I’m on my way to a five-day birding trip in the far north of Queensland, to Lockhart River, a coastal settlement pretty much in the middle of nowhere but blessed with a big runway, which was built by the military during the Second World War. For the birder, its significance lies in its location adjacent to the Iron Range National Park, where there is some nice lowland tropical forest. My targets are a number of resident and migrant specialties on the Australian list with ranges spanning Cape York and New Guinea, in particular the Papuan Pitta (a member of the Red-bellied Pitta complex, which has been split in recent years). To get there I must transit through Cairns, and the schedule gives me a stopover of two nights. That’s more than fine by me, because eBird tells me there’s a Nordmann’s Greenshank to be seen from a birding hotspot on the Esplanade, which I make sure is only five minutes’ walk from my hotel.
The Nordmann’s Greenshank is an endangered species, breeding in Western Siberia and migrating each year to the south, along the Eastern Flyway down the coast of Eastern China and into Southeast and South Asia to its wintering grounds. At a guess, somewhere around 1000 individuals survive in the wild, but there is a lot we don’t know about this bird. Compared with its close Siberian neighbour, the Spoon-billed Sandpiper, it receives much less attention. It seems to be not quite so close to extinction, and it has none of the Spoony’s charisma. Its near relative, the Common Greenshank, is globally common and actually better-looking – the Nordmann’s is dumpier, with a chunky bill and a somewhat ungainly gait as it scuttles after crabs on the mud. Perhaps its main claim to notoriety is that it’s a badge of honour among birders to be able to pick it out on the mudflats as the lone odd-one-out among other look-alike species, such as Tattlers and Sandpipers.
Australian birders were very excited by the arrival of a Nordmann’s. A few confirmed sightings had previously been recorded in Australia, but this was its first appearance on the East Coast. And the fact that it was to be seen from the Cairns Esplanade was particularly gratifying, just ten minutes from the airport by taxi and across the road from the hotel strip. A brief study of the tide tables was all that was needed to find it. The bird, very conveniently, seemed to visit most days for a feed in front of Muddy’s Playground as the tide went out, next to Muddy’s Café, a favourite breakfast spot for locals and holiday makers alike. Its preferred diet was crabs (doubtless also on the menu at Muddy’s), which it chased entertainingly across the mud in front of the watching birders.
They came from all corners, by road and by air, to twitch the Greenshank. By the time I had arrived, it had been around for three weeks, but still they came – maybe thirty or so at peak hour (me included) with our cameras and scopes. Some regular Cairns birders apparently first saw the bird on Boxing Day, but it was only properly identified on 2 January. A trawl through photos confirmed this was not the first sighting, but at first glance, it was mistaken for a Terek Sandpiper. I am there to see and photograph it a couple of hours after my plane lands – the tides are kind to me – and I also see it the next day. The sun is not shining, but never mind. This is the wet season, after all.
And so, nicely, to the main point of my tale. A pretty innocuous tropical low that was bringing seasonal rain suddenly, overnight, acquires a name – Kimi – and a fateful meteorological designation – ‘Tropical Cyclone’. It is north of Cairns and tracking slowly down the coast, predicted to make landfall in a couple of days somewhere close by. The local airline flying to Lockhart River does what it always does when the predictive map of the track of a cyclone on the Bureau of Meteorology website colours the Cairns region orange: it grounds its planes. I am stranded. But as it happens, the next day – Monday – the cyclone sails harmlessly by and heads south – indeed, the sun comes out, to add insult to injury. Flights are rescheduled and we are re-assigned to new departure times; but, alas, in my case not until Wednesday. My Pitta quest is on hold for another day, so I trudge back to the Esplanade with my bins and camera.
As it turns out, I was not disappointed. In total, over four days, I was up and down the Esplanade at least four times – I lost count. I could have hired a car and gone further afield – birding around Cairns is terrific – but I was already bleeding dollars with the extra bills, so I contented myself with the boardwalk and the walking track along the waterfront. So, it was my feet, not my wallet, that were left bleeding. But this was a small price to pay .
The Esplanade is several kilometres long and built up all the way from the city centre in the south up as far as the mangrove colony at the northern end. Once upon a time, just about the whole bay would have been fringed with mangroves, but the city took over the coastal strip for piers, parks and the seaside walk. Along the southern part, the high tide laps under the boardwalk, while in the northern half it leaves a thin strip of sand before receding to reveal the mudflats. There, the walk is along a bitumen and concrete path.
The city authorities have turned the whole length into a holiday playground, some of it green and relaxing, but most of it noisier and fun-filled. Fig trees and Palms are planted in abundance. Wisely, the street and the line of hotels across the road is a good distance away. And towards the northern end, the view out to sea is enjoyed by the occupants of the Cairns Hospital.
The Nordmann’s regular appearance to birders was right in front of one of the noisiest bits of the promenade. But along with the scores of other waders at their favourite muddy feeding spot, this bird was not in the least bit disconcerted. This adjacency combined with its accessibility is one of the charms of the Esplanade as a birding hotspot. At high tide, there are few waders to be seen, although a couple of small groups of Godwits and sundry others do brave the crowds, clustering on the beach just feet from the passing people with their leashed dogs, skateboards and roller skates.
Most of the birds, however, fly out of the bay to more congenial spots at high tide, only to return when the tide is right. One of the pleasures of birding at these moments is that the waders can be seen flying in before settling, giving one the chance of a combination of spectacles and a constant sense of anticipation of more to come – Far Eastern Curlews, Great Knots, Sand Plovers, Curlew Sandpipers and others. Then, when they have arrived, there is a birding sweet spot of scores of feeding birds on the mud, within viewing distance, before the water recedes and they disperse.
But I also found the Esplanade rewarding for other reasons. The Nordmann’s Greenshank was not the only highlight. On my walks, I saw nearly fifty different species – and very large numbers of some of them. Every day, hundreds of Torresian Imperial Pigeons flew in and out of the fig trees, displaying and calling to each other. Late in the day, groups of them would fly across the sky to their roosts. They are handsome birds, creamy white, fringed by black in the wings and tail, and spectacular in flight.
Of course, invasive Common Mynas were probably the most numerous species, annoyingly ubiquitous amidst the crowds of people, feasting off their leftovers and nesting in the tangled hearts of the palm trees. There were White-breasted Woodswallows perching in family groups in the Casuarina trees and swooping for insects over the grass. Varied Honeyeaters flew from tree to tree and exploded with their strident, melodious duets. Smaller, delicate Yellow and Brown Honeyeaters fed in the flowering trees. Rainbow Lorikeets screamed overhead in groups and once, fleetingly, I tracked three Double-eyed Fig-Parrots flying from tree-top to tree-top. Dozens of Peaceful Doves fed on the ground and scuttled away from the approaching footfalls.
Cairns Esplanade is well-known for two other, outstanding Australian endemics: Australian Pelicans and Bush Stone Curlews. The Pelicans hang about in a group on the waterfront all day long, whether resting on firm ground at high tide, or swimming together in a group to herd and catch shoals of fish. Once, they flew by in procession, as if showing off to the crowd, skimming the water gracefully with an occasional wing-flap. At rest, they provide favourite backgrounds for tourist selfies.
A plaque along a tree-lined path in one of the green spaces celebrates a local bird lover who made it part of his life’s work to protect and feed the Pelicans and to educate the locals and visitors alike to respect them. Indeed, along the beach and the Esplanade, the regard shown for birds of all kinds is notable (and, I might add, uncharacteristic of many other Australian beachside resorts) – I hardly saw an unleashed dog the whole time.
The Bush Stone Curlews were an eye-opener. Living in Canberra, I am used to a group of precious, protected members of this somewhat bizarre-looking species being closeted in its own fenced reserve and protected from predators and from disturbances of all kinds. Here, in Cairns, I nearly tripped over one on a footpath near the city centre. The very next one I saw, close by, was in the middle of a busy car park. He crossed the road and casually walked past me.
Later, I saw a group of seven standing out in the open on the grass just a short distance from dozens of happy, shouting swimmers in the city’s artificial lagoon, with its fountains and water playgrounds. Perhaps this vivid example of harmonious human and animal co-habitation is partly a function of the rapid fall-off in tourist traffic due to the COVID-19 lockdowns and travel restrictions. It was also rather quiet because of the persistent rain falling at the time, but clearly these birds – I saw ten of them in all within a hundred yards – are regular denizens. They paid no attention to me as I walked up and photographed them.
So, being stranded in Cairns was not such a bad thing after all. I’m pretty sure I’ll get to see most if not all of my targets on my truncated visit further north, and now I have also been exposed to a more intimate acquaintance with Cairns and its Esplanade than I would have otherwise contemplated. And the birding has been great for both the number and also the variety of species, some of them very special, as well as for the sheer abundance of birds of all kinds. The experience has also been enhanced by being leisurely and without urgency, like an exploration of a new local patch. And there is never a dull moment on the Esplanade – the people-watching is just as good as the birdwatching (and the birds partake of it too).
And of course, I had a successful twitch, if that’s the right word. The Nordmann’s Greenshank was not a lifer, as I had seen one in Hong Kong many years ago, but that was not the point. This was an astonishing sighting, one that I feel privileged to have shared in. I can’t say the Greenshank was stranded like I was – hopefully, it will fatten up on the crabs and one day make its way back to Siberia to breed. But as a species, it may well be stranded, at a time and in an environment that is increasingly hostile to wildlife. Many migrating wader species on the Eastern Flyway between Siberia and Australasia are vulnerable, threatened or endangered by the growing encroachment of millions of modern humans on their way of life, in particular the loss of suitable habitat along the migration route and at their wintering sites.
Seeing birds on the verge of possible extinction is always a bit awe-inspiring; but seeing one so rare right in front of me that had recently travelled thousands of miles – and survived the journey – was truly a wonder of nature. That it was the only bird of the species known to have had made this exact journey added a nice pinch of spice to the story, but this is somehow beside the point. Others must surely have done so in the past, and perhaps its decline as a species is one reason that we had not noticed the fact. So, don’t let us put ourselves as birders at the centre of a story like this. The punchline is not the excitement of the first sighting but the tragedy that it might be the last.