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Suspecting they still occurred, we went to considerable effort searching unsuccessfully for picathartes, our suspicions all but confirmed when several hunters I interviewed said they knew the bird and claimed they still existed. Gray-necked Picathartes foraging in leaf-litter on the forest floor in Korup National Park, Cameroon.
Upon arrival we were given strict and non-flexible rules: never go even one inch off the ice paths, never allow the tiniest piece of litter to escape, never interact in any way with the wildlife, and cause absolutely no environmental damage. Researcher” is a term that should differ greatly from the term “trophy hunter.”
I myself mostly poke the internet and watch other people play video games and ask myself questions like “Could cat litter be the most important invention in the history of modern environmentalism?”*. The apparent Gambel’s Quail is a spicier choice but maybe hunters did unauthorized stocking of the area.
At first we were concerned that another dog had been injured, perhaps hit by one of the hunter’s cars (who were watching the pack as well). Falakhe is still alive, as is the dominant male in his litter. And in the middle of that excitement was a weak, badly limping, skinny looking runt of a dog. I didn’t need to.
It turns out that the reclaimed mines work well as habitat for the sparrow because they collect a layer of leaf litter, a key nesting requirement. I was particularly sad to see the decline of Henslow’s Sparrow, a bird I saw for the first time in the reclaimed surface mine grasslands of western Pennsylvania.
Grant saw one once in the Hunter Valley in 1999 and I was behind on the trail and only heard the mimicry, so I considered this my “lifer” We hoped we would get another chance, but there’s no guarantees in the birding world. Ferns were prominent and it was very easy to walk quietly due to all of the damp leaf litter.
I followed his call, but so did Emily The Hunter. Before I could even process his presence and figure out what to do, I heard the scrapes of Emily’s paws on her litter box in the guest room bathroom. The race was on; I had to find the frog, whom I named Kermie, before my vicious feline was able to sink her claws into him.
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