Some families of birds are like magnets to the intrepid birder with a penchant for completing lists. I have met a birder whose life ambition is to see every species of Parrot surviving in the wild; for others, it’s Hummingbirds; for the really crazy, it could be Tapaculos. The Grasswren is one such family, at least for those who have some acquaintance with the birds of Australia.
Grasswrens are members of the Australian Wren family, which also includes Fairy Wrens and Emu-wrens – all of them irresistible. They have their own Facebook page, with 1500 members (and growing). There are currently 13 species of Grasswren covering 23 subspecies. Neville Caley’s Australian classic, What Bird is That? (first published in 1931) lists only eight species, but there have been a number of splits since then.
Several things about Grasswrens get birders’ adrenalin pumping. For one thing, they have the looks, the character and the personality to die for. They are far from spectacular or showy, but have subtle striations over varying shades of rufous, brown, grey, black and white; they are tiny, with long legs and even longer, sticky-up tails.
Most of them live in places that seem uninhabitable – hot, dusty and drought-stricken for many years at a time. They are great survivors, albeit facing threats, especially from climate change. Species and subspecies have distinct ranges across thousands of kilometres of inland Australia. No doubt, in line with contemporary trends in taxonomy, there are more splits to come. The true addicts chase the subspecies a well, in case they are later found to be true species for the life list.
So, Grasswrens are rare, remote and elusive, each of which is an immediate challenge to the keen birder. You have to venture into the remote outback down hundreds of kilometres of dusty roads and tracks, tramp across endless gibber plains and clamber across giant sand dunes, to find Grasswrens.
Having found the habitat, you have to find the bird, and that is rarely easy. They mostly keep their heads down and run rather than fly, suddenly calling from behind you when you are sure they are in front. Seeing all thirteen is a rare badge of honour, a birding trophy out of reach to most of us. So far, I have managed eight. It could have been nine, but I dipped on one of them, which was right in front of me: a classic Grasswren encounter.
Grasswren number one was the Striated Grasswren, in the Mallee region of South Australia. I was taken there in 2007 by Bob, a bushman birder in a beaten up four-wheel drive who could have found his way around the area and its birding hotspots blindfold. Indeed, he might as well have been – his sight was fading, although his fieldcraft was not. He relied on a GPS gizmo to pull up at the right place on the track, pulling out a cranky old tape recorder to play a call.
‘Look over there and tell me what you can see’. Sure enough, something popped up and I described it.
‘Yes, that’ll be it’, he said.
Bob still loved his birding, even if I had to be his good eye in the field. We stayed in shearers’ huts, maintained these days for the visiting tourist and birder. The sheep stations had been bought up and the properties turned into a nature reserve where, optimistically, the original mallee vegetation would restore itself. I re-visited in 2019. The mallee was looking OK, but better sites for the Striated Grasswren are now elsewhere. Honeyeaters were still drinking at the tank overflow by the shearers’ quarters, and the old range, festooned with hanging pots and pans, was still there in the kitchen.
Grasswren number two was a corker, the Black Grasswren. It required a chartered flight out of Kununurra, just across the Northern Territory Border in Western Australia, followed by a short hop up onto the Mitchell Plateau by helicopter. The site was adjacent to a camping ground which was a three days’ drive from anywhere (hence the helicopter). This is one of the Grasswren’s main features: the extreme measures needed to see some of them. One birder on that chartered flight had already flown three thousand kilometres the day before and was going to get on the next flight home. I was already in the Northern Territory, as were most of the group, as we had been on a longer trip across the north of Australia, and this was the finale.
My next two Grasswrens were the fruits of a solo trip to Mt. Isa, way out beyond the black stump in Queensland, also in 2019. Mt Isa is a bustling mining town, producing copper, zinc, silver and lead, the mine’s huge smokestacks dominating the town.
The Kalkadoon Grasswren is named after the local Aboriginal people who had inhabited the area for 60,000 years. In 1884, some six hundred of their warriors stood in pitched battle with the European invaders at Battle Mountain. north of Cloncurry, 120 kilometres east of Mt. Isa. Perhaps 200 of them were slaughtered on the battlefield by a combined army of settlers and troopers armed with rifles.
My other birding target, the Carpentarian Grasswren, is named after a geological feature, the Carpentarian Basin that stretches north from the Mt Isa region into the Northern Territory and adjacent seawaters.
Local knowledge is really important in this situation, and mine was imperfect, having been picked up on one long-distance phone call and from some web posts. The Kalkadoon was supposed to be the easiest, being seen frequently on a hillside just on the outskirts of town. But no luck there, in my case. Another supposedly reliable site rewarded me with two hot and dusty scrambles up some other hillsides, but no Grasswren there, either. A consolation prize was a smashing Purple-backed Fairywren, flashing like a gem amidst the fire-blackened wood litter as it darted through.
I had another Kalkadoon site up my sleeve, but I tried first for the Carpentarian Grasswren, down a well-metalled mine road off the Barkly Highway, west of Mt Isa. Nothing doing here either, but not to be outdone, I was back first thing next morning and this time, I struck gold.
On the way in, I came across an Australian Bustard, majestically statuesque, slap in the middle of the road as I braked to a halt. I flushed him as I poked my camera out of the car window. He was lucky, as I doubt that the road trains carrying ore from the mine could have stopped in time. The first of them passed me going out shortly after. They came every fifteen minutes or so for the rest of the morning, their rumbles and roars accompanying me in my birding when in earshot of the road. Appropriately, the label on the map says I am in Gunpowder.
The Bustard was a good omen, as after parking, I came across the Carpentarian Grassswren in a gully, about a kilometre from the road. Sweating my way out, I came across three other birders (one of them was the very same long-distance birder who had joined my earlier trip to the Mitchell Plateau). I pointed in the direction of the spot where I had seen the bird and they set off, heartened. I later learnt they found it (or another), only seven hours later.
Next day, I also finally struck lucky with the Kalkadoon Grasswren. About half way out to the mine road on the Highway is a prominent landmark, Wave Tower Hill. Despite a steep, metalled road built up the hill to service the communications tower, a locked gate necessitated another hot walk. It was well worth it as, nearing the top, a party of Kalkadoon Grasswrens appeared on the hillside beneath me. I managed to get one decent enough shot (by my standards).
A Six-Grasswren Bash. After these triumphs, I was really hooked. A month later, I was off again into the interior, with a small group on a 7-day dash for six Grasswrens, beginning in Adelaide. We headed 1000 kilometres north to Cameron Corner, at the junction of South Australia, New South Wales and Queensland, thence west down the Strzelecki Track, later passing through the Flinders ranges on the way south to Whyalla and back to Adelaide. On the way north, I was re-acquainted with the Striated Grasswren. Nearby, the endangered Mallee Emu-wren was just as good – and a tick, to boot.
Emu-wrens (there are three species) are almost as special as Grasswrens. But the name ‘Emu-wren’ is a bit of a downer in my book. It refers to the whispy feathers in the tail, like the Emu’s feathers that ladies used to wear in their hats (I’m sure this is why the name was applied, as a familiar marker). But I’m not even sure you can say an Emu has a tail. And feathers in hats are not something I like to have celebrated. Above all, anything less like an Emu, I’d like to be shown. Although I admit, the tail is a thing to draw attention to: on the Southern Emu-wren, it is twice as long as the body which, on the Rufous-headed Emu-wren, is the smallest of any Australian bird. There’s a lot to like about Emu-wrens, except the name.
We found the Grey Grasswren further north, near the Queensland border in the Bulloo Downs swamps. Bulloo Downs is a remote cattle station – there were a few cattle wandering about, but the drought meant the station was probably mostly de-stocked. ‘Swamp’ in this context has a particular meaning. Most of the time, the swamp is dry, or nearly so. We visited after a years-long long drought, one of the worst on record. In the periodic rains (less frequent now, it seems, due to climate change) the area does get really swampy, and the Grey Grasswrens breed like mad, producing brood after brood. In the long, dry years in between, the hardiest hang on, until the next rains. We found evidence of two pairs in our part of the swamp, and got OK looks as they briefly popped up over the top of the dry reeds and sedges.
A highlight of the side-trip for the Grey Grasswren was to pass through the famous Rabbit-proof Fence, still maintained, the gate still ready for opening by passing travellers as they traverse the middle-of-nowhere. Completed in 1907, the fence stretches for 3,250 kilometres, aimed at cutting off the whole of the south-east corner of the Continent in the vain hope of eradicating the invasive rabbit population in that corner.
I didn’t mention our encounter with Bourke’s Parrots at dusk, visiting a dam near Tibooburra, another trip highlight. But on we went, to the next Grasswren, along the Strzelecki Track as it cut through the towering sand-dunes of the Strzelecki Desert. Here, the Eyrean Grasswren lives in the sparse grasses on the dunes, which stretch in long lines across the desert. We arrived to be greeted by a sandstorm, but the Grasswrens were still about. One ran around us as we also circled about, giving brief glimpses as it dashed from cover to cover along the sandy ground. I got an image on my camera, perhaps the best example you’ll ever see of a photo that deserves the humbling label ‘record shot’. But it’s still worth a look: that is a typical, real-life view of a Grasswren.
Next in line was the Thick-billed Grasswren. We criss-crossed a stony, tussock-dotted plain, getting faint signs and movement, but for me, at least, not a good enough look. So, that’s enough on that subject. Next day, the Short-tailed Grasswren gave itself up on a spinifex-covered hillside after a couple of hours – easy, this one – and on we went. I’m not going to have a dig at this name, as clearly that is a short tail – for a Grasswren.
Not far away (by outback standards) the Western Grasswren gave us a merry chase dodging between several clumps of bushes, magically calling from the depths of one after the other without a glimpse in between, and just now and again jumping out for a second.
This 3000 kilometre dash across gibber plains and sand dunes not only gave us some terrific birds, but also brought us face to face with the stresses faced by Australia’s marginal ecosystems in hard times. Some striking images of such stresses are sharp in my mind. In the Mallee, we saw a creature crossing the track ahead seemingly the size of a pig – it was a feral cat (no fluffy pussy-cat, this one), one among a proliferating multitude thriving and prospering on prey that is totally defenceless against its teeth and claws. Later that day, we stood around a Malleefowl’s mound that had been deserted for some years, likely due to growing predation from cats and foxes.
On another occasion, we watched a herd of goats, set loose on the land by the station owner because his property can’t sustain any other livestock. They were crossing a dried-out lake denuded of vegetation (the last of it being eaten by the goats) as well as empty of water. Drought was a recurring theme: on the edge of the Strzelecki Desert, we found hundreds of Corellas and Zebra Finches clustered at a shrinking artesian waterhole. We ate our sandwiches at a picnic table with blown sand nearly covering the table-top.
My Grasswren trips into the outback also brought home the ways European settlement has transformed the landscape, even in the remotest parts of the Continent. Herds of sheep and cattle roam loose on huge properties in the driest parts of the Continent, trampling the dry ground and munching through the sparse vegetation. Trees have been cleared in large parts of the Mallee to make way for grazing. In much of the lower Murray River, the water is never more than a slow trickle due to upstream extraction for irrigation crops, from cotton in the north to oranges in the south.
The Aboriginal cultures that previously occupied these lands and waterways, using fire to manage the flora and fauna for long-term sustainability, have been subjugated and supplanted by European settlers, with new ways of exploiting the natural resources, far more intrusive, less sympathetic and probably unsustainable. Paradoxically, in some places, the ending of traditional fire regimes has brought with it increasing density of vegetation, some of it non-indigenous and invasive, resulting in a heightened risk of devastating bushfires.
And everywhere, there are signs of modern humans’ penetration – roads, tracks, trails, fences, wind-driven artesian pumps, dams, landing strips, feral cats and foxes (Europeans brought both with them, deliberately). All over, in surprising number, we encounter modern-day travellers, including birders, raising dust clouds down endlessly long, straight roads, accommodated in road-houses with huge road trains pulled up outside. Roadkill is everywhere, including not only indigenous animals but also cows and sheep, providing a boon to scavenging birds such as corvids and raptors.
The country is divided into remote cattle and sheep stations, signposted from the main road down tracks that vanish into the haze. These tiny human settlements with their dams and artesian waterholes, their cultivated gardens and shade trees, provide a lifeline for finches, parrots and many other species. Grasswrens, like many other species requiring specialised habitats that predated European settlement, for the most part do not share in these benefits.
Our own intrusion as birders is at a modest scale compared with that of others, but has potentially its own impacts, in particular disruption to the daily lives of our targets and habitat disturbance. Among the birding community, even sparing use of playback (using a recording of a bird’s call to attract its attention) is often a matter of contention. I and my companions have occasionally used it for Grasswrens. Without it, I would have seen even fewer.
Walking systematically through patches of likely-looking habitat could clearly disturb and potentially harm a local population if it is done repeatedly at the same site by large numbers of birders. But given the remoteness of most Grasswren habitat and the relatively small number of visitors to these sites, behaviour of these kinds by Grasswren enthusiasts has not obviously had deleterious effects. One possible exception is the Kalkadoon Grasswren site on the outskirts of Mt Isa, where reports suggest the birds are no longer so easily found. But then, this is also a popular jogging and dog-walking area for local residents.
To set against claims of potential harm, the thousands of Grasswren fans in the birding community are an important voice speaking out in support of protecting Grasswren habitat. Birdlife Australia and other organisations supported by bird lovers support research into conservation measures and lobby for implementation of the effective ones. Birders’ visits to remote locations also provide material support for such efforts – local landowners and tourism businesses know the presence of these birds brings in money.
We Australians are world champions in the extinction stakes: since European settlement began, a third of the world’s mammal extinctions have been in Australia, mostly due to the feral predators that we brought with us. Overall, more than twenty birds of Australia have gone extinct during that time, most of them on islands. Many survivors, such as the Malleefowl (which we might have seen on our Grasswren trip while in the Mallee region, but didn’t) are increasingly endangered and threatened with imminent extinction. On my earlier Mallee trip I was luckier, but since then numbers have declined even more.
Grasswrens are clearly tough and resilient, although two are classed as ‘vulnerable’ and one – the Carpentarian – is ‘near threatened‘. This species searches out areas of old-age spinifex grasses, but lately the higher intensity and scope of wildfires has increased the rate of destruction of this kind of habitat. Traditional controlled burning reduced the damage done by natural fire events and stimulated regeneration, allowing Grasswren populations to move between suitable surviving pockets of habitat.
Responding to research and advice, and spurred on by conservation advocates, landowners in the Mt Isa region around Gunpowder have re-instituted controlled burning as a way of better managing the land, with a view both to preserving pasture for their cattle and also the habitat for the Grasswren. There are ways in which humans and wildlife can co-exist for the benefit of both, but it requires understanding, commitment and resources as well as, for many of us, a radical change of mindset.
