It’s 10.30 pm, and Andrew and I are about to head off to bed, when we hear a soft thump on the window pane.

From experience we know that a sound like this can only be made by either a large moth attracted by our house lights, or more excitingly, an owl hunting them. On past occasions we have found a Barn Owl outside picking off a Bogong Moth, and on another found a tiny Owlet Nightjar perched on the window ledge, peering in our bedroom window at us.

It is such a rare treat to see these nocturnal birds, so we are keen to see what may have made this noise.

Opening the door, we cautiously move outside, scanning the ground but see nothing nearby. We are about to head back inside when I casually look up.

“Don’t move! …” I tell Andrew.

Perched atop the garden umbrella next to him is a Tawny Frogmouth, Podargus strigoides. If he reached out he could almost touch it. It sits alert and unfazed, its yellow eyes glowing in the gloom, as we back off to get torches and camera.

After flapping to a nearby tree, our Frogmouth settles in, not seeming to mind being the centre of our attention for the next hour. It is a privilege to be so close as he preens and snaps at insects in the torchlight.

Click on images to see at full size.

Beautiful marbled textures in the plumage…

Face showing those remarkable forehead plumes, which it is thought assist during aerial feeding by channelling ‘near-misses’ into the mouth.

Momentarily distracted by a moth flying past…

Preening…

…ah! That’s better now!

Giving us The Look…

Alert to every rustle on the ground

All a bit of a yawn…

Tawny Frogmouths are sometimes erroneously called ‘Mopokes’. But a Mopoke is more correctly the Boobook Owl, which makes the well-known “Mor-pork” call. Frogmouths sound quite different, making repetitive, low booming calls that carry for long distances, and can often be heard throughout the night.

A Tawny Frogmouth features on our album ‘An Evening in the Australian Bush’, and here you can listen to a short sample of one calling in the depths of a bushland night.

More about this album.

Listen here

Subsong is not often heard, probably because it is both quiet and only occasional. However summer is the right time of year to hear it, because it is believed to be associated with song learning in juvenile birds. Yes, it is baby talk.

Or so it is thought. I am a little puzzled by my observations though, firstly that the repertoire of subsong seems more developed and diverse than adult song, and that I have seen birds in adult plumage also singing like this.

One of the curiosities I’ve noticed with subsong, is that it is often heard in particularly windy conditions. Why, I have no idea, but I’m not the only one to notice this. Maybe birds like to sing with a mask of background sound (as with the Grey thrush and the cicadas) so they won’t be heard so easily, although who they would be shy of being overheard by is anyone’s guess.

Maybe birds just like ’singin’ in the wind’!

Here is a Pied Butcherbird singing in central Australia in very blustery conditions.

We’ve just had a succession of 40 degree days. I’m talking Celsius (that’s over 100 degrees Fahrenheit), and yes, I’m writing from the Southern Hemisphere – Australia.

The cicadas have begun singing in the eucalypt forests around us, and the other morning I put my microphones out for a few hours to capture their choruses. For those of you locked in the depths of the northern winter, have a listen while you read on, it may warm your spirits!

Multi-species cicada chorus, with Pallid Cuckoo, Rufous Whistler, Brown Thornbills and Pobblebonk Frog.

Now on to ‘I and the Bird’ #116 – the hot, the cool, the mysterious and the exotic!

Lets stay in warm climes to begin, visiting Panama in search of elusive Ground Cuckoos, Ecuador for an emotional encounter with a Crimson-mantled Woodpecker, and a gallery of truly stunning images of birds from Costa Rica.

While we’re in latin America, wade through the mud for a day with a research team studying Flamingos on a lake shore in the Bolivian high Andes.

Off to Africa next, and a new quest; to sight one of Tanzania’s endemic skulkers, the secretive and rarely-seen Spot-throat.

In Australia, we brave inclement weather hoping to hear the ethereal dawn song of the Tawny-crowned Honeyeater.

Now let’s go way cool… For many of you, winter is bringing the challenges of birding on chilly days, but the promise of finding a winter wonderland of birds.

It is a good time to view waterbirds, and look out for seasonal visitors that have arrived to over-winter.

Strolls by icy watersides give pleasure to many birders, bringing with them sightings of Gulls, waders and Mallards, both Red-winged and Brewer’ Blackbirds, plus Goldeneye, Eurasian Wigeons and, well, more Gulls!.

In Denver, a short riverside walk leads to a collection of lovely waterbird images, and possibly a new addition to the birder’s lexicon; ‘Colatteral Duckage’. On the waters of New York Bay, gulls continue to fascinate with their graceful flight.

In Austria, Mute Swans float serenely on Achensee, prompting these thoughts on photographing white-plumaged birds in a winter landscape. Also out on the water, this Cormorant may have bitten off a little more than it can swallow!

Of course one doesn’t need to venture far to enjoy the birdlife, even in winter. The bird feeder just outside is always a good place to view interesting behaviour and interspecies interaction – it also inspires an opportunity for bird sketching.

As wonderful as photographs can be, a talented ornithological artist can capture something special of a bird’s character, as these studies of an American Bald Eagle show. Even using only monochrome pencil, an insightful artist can illuminate their subjects and bring them to life.

Christmas bells were heard at the end of this day spent searching for raptors, and new year’s morning brought the first bird sightings of the new year.

For another birder, a day spent Owling leads to a dilemma over the right thing to do.

Winter also brings some unexpected encounters, such as this Brown-headed Nuthatch at Lake Norman.

Here though is a sighting that is just plain baffling; the Desert Finch is a native of Kazakhstan – what is it doing in Arkansas?

Which brings us to the mysterious.

A flow-motion ‘mystery’ photo of a Golden-crowned Sparrow has now been conclusively identified, but is still fascinating for the abstract patterns created by moving plumage.

On the subject of identifying species, consider this cautionary tale about being overconfident in your bird id, in this case a Turkey Vulture – especially when you didn’t actually see the bird! While with Turkey Vultures; here a group of them take over a cell-phone tower.

Finally, to the exotic… and what could be more exotic than species previously unrecognised by science? This fascinating article presents a wrap up of newly-described species for 2009.

May 2010 bring you many beautiful moments and delightful discoveries in nature.

Having grown up in the heart of urban Sydney, I thought of these lordly birds as something very exotic, and that I would be lucky to ever see one. My first fleeting sighting then, in outback Queensland, had me excitedly tracking the poor creature through the tropical scrub in the blistering heat of midday for half an hour.

Subsequently we found them to be relatively common, and over time have had many opportunities to photograph them. They call only rarely, and we think it is unlikely they will turn up on one of our nature recordings in the future. So instead, here is a small gallery of images of this magnificent bird.

Here is a male in full breeding display posture, with throat sack extended and tail feathers cocked. Note the breast-sac feathers that trail down to the ground, and are swung conspicuously and slowly from side to side while the bill is pointed skywards.

Bustards have to run heavily to gain airspeed, but once airborne they fly with powerful wingbeats and effortless grace over the grassy plains that are their home.

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.

What I want to share with you here are two delightful drawings gifted to me by dear friends.

The first is a work by Prue McAdam inspired by a recent trip to Mutawintji National Park – a characterful portrait of two Apostlebirds.

You can see from this photo how well she has captured their quirky spirit!

Secondly, this playful illustration from Trefor Prest, a somewhat idealised representation of a morning recording birdsong. I wish it was always like this!!

Trefor is a talented sculptor, who’s imaginative work embodies a playful sense of fantasy and whimsy. I think you’ll enjoy taking a few minutes to view a gallery of his work on his website.

‘Bill-clicking’ is a widespread behaviour, and is sometimes combined with normal vocalising, as with the flock calls of White-winged Choughs, where a bill-click subtlely precedes a mournful descending whistle (listen for it on track 11 of our ‘A Morning in the Australian Bush’ album).

The distinctive slapping of wings in flight by Crested Pigeons or the haunting whistle of wind through the feathers of Hornbills are other examples of non-vocal sound generation.

I’ve even heard a female White-winged Triller Lalage sueurii distinctly ‘coughing’, or more accurately using what sounded like a very throaty exhalation to create a soft ‘hissing’ sound.

Here is a recording of it.

(You may have to turn the sound up – it is a very soft sound, almost lost in the ambience of the landscape. You can hear it as two ‘hisses’, the first just after the prominent song, and the second softer about 3 seconds later.)

However recent research indicates that the Club-winged Manakin Machaeropterus deliciosus is in a league of its own. These small birds live in the mountain rainforests of Ecuador and Columbia in south America. In a process similar to how crickets and cicadas call, the male vibrates its short wing feathers to create a brief tone around 1500Hz. Unlike some of the sounds I’ve mentioned earlier, the Manakin’s sound is a fully-realised ‘birdsong’, used by the male to attract the female in the species’ communal breeding display.

Other closely-related Manakin species also create mechanical songs, but the Club-wing is the most ‘musically’ articulate. It’s ability is not only an extraordinary evolutionary development, but one of the clearest examples of how a bird can use its body rather than its voice to ’sing’. Click here for a short National Geographic video showing how they do it.

See also: Wikipedia article and New Scientist article describing recent research.

We have now returned from several weeks in Western Australia, specifically to scatter mum’s ashes on Rottnest Island, where she had happy memories of summer holidays as a child. We also spent a week in Perth, catching up with mum’s extended family and friends, and being hospitably passed from household to household. It was an opportunity to renew ties, and for them to say their goodbyes too.

The scattering itself turned out to be an easier occasion than we had anticipated.

Sarah and I caught the ferry over to Rottnest, which lies about 18km off the coast of Perth. It is a beautiful island, however we’d been warned that it had become quite commercial. Whilst the development was obvious, we didn’t find it off-putting (although we weren’t there during the summer peak season!).

The settlement itself is heritage-listed, and we found the colonial-period limestone cottage where mum spent her summers was much as she would have remembered it. Cars are not allowed on the island, and it was interesting to observe that this seemed to foster a safe, holiday atmosphere. Gaggles of kids walk the streets and everyone cycles, creating a relaxed ambience refreshingly free of noise.

One of the highlights of Rottnest are the Quokkas (Setonix brachyurus), the very cute little native marsupials which abound there, and after which the island was named (being a derivation of the Dutch for ‘Rat’s nest’… well, Quokkas do look a bit ratty). These little critters are everywhere (there are an estimated 12,000 on the island), and whilst largely nocturnal, can often be seen during late afternoon and early morning, grazing quietly by pathways and hopping among bushes.

Shortly after we arrived, Sarah and I hired bicycles and rode up to The Basin, a sheltered swimming beach about 1km from the main settlement. As soon as we arrived, we knew this was the place mum had spent so many happy days in her childhood. We recognised it from her holiday photos, including one large rock she and her pals had been photographed behind, changing their bathers, mum bare-bummed and looking cheekily over her shoulder.

The following morning, we arose at first light and cycled up there, mum’s ashes carried in a small trailer behind. We joked to ourselves that her funeral cortège consisted of two bicycles, with me playing hearse, and a guard of honour consisting of contented Quokkas.

The tide was going out, the air was still, and we had the beach to ourselves. As the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon we said our goodbyes, and I sprinkled her on a retreating wave. We set her free. Sarah then spontaneously tossed in a string of seaweed, recalling the picture we had of her as a lanky 15 year old, garlanded like a mermaid.

As you can probably sense, it was a lovely occasion for us to remember, and a beautiful end for someone we love so much.

On our return journey through Western Australia and over the Nullarbor plain, we camped out, photographing and sound recording. A return to our old life, or the beginning of a new phase? We’ll have to see…

There is a reason.

In May, Sarah and I left home to do some field work in NSW. On the way we dropped in to visit my mother in Sydney, who is 89 years old, very independent and lives in her own unit. Unfortunately we found her in very poor health, which she had been playing down a bit. We immediately moved in to care for her, and remained there for the following three months.

During those months, we progressed from caring for her, to being by her side during her final weeks in palliative care at hospital. She passed away peacefully in August.

It has been an extraordinary time for both Sarah and I; the heartache of seeing someone you love die, while being graced with so much love and support from family and friends.

So Listening Earth has been in ‘maintenance mode’ for a while. We moved our office up to Sydney, got the internet put on in mum’s unit, and have been keeping up with orders. But as you can imagine, we haven’t had a head for much else.

Having held a memorial service and cleaned up mum’s unit and affairs, we have finally returned home to Victoria. However we’re not done yet. Mum grew up in Perth, Western Australia, and she has many friends and family over there. So Sarah and I will shortly be setting off on a road trip to the west, which will culminate with us scattering her ashes in the Indian Ocean.

Despite all the intensity of the last months, we have had some time to think ahead to the future, both for ourselves and Listening Earth. We look forward to adding new features to our online shop, and delving into our library of recordings to create new albums. Next year we hope to get to Europe for our first taste of a boreal forest spring.

Shortly after mum passed away, I was able to go bush for a week to join the Australian Wildlife Sound Recordists for their biennial gathering, held this year at Gundabooka near Bourke. That short sojourn not only restored my spirits, but produced some wonderful recordings, the highlight being an outback dawn chorus that was one of the most musical I have experienced. And of course, it is still the spring season, and we hope to get some recordings from our upcoming journey to western Australia.

So we look forward to bringing you new sounds over our anitpodean summer. Until then, be well!

But customers often ask; what is the difference between these recordings – surely a beach is a beach? So this is a good opportunity to discuss the variety of moods that nature presents on our wild coastlines.

‘Call of the Ocean’ was our first coastal album, recorded at various locations from Phillip Island in Victoria to the north coast of NSW. It features a diversity of recordings, taking the listener on a walk along an ocean beach, up into the dunes and coastal woodlands, and onto rocky headlands.

Here is a short audio sample from the album

During the course of the album you will hear waves washing up on a sandy beach, gurgling in and out of rockpools, breaking on distant rock platforms and, more spectacularly, whooshing from a blowhole. The calls of shore birds like Silver Gulls and Sooty Oystercatchers are heard against the surf.

The album wanders from shoreline into dunes and coastal hinterland. Dawn birdsong is heard in heath country, with grassbirds, coucals and wrens creating a delicate chorus, while from overhead come the calls of a majestic pair of White-bellied Sea Eagles. Drifting across a coastal freshwater lake comes the distant chiming of Bellbirds, and later the soft, braying calls of Fairy Penguins carry on the night breeze as they come ashore to their nesting burrows.

So ‘Call of the Ocean’ is quite a diverse coastal album, blending wave wash and birdsongs into a portrait of our wild coastlines.

‘Surf, Beach and Shoreline’, by contrast, features pure wave and surf sounds.

It consists of three extended recordings, each taking around a third of the album time. The first is waves breaking on a sandy beach, rolling in from the ocean and hissing up on the golden sand. The second comes from a beach of smooth ocean-worn cobbles. As each wave breaks and recedes, the stones can be heard softly rattling with the retreating waters. The final recording comes from a late afternoon on a sheltered beach, with small waves, their fury already spent, finally collapsing on smooth sands.

Here is an audio sample.

‘Surf, Beach & Shoreline’ is a recording for those who find the sounds of the sea relaxing and soothing.

The same can be said of ‘Moonlit Pebble Bay’.

This recording came about unexpectedly. Night is a good time for recording the ocean, as any sea breezes have often abated, allowing clear recording. And of course waves sound the same by day or night – or so I thought.

One evening I was at Mimosa Rocks on the NSW south coast, recording around the rockpools. After several hours I was getting sleepy, and sat down on the cobbled beach of a sheltered bay to listen before heading back to my camp. Maybe it was just me, but I found the lazy sound of the waves, washing into the bay and up onto the stones, deeply relaxing. Each wave would wash in, starting at one end of the bay and break cleanly around to the far side. Sometimes waves would arrive in small groups, with interludes of gentle lapping between.

‘Moonlit Pebble Bay’ contains the hour-long, unedited recording, just as I had heard it that evening. It is a beautiful meditation, which we’ve included in our ‘Nature at Rest’ collection.

Listen to the audio sample.

The more I record by the seaside, the more I come to appreciate the subtle sounds of the ocean, and find ways of capturing that beauty. A beach is not just a beach!

‘Call of the Ocean’, ‘Surf Beach & Shoreline’ and ‘Moonlit Pebble Bay’ are each available as either CD or for digital download, directly from our website; www.listeningearth.com