There was a hint of cloak and dagger to the instructions. “Upon arrival, ring the doorbell at the side door beneath the sperm whale skeleton and ask for me”. I was at the Museum of Natural History in Rotterdam (Het Natuurhistorisch) to meet with Bram Langeveld, the museum’s conservator. Bram came to the door, and we shook hands in a normal way (no secret handshake, a bit disappointing and there wasn’t a password either), but then we walked past the whale’s penis, and through Minos’ labyrinth into the belly of the museum. If you ever have the chance to go backstage in a museum of natural history be prepared to be awed.
Bram was going to help me take pictures for this Top 10 Birds I Haven’t Seen Yet. As I most likely couldn’t get away with showing blank pictures my second option was to turn to taxidermy. The large scientific collection of the Natuurhistorisch would be a perfect place to look for the missing ones. Thus, for the next hour and a bit Bram was rummaging through the large depot, bringing me the requested specimens while I diligently took pictures. I have seen slightly more than half the species in Europe, so the list of yet to be seen birds contains hundreds. Not wishing to fill the Internet I will limit this post to the Netherlands. There, plenty of failure for me to endure and you to gloat at, don’t you worry.
First category of iconic misses: “You should have been here five minutes ago”. Or last week, last month, last year. Point is: you have arrived too late and the birders present at the location are gleefully pointing out that they did see the bird. “Very well, actually, couldn’t miss it”. One day, courts will accept these remarks as justification for self-defense, for now, make sure you get rid of the bodies.
Time to start the countdown at number 10. A nearly tame Snow Bunting had been making a regular appearance at Cabo Raso. The seabird watch is justifiably famous, but landlubbers do put in an occasional appearance. I arrived at the cape while it was still quite dark. Nevertheless, the bunting had already flown, never to return. Those gleeful remarks? That was here, this bird.
For number nine I should have been here 50 years’ ago. Despite featuring on the 100-guilder banknote for decades, the Great Snipe had been extirpated from the Netherlands before the money was printed. Never common, with recent sightings only during the migration south I shouldn’t feel bad. The Great Snipe features in this post because that banknote was so beautiful…
For number eight I had some great intel, a Long-tailed Duck had been spotted at the tidal mill at Mourisca. The female duck had been resting on the fish ponds and there are not that many ponds to survey at this location. I was greeted by another birder wearing a big grin on his face. He sort of shrugged when he saw me. Oh no…
Number seven, Black Grouse, is exceedingly rare in The Netherlands. It was extirpated from most locations before I could walk. The species has since been reintroduced in the Sallandse Heuvelrug. While some purists may claim these are not wild birds I would just really like to see these grouse. When my colleague got married in Sweden I was invited and I had the chance to do some birding in this wonderful country. A bit of research showed a possible lekking arena not too far away from the wedding church and a plan was hatched. Why I failed can be read here, but in summary: too late.
Number six, Bohemian Waxwing, or Pestvogel in Dutch (the “plague bird” for it appears and disappears as mysteriously as a pandemic). Pesten also means bullying or malicious teasing. No surprise then that during a massive influx of Bohemian Waxwing I failed to see one. Berry-bushes had been picked clean well before my arrival and the birds had moved on. Every single time I sneaked out of the office, the same misery. The absolute low point was a visit to a neighbourhood with guaranteed sighting, the dreaded “dead cert”. I walked up and down every street in that neighbourhood, the bushes all contained berries but the birds were undoubtedly fulfilling their nominative determinism by flying over to the other street whenever I turned the corner. Or so I believe, because the alternative would mean I am not a good birder.
My second category has fewer members: the birds that were heard but not seen. For some listers these misses would count as ticks on their lists, but I am a visual person. The bird call counts as an identification characteristic, a field mark, but to tick my list I do have to see the bird. I have heard number five, Long-eared Owl, many times. But I have yet to see it. On numerous occasions I have missed it by five minutes (first category), but let’s not make matters worse. My one consolation: Big Year celebrity Sandy Komito dipped on Long-eared Owl in his first attempt to set the USA record.
Third category: how is it possible I haven’t seen these birds yet? The embarrassment category, in other words. For numbers four, three, and two I’d have to be on a windy beach or dam in winter. Fulmar may be seen flying on the horizon and I could see it well through my spotting scope, albeit with watery eyes.
Number three and two, Lapland Bunting and Twite would be on the beach, maybe with the already mentioned Snow Bunting – feeding together as if copying their taxidermic friends in Rotterdam.
My embarrassment lies in the fact that I don’t really like to go out in the bitter cold to look at brown birds. When Twites visit, I like being with the godwits and Barn Swallows. Down south in pleasant climes. These birds are on my list of yet to see because I am weak.
Quickly changing the subject to my number one, Spotted Crake. This entry on the list is hors categorie, a special case. I have seen this bird in Portugal, but never in the Netherlands. And when I say “seen” I mean I think I did. The Spotted Crake represents all the birds not seen well enough to add to a list – a day list, a year list, a life list. I saw a crake-like bird for a fraction of a second in the right biotope (wet sedges) where it could only be the crake. But doubt remains. That’s why it deserves the number one spot – to wish for more and better views, always.
You have just finished reading a post about dead birds. You might feel a bit conflicted about museum collections. However, a repeat of David Armitage Bannerman‘s “collecting” of the last Canary Island Oystercatchers is unlikely to happen. “Collecting specimens” is much less done with a shotgun nowadays. Collisions with our civilisation contribute the majority of specimens. Glass and steel skyscrapers kill millions of birds each year within striking distance of a museum. I found this Goldcrest just the other day. Want to save birds? Switch off the light when you leave the office.
Whatever the dead animal’s origin, Bram painstakingly records all scientifically relevant data, fills out a label, updates the database and ensures the specimen is kept safely in storage for eternity. He is an unsung hero for science.
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