms), and being taxied by a distinctly non-Australian man named Jarko, I am in Perth, in southwest Australia, this afternoon.

Yes, I realize that it’s actually 1 a.m. in the U.S, which means I should be really, really tired after sleeping four hours out of the last 40. But it’s hard not to be energized when I’m looking at palm trees, parrots, and Australian sunshine out the window. It’s currently mid-afternoon, at the tail end of summer, about 98 degrees F, and a man is lying in my hostel dorm room clad only in his underwear, watching kid cartoons in a semi-catatonic state (true story; nothing to do with me; the heat just does odd things to people).

I celebrated my arrival down under with a stroll around town. The walk turned into a blisterfest on my feet, so I retreated before the stove-like sidewalk began to char, and dodged on to a ferry crossing the Swan River (“The River of Swan,” said Jarko the taxi driver) to appreciate the cooling effect of water. I’ve already seen several life birds without even trying – Western Corella, Red Wattlebird, and Singing Honeycreeper. I’m looking forward to adventures tomorrow, starting at 6am, and the next day, starting at 4am, with a local birder named Maris. With jet lag, 4am won’t seem so bad!

Day after tomorrow, I’ll board a plane here in Eugene, Oregon. Two days later, I’ll arrive in Australia (skipping over the international date line, of course) – right in the middle of summer.

I will spend the next six months (’til August) working  at Mornington Station in the Kimberley, one of the greatest wilderness areas left on Earth, in northwest Australia. The Kimberley is an area of the Outback the size of California, crossed by only one paved road. Only 40,000 people live there (compared to 37 million in California!), mostly in three small towns (Broome, Derby, and Kununurra, none of which have more than 5,000 people), and between one third and one half are of Aboriginal descent.

It’s an extreme place. In the hot, wet season (“The Wet”), from October to March, highs can be around 110 degrees F. The rest of the year, it’s only 95. Poisonous snakes, biting insects, heat, and isolation are familiar, daily attributes of life in the Kimberley.

So, why do I want to go there? Researchers at Mornington Station, an old cattle station turned wildlife reserve, have been working with Purple-crowned Fairy-Wrens – a tiny, beautiful, endemic, endangered bird – for more than a decade, and I’ve signed on to help with field work this year. I will be searching for nests, color banding individual birds, and observing their behavior six days a week. Meanwhile, I’ll get a taste of life in the real Outback. I hope you enjoy the journey!