by Darryl Jones
Writing that is based on the published works of others—the standard approach of anyone attempting to synthesize a research topic—can be deceptively simple, particularly now that virtually everything is instantly available online. Read carefully with a critical eye, note the key findings, and relate the conclusions to your accumulating body of knowledge. That is supposedly how it works. Except as an active researcher myself, I am acutely aware that the nice, tidy findings presented in the colorless prose of the typical scientific journal article are usually only part of the story. So often it’s the things that went wrong or turned in unexpected directions— the stuff that does not get past the journal editors and peer reviewers— that can provide some of the most important insights.
With this in mind, I decided to contact almost everyone still alive who had made a contribution to the scientific study of garden bird feeding to ask whether I could discuss their work and maybe just talk about the activity informally. Even though this is not a particularly large field, I did not really expect to get much of a response. For some, the research had been undertaken some time ago, while others had retired, moved on, or were now pursuing other interests. All true, yet almost everyone I successfully tracked down said they would be happy to “talk.” Indeed, it soon became obvious that the topic of bird feeding was still of passionate interest to these people. The positive responses resulted in a multitude of e-mail exchanges, Skype conversations, and even old-fashioned telephone calls to locations all over the world, frequently at odd and inconvenient times of the day. These interactions were at least as important as the published science in the evolution of the ideas and perspectives that eventually became this book.
But these many conversations, mainly via electronic technology, were just part of the complex pattern of information that was being woven together. Over about a year I was fortunate enough to meet face to face with a remarkable number of the researchers I previously knew only as authors of studies I had read. (Yes, there was a real and extensive geographical journey.) As I had anticipated, it was the chance to hear, in person, the raw details and realities behind some of the key research and stories from many of the most significant scientists and personalities involved in wild bird feeding that proved to be invaluable. Hearing their insights and personal views would simply have been impossible without these meetings. I remain astounded at the generosity and honesty of so many people, and their willingness to share their thoughts with a virtual stranger.
I am deeply and sincerely grateful for every one of those delightful and inspiring encounters and will long treasure them. A long amble around the damp streets of Cardiff with Richard Cowie; a magical day with Josie Galbraith, among the Hihi and Takahe on Tiritiri Matangi Island; an illuminating and extraordinarily candid visit with Chris Whittles in Shrews-bury; the revolutionary day when I visited both the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) and the British Trust for Ornithology (BTO) in England, where a simple query about feeding birds in summer with Will Peach, Kate Risely, and Kate Plummer led to an entire unplanned chapter; watching the snow build up with some trepidation while talking for hours with David Bonter and Emma Greig at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology; ticking off a whole page of new birds with Piotr Tryjanowski in the fields close to his home near Poznan in Poland. And then there were equally open and informative meetings with Mel Orros in Reading; Ralph Powesland in the Marlborough Sounds; Andre Dhont, Steve Emlen and Natalia Demong in Ithaca, New York; Jim Reynolds in Birmingham and London; Hannah Peck in Penryn; Arienne Prestor in Malmo; Mark Cocker in Caxton; Monika Rhodes and Ann Göth in Sydney; and Saren Starbridge, Tim Low, and Rich Fuller in Brisbane. I thank them all sincerely.
Similarly, I am deeply indebted to the people I met via Skype or telephone: Sharon Birks (USA), Stephen Schoech (USA), Dan Chamberlain (UK), Dave Clark (UK), and Peter Berthold (Germany).
No less important, and often equally detailed and passionate, were e-mail exchanges (sometimes in addition to other interactions) with Grischa Perino and Monika Rhodes (Germany); Neil Gladner (USA); Abel Julien (Spain); Leah Burns (Iceland); Ralph Powesland and Eric Spurr (New Zealand); Will Peach, Pat Thompson, Jon Blount, and Emma Rosenfeld (England); Alexa and David Rase (South Africa); and Julie Lake and Brendan Trappe (Western Australia).
The writing of this book has been remarkably global in its development. The first words were composed in Queenstown, New Zealand (watching Pukeko being fed bread beside an almost frozen Lake Tekapo), the last at a writer’s retreat at Mount Tamborine in southern Queensland, Australia. In between, significant sections were composed in Copenhagen, Denmark; Malmo, Sweden; Canberra, Australia; Singapore; Maliau Basin, Borneo, Malaysia; and the British Library, London. By far the greater amount of writing (and related thinking), however, occurred in the delightfully productive quiet of the State Library in Brisbane, Australia.
This book had a relatively long gestation and I am immensely grateful to the following colleagues for their long-term support and encouragement: Mike Toms from the British Trust for Ornithology, Jim Reynolds from the University of Birmingham, Tim Birkhead from the University of Sheffield, Mark Cocker from Caxton, Suffolk, Rich Fuller from the University of Queensland, and Tim Low from Brisbane.
For permission to undertake the travel associated with the development of this book, I am extremely grateful to Professor Hamish McCullum, the head of the Griffith School of Environment, and Professor Zhihong Xu, the director of the Environmental Futures Research Institute, both at Griffith University in Brisbane, Australia.
During the concluding periods of writing I benefited enormously from two invaluable periods of writing retreat. The first was a thoroughly informal arrangement as the guest of Ralph Powesland (previously of the New Zealand Department of Conservation) at his remote and spectacular retirement home in the Marlborough Sounds of New Zealand (where the local Weka have successfully trained Ralph to supplement their diet every day, though he seems to imagine it is some sort of experiment designed by him!).
The second retreat was as a recipient of a BREW (Bush Retreats for Eco-Writers) environmental writer’s fellowship in the inaugural residency at the latest location, the subtropical rainforests of Mount Tamborine in the southern mountains of Queensland. It would be difficult to imagine a setting more conducive to writing and thinking. I am extremely obliged to BREW and especially to Sandra Sewell for her sensitive hospitality.
Of course, none of this would have been remotely possible without the solid, reliable foundation of the home front. Somehow, Liz, Dylan, Caelyn, and Manon all successfully feigned interest in my endless stories about feeding and shared my excitement at seeing a new bird at the feeder. They may even have put out the seed on occasions.
But without any doubt, my greatest thanks are extended to three extraordinary friends and colleagues who have shared the frustration, excitement, tedium, and wonder of attempting to undertake research in the field of bird feeding: Renee Chapman, Dave Clark, and Josie Galbraith. This book is much more informative and was infinitely more fun to write because of their multifarious and invaluable contributions: ideas, research discoveries, field trips, anecdotes, rare insights, and forgotten documents, as well as cakes, pints, jokes, beds, and encouragement.
Finally, I offer my sincere thanks to my agent Margaret Gee for her support and guidance. And at Cornell University Press, Kitty Liu, Susan Specter, and Meagan Dermody have been an author’s dream to work with through those inevitable tedious bits at the end.
THE BIRDS AT MY TABLE
1
WHY BIRD FEEDING MATTERS
The birds at my table are impatient. If I am late, they line up along the veranda railing to peer accusingly at me though the kitchen window. Do I dare make my coffee before fetching the seed container? If my delay is particularly prolonged, they may start to yell, as though encouraging (threatening?) me into action. When I open the door to step out and gently deposit the usual handful of “wild bird mix” on the circular feeding platform, they continue to grumb
le, staying just out of reach, until I retreat and close the glass door quietly behind me. As soon as I am inside, they quickly fly to the platform to start feeding, deftly husking the sunflower seeds but always keeping an eye out for potential disturbances: a sudden movement inside the house, the ever-present cat, the arrival of potential competitors in the nearby foliage.
Although they appear tame and are thoroughly unperturbed by the presence of people, the birds at my table are truly wild creatures. They are a native species living as they always have done—finding mates, raising offspring, flying freely, and foraging widely—largely unnoticed by the humans they share their habitat with. Although these birds live their lives among us in the strange landscape of the suburban ecosystem, their complex and fascinating family lives and interactions are effectively invisible. Unless we are able to entice them out of the trees and into our lives.
By providing something they are always searching for—food—we may be able to bring such wild birds into view. If they respond, their visits are a privileged and sometimes intimate view into their world. They don’t need to come. But they do. They accept my invitation and fly in, to spend a little of their busy day close to the humans, but on their own terms. If they don’t like the situation, if they sense possible danger or see something unfamiliar, they are gone, in a flash, without apology or explanation. And there is nothing I can do about it.
While they are present, however, I have the opportunity to watch and maybe even learn something. On one level, I simply take in their beauty and personality. Most of our impressions of free-flying birds are fleeting and fragmentary, a mere glimpse of a restless shadow. When this relentless energy actually halts, abruptly, at the feeding station so close by, the colors and delicate patterns of the feathers are arresting. The plumage of even the most commonplace species, no matter how familiar from a distance, is indeed marvelous when viewed closely. But the most important impression is of a living being, an individual pausing briefly to refuel (or just snack) before carrying on with its own day. We can never really know but it’s hard not to wonder: Where are they going in such a hurry? Who will they meet? How do they decide? Do they have priorities? Yes, of course such thinking is a form of anthropomorphism, the attributing of human traits such as decision making and planning to animals. But as we learn more about the behavior of animals, the traditional distinctions that have long separated us from them are steadily being challenged. I can never pretend to know what is going on behind these bright avian eyes, but as our gazes meet (over the seeds and coffee cup respectively), and I start to mentally arrange my day ahead, it’s pretty easy to imagine that the birds are doing the same.
And these are thoughts resulting directly from my act of feeding. By providing something that attracts these birds to my yard and then the feeding station on my balcony, I have brought wild birds into the private and personal space of my home. In the process, through a moderate level of quiet observation and respect, these animals have changed gradually from general examples of their species to known individuals, with distinct personalities and features. They haven’t changed (as far as I can tell), but I have: my life now includes important elements of fascination with and concern for these creatures. My house is in, after all, a fairly typical suburb, full of threats and opportunities for wild visitors, all associated with our human-dominated mode of living. We (people generally) chose to clear the original natural landscape for places to build houses; we selected the garden plants and introduced new predators (such as this deceptively lazy cat), among many other alterations. All these typical features of people-space affect the wildlife living around us. Where will they live and breed? Will they find enough food? How does my humble feeding table fit into their lives? Indeed, is the food I provide actually useful, or suitable, or maybe even harmful? These were questions I had not even considered before I started feeding.
That is because I have come to realize that the birds at my table are also guests. And that makes me their host with the attendant responsibilities of anyone inviting friends to share a meal. A much larger table inside the house (but within easy view of the bird feeder) has supported many lunches and dinners for human visitors. Around this table, the ancient conventions of hospitality and neighborly communion are accompanied by generous provisioning and attention to personal preferences. (Though, if we are being honest, it has been my wife who has been the primary provider and arbiter of taste.) The unspoken objective is to have satisfied visitors who are able to enjoy the food and company and who eventually leave content and healthy. The “sharing of bread” is a universal and important cross-cultural means of social interaction and trust building. I would obviously be horrified if these guests rejected the food or became ill as a result of eating it. All necessary care would have been exercised to prevent such outcomes; such are the responsibilities of a host.
As the host to birds, similar expectations apply. I am responsible for the quality and quantity of the “meal” and the hygiene of the “plate.” These guests tend to be fairly flexible with respect to what is eaten and clearly have their favorites and dislikes; some things are consumed instantly, others ignored completely. They are, however, decidedly lax about their table manners and often leave the table in a less than hygienic state, seemingly unconcerned about what my next guests might think. Cleaning up after the party is also part of the host’s charter.
Almost none of these issues occurred to me way back when I initially decided to see what might happen if I placed some seed on the feeding station. This platform, built onto the balcony railing outside the dining room, had been constructed by the previous owners of the house. According to our neighbors, however, feeding had not been practiced here for many years. Would birds come back after such a long time? A handful of sunflower seeds started a vague experiment, but the ongoing results have been unexpectedly significant, both personally and professionally. The first birds arrived a few days later and have continued to do so, more or less daily, ever since. That is hardly big news, but this simple activity— providing food for birds—has generated a seemingly endless sequence of questions and concerns. Given that this is also an activity practiced by millions of people, these issues might similarly be considered around the world. What began so simplistically for me has led to profound experiences and unexpected dilemmas, productive dialogues as well as bitter disagreements. From a handful of seed to a topic of global importance. You see, I am convinced that bird feeding really matters. In this book I will try to show why.
My Table Is in Australia
The birds at my table are probably rather different from those at yours. Regardless, I suspect that many of the issues, concerns, challenges, and rewards are likely to be similar for feeders wherever they live. The details will differ, but this is a topic of international interest. Feeding is, however, global though not universal; although people all over the planet feed wild birds, there are also places where this does not occur. Similarly, there are places where feeding is encouraged and actively promoted, and others where it is banned or at least frowned upon. Even among birders, conservationists, and environmental activists, opinions can be sharply divided. Such differences in attitudes and sometimes policy are fascinating, and worth exploring. Why such contrasts? What are they based on?
Such conflicting views have been particularly strong in Australia.1 As we will see, while Australians are subject to some of the most strident antifeeding attitudes, statements, and policies, they remain among the most active and passionate feeders of wild birds globally. This is much more than the celebrated antipodean “antiauthority” attitude so often cited by tabloid commentators. For large proportions of the population to point-edly defy the widespread “Do Not Feed” messages suggests something significant is going on. This is just one of the reasons (there are others) why our exploration of international wild bird feeding starts amid the suburban backyards of Australia.
I live in Brisbane, Australia, a city of about 2 million people situated on the coast about halfwa
y up the eastern side of the continent. It is a rapidly growing region in a lush, subtropical landscape. Although suburbs now sprawl in all directions, a combination of sensible planning, simple geography, and blind good luck has left lots of areas of native eucalyptus forest among the roads and houses. These bushland patches, many quite large, support a remarkable diversity of wildlife species, including birds, a number of which leave their natural habitats to explore the nearby suburbs. Our human habitats are far from bare and unwelcoming to native birds. The warm, humid climate allows almost anything planted to grow quickly, leading to suburbs of bewildering varieties of trees and shrubs.
Like most gardeners everywhere, Australians love showy flowers, and although traditional European varieties such as roses and gladiolas are still common, over the last few decades many species of Australian native trees and shrubs have become popular as suburban plantings. Brisbane gardens are full of shrubs and small trees such as grevilleas, callistemons, and banksias, all natives although they often originate from distant parts of this large country. The flowers they produce are gorgeous, large, and conspicuous, and they seem to come in all shades of red, yellow, orange, and even purple. To the ecologist, these colors immediately announce their adaptive objective: to attract birds. And not just any birds. While the color may act as a neon “Open for Business” sign, it is the abundant supply of nectar deep within the base of the flowers that the birds are attracted to. These sweet rewards are typically located deep inside the blooms, requiring specialized equipment to gain access. This is often in the form of the long beak and the even longer brush-tipped tongue found in one of the most characteristic bird groups of the Australian avifauna, the aptly named honeyeaters.2 This huge family (the Meliphagidae) consists of more than 90 small to moderately sized birds occupying every possible habitat throughout the vast and diverse Australian continent, provided there are nectar-bearing plants present. In terms of both the diversity and density of such plants, however, no natural landscape has anything like the nectar supplies of the suburbs.
