Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
March 15, 1999
I recently went on a wildlife tour in India where I traveled to several remote national parks. During some extraordinary moments, I saw a tiger eating a fallen boar, a leopard bolting down the road and a python digesting a young deer. But most of the time, I was straining my neck and focusing binoculars to get fleeting glimpses of forest birds.
“Look to the right of that snag,” a guide would say. “In that clump of leaves … Wait, it flew off. No, there it is again … Just above that branch … A jungle babbler.”
And there we would sit for long minutes until everyone in the jeep had seen it. Sometimes, I confess, I claimed I saw it when I didn’t just so we could move on.
Now, I love birds and I enjoyed this trip, but this sort of bird watching isn’t my cup of tea. To me, the best birds are big ones. I like seabirds that fly and nest out in the open. To me, birds that can weather stormy seas for months at a time are magnificent. Also, the birds I like best aren’t afraid of humans, yet still exhibit plucky personalities.
Given these particulars, it’s obvious my favorite birds are albatrosses.
I have admired albatrosses since the first time I saw some Laysans, years ago, dancing like crazy at Kaena Point. During these elaborate mating rituals, albatrosses bob and bow, click and clack, whistle and whinny. It’s this behavior, along with their silly walk, that got them their nickname, “gooney birds.”
But it wasn’t until I really got to know an individual albatross that I truly fell in love.
It was midsummer at Tern Island (in Hawaii’s northwest wildlife refuge), a time when albatross chicks are learning to use their wings. Usually, fledgling albatrosses make short test flights on their birth island before taking to the open ocean, where they remain for several years.
During my visit to Tern Island, I saw this awkward drill everywhere. A chick would open its wings, rise a few feet off the ground, then fall back down.
ONE morning, while walking down the runway, I spotted a Laysan albatross struggling in a small bush.
Moving closer, I was horrified to find a sharp branch poking completely through the bird’s wing. This probably happened during one of the young bird’s practice flights.
I rushed to the barracks to report my find, sure this bird’s fate would be a slow, miserable death.
But Tern Island’s visiting emergency doctor and veterinarian had other ideas.
I held the bird, stroking its soft feathers, while the two sewed up the hole in the wing, then tied it firmly against the bird’s body.
After three days, the doctors removed the bandage and placed the bird on the ground.
I still laugh when I think of that adorable albatross running like mad to escape the deranged humans.
From that day on, this was the only albatross on the island that took off running when it saw a person.
In less than a week, the bird disappeared, flying successfully, I hope, to its home on the Pacific Ocean.
Years later, I found myself in albatross heaven when I landed on Midway Atoll.
Millions of albatrosses in every stage of life entertained me there around the clock.
Once, when I stopped walking to adjust the leash on my sunglasses, a young albatross waddled up to me and untied my shoelaces.
Another time, as I squatted down to take a picture, a curious Laysan poked its beak repeatedly into the pocket of my sweat pants.
Now that’s my kind of bird watching.
Little birds in forests certainly have their merits, but for me, there’s nothing better than a close encounter with an albatross.