Listening Earth Blog

It was 2.30am, and Sarah and I listened as gusts of wind and occasional rain-squalls lashed our tent. Our plan of arising early to record the morning’s birdsong was not looking very hopeful. Which was disappointing, as this was our last morning in the Stirling Ranges, and we were hoping to hear and record the pre-dawn song of the Tawny-crowned Honeyeater, Phylidonyris melanops.

Australia has a large family of Honeyeater species, and many have a unique pre-dawn repertoire. These early-light songs are different to their daytime calls, and often serenely beautiful, especially when heard in chorus. White-plumed, Spiney-cheeked and White-fronted Honeyeaters particularly come to mind.

Tawny-crowns though, hold a special place for us. Graham Pizzey’s field guide describes their song as ‘beautiful’ and ‘flutey’, comprising of ‘liquid, metallic phrases’. As lovely as the songs of one bird are, when you get to hear many of them singing across the landscape, well, it is quite something else.

I first heard the Tawny-crown’s dawn songs over ten years ago. In the Little Desert region of western Victoria, I found myself in the half-light, entranced by something utterly unexpected; the heathland around me awakening to a symphony of bell-like, tinkling songs.

The recording I made that morning became the concluding track of our ‘Favourite Australian Birdsong’ album. For me it summed up why I had chosen to make nature sound recording my work; the sheer beauty of sound that nature could create, and my wish that more people could hear it.

Click here to listen to a 3 minute sample from ‘Favourite Australian Birdsong’ – the Tawny-crowns can be heard toward the end. (More about this album here)

Now its not that Tawny-crowns are all that rare – they can be found in suitable heathland habitat throughout southern Australia – but for some reason it was to be several years before we encountered them again. During a brief visit to Stirling Range National Park in the south of Western Australia, I came across a patch of woodland where they seemed quite common.

On that occasion I didn’t have the time to follow up and try for an early morning recording. Now we had returned, and planned our early departure to catch their dawn singing.

But the weather was definitely not co-operating. In the tent, we discussed abandoning the attempt, aware that we had an hour of cautious driving in the dark to get to the remote western end of the park where I’d previously encountered them. We could only hope the weather would improve, and rationalise that at least we may hear them, even if recording was useless.

So we set out, but as we drove we could see the roadside bushes being thrashed around, with no sign of the wind abating. On arrival, we found a sheltered spot and got out to listen. The wind seemed a little subdued, but any optimism was soon dismissed as another band of rain passed over. By the time it eased off, the pale light of dawn was outlining low clouds scudding across the sky, and the first birds had begun calling distantly. Among them, about a kilometre away, was the distinctive voice of a Tawny-crowned Honeyeater.

Now I don’t normally go chasing a particular species, let alone an individual bird. I record soundscapes, and so usually look for a good patch of habitat where I can just relax and let nature sing into my microphones. But this morning was a little different. We hopped back in the car and drove on to where we estimated the Tawny-crown was calling. I figured that recording would be a foregone exercise, so just hearing them would have to suffice.

The wind blustered around us as we alighted. We were in an open spot, with just low shrubs and tussock grasses, which were being thrown around animatedly. However it was perfect Tawny-crown country, and to our delight, nearby not one but several Tawny-crowns had begun singing.

Well, the recording may be crap, and my microphone tripod might get blown over, but I determined to give it a go anyway. Grabbing my gear I set off into the gloom, finding my way into the scrub via a faint kangaroo pathway, and settling myself in the lee of a shrub to record.

Listen here to what I heard.

I guess I was absorbed in listening, enjoying the Tawny-crown’s combined melodies and noting that a Splendid Fairy-wren had also begun calling nearby. I didn’t notice at first that the wind had abated considerably. The clouds continued scudding, but the bushes had become still and the wind’s roar distant. Meanwhile the Tawny-crowns sung on.

At one point, a soft scrunch behind me caused me to turn around, and I found myself eye to eye with a Kangaroo just a few meters away, its ears cocked cautiously toward me. I was standing right next to its pathway, and I imagined it having a “what are you doing on my track?” moment. I turned away so the animal could feel less threatened and make its retreat. Eventually it hopped off to one side, making a wide arc around me to regain its pathway further on. You can hear it toward the end of the recording.

I’m sure many of you reading this can relate to nature’s moments of serendipity, and the patience (or just plain persistence!) to be there and experience them. Sarah and I feel that our morning with these etherally-voiced Tawny-crowned Honeyeaters was one of them.

Listening Earth Established in 1993 by nature sound recordist Andrew Skeoch and photographer Sarah Koschak, Listening Earth has become recognised as one of the world’s premier nature sound labels. “Our albums feature only the sounds of nature as you would hear in the wild – no music or other distractions. Recorded in often remote and pristine locations, they bring you the relaxing and beautiful sounds of our living planet. Listen, and let our recordings take you there.” www.listeningearth.com