One Tough Bird
Meeting the unexpected in Brazil’s Mato Grosso.
by William Keener
I admit it, I’m a sucker for roadkill. After four days of birding by van in South America, it was no secret to my companions. Paulo, our guide, wasn’t surprised when I yelled “Stop!” making him turn around and head back to the large shaggy mass at the side of the road. Judging from its size and color as we sped by, it might have been a rhea, a flightless relative of the ostrich. We got out to take a closer look. It was no bird, not a feather in sight. Covered with coarse grizzled hair, the beast was six feet long and weighed about a hundred pounds. Certain that it was dead, I couldn’t resist reaching down to feel the wicked claw extending from its foreleg, fit for a velociraptor. Yet this was a toothless anteater, the first I’d ever seen. It would never again use that heavy claw to slash open the termite mounds that dotted the grassy savanna for miles around. High above, a King Vulture would soon come spiraling down, but we had no time to wait in the stifling heat of the Mato Grosso.
We continued north across the flats of the Pantanal, Brazil’s vast marshy floodplain where we had seen anaconda, caiman, capybara, otter and dense concentrations of waterbirds. Our destination was a low smudge on the horizon known as the Serra das Araras, the Macaw Mountains. At the edge of the Pantanal, these tablelands form the continental divide and the southern limit of Amazonian trees and birds, although the climate is too dry to support mature rainforest.
A few hours later we wound up the dirt road to a comfortable lodge on a spacious ranch, or fazenda. Our hostess, Maria Teresa, greeted us warmly. It was October, when spring rains begin south of the equator, and that meant low season for the lodge. The few guests included me, my birding buddy, Steve Bailey, and our guide, Paulo Boute. Steve is a Ph.D. ornithologist and a serious worldwide lister, while I gladly remain amateur. Paulo knew the terrain, and had proved it over the past few days. Of Russian descent, Paulo was fair-skinned, tall and lanky (setting him apart from the typical Brazilian), perennially in good humor, and proud of his idiomatic English. After a satisfying evening meal of barbecued beef with the ubiquitous beans and rice, Steve and I were about to leave our table for some much-needed rest when Paulo stepped up. As usual, he had a smile on his face.
“Hey, would you guys like to see a Harpy Eagle?” he asked casually.
“You betcha,” said Steve, firing back Paulo’s favorite Americanism, assuming Paulo was teasing.
“Good, because Maria Teresa just told me there’s one in this valley.” His grin widened, betraying excitement.
“Paulo, we’ve spent a lot of time chasing birds in the tropics, and never seen a Harpy,” I said. “That’s the most wanted bird on my wish list.”
“It should be,” Paulo declared. “Once, in the Amazon, I saw a Harpy Eagle in the air. I can tell you it was something special.”
“I believe you, but how can Maria Teresa be so sure she has a Harpy?” Steve asked.
“Because last week a tourist staying at the fazenda spotted one flying in the forest, and he showed her a picture in a book.”
Tantalized, I closed my eyes a moment to imagine it. A Harpy Eagle. The most charismatic bird of prey in the world. Its power is legendary. Wielding massive talons on full-speed attacks through the treetops, it tears sloths and monkeys clean off the branches without missing a wingbeat. No wonder the Amerindians respect this predator as the “jaguar of the sky.” Years earlier at the Smithsonian, an obliging curator had granted my request to examine a stuffed specimen of the Harpy. I’ll never forget how formidable it seemed. In disbelief, I measured the girth of its leg shank, at a point just above its talons, by comparing it to my wrist–side by side almost the same width. Unnerving, but I gained a physical appreciation for the bird’s immense strength.
I also knew how tough it was to observe Harpies. Critically endangered, they are restricted to the pristine rainforests of Central and South America. Everything I had read confirmed that they need large tracts of undisturbed land where they, and their prey, can survive. It seemed unlikely that one of these raptors was anywhere near this ragged margin of semi-Amazonian vegetation. Steve knew the Pantanal area bird list, and Harpy Eagle wasn’t on it. We also recalled a recent article in the American Birding Association’s newsletter, brashly titled So You Want to See a Harpy…, chronicling the hardships endured by an expedition trying to glimpse one of these birds in Panama’s Darien jungle. Wilderness is where Harpies are supposed to live, not the domesticated ranch lands around here.
Tourists could be wrong about the identification. Even if they were right, a Harpy might have been just passing through on its way to greener canopies. At that moment, Maria Teresa walked over and passed me an enormous feather. With a chill, I recognized the gray-brown mottling. It matched the pattern on the bird I had seen at the Smithsonian. In my hands, this flight feather was an undeniable eighteen inches of evidence. Probably from a Harpy, perhaps from another species of eagle. Whatever the source, it was certainly imposing and worth pursuing. Struggling in Portuguese, I tried get more information out of Maria Teresa.
“Onde?” I asked, waving the feather. Where?
“Debaixo do ninho.” Under the nest.
“The nest! Quando.” When?
“Há quatro ou cinco semanas.” Four or five weeks ago.
Amazing. An eagle’s aerie within striking distance. A month is a long time, and the birds could have left after fledging a chick. Still, there was a chance of finding them, to be the first birders at the nest. My pulse quickened, and I began to allow for the possibility that I might see a bird that seemed beyond reach, a “life bird” that could elude me all my life. When I told Paulo the feather was all the convincing I needed, he began quizzing Maria Teresa about the location of the nest. She couldn’t give us detailed directions, explaining that it was complicated, across her ranch, through some hills, and too far to go on foot. But she had a plan.
“Tomorrow I’ll have one of our vaqueiros take you to the nest. He’ll bring horses for everyone.”
# # #
The morning sky was a cloudless blue by the time our cowboy arrived, hitching a string of horses to the fence. Soft-spoken, he introduced himself as Eurides. Young and stocky, he wore a ‘Ducks Unlimited’ t-shirt, topped off by a dusty white Stetson. We mounted up, scope, tripod and all, and headed off. Well, almost. Steve had not been on horseback since a pony ride at age seven, so his horse just stood there giving him a contemptuous look. Paulo got things moving by grabbing the reins as if the horse were a pack mule, hauling Steve behind him for a while. Steve complained that he could walk just as fast on his own two legs, but it was obvious the lure of the Harpy far outweighed his discomfort.
We rode slowly across the ranch, fording a shallow stream before reaching a sign lettered PERIGO. DANGER. I facetiously asked whether it was a warning that babies could be carried off by a Harpy Eagle. “No,” Paulo answered, “it’s there to keep people away from the shed where they store dynamite for the lime quarry.” Apart from the local quarry, the hill slopes were thickly vegetated, though our trail led us through gently rolling pastures punctuated by huge trees, remnants of the climax forest that was cut years ago. I was surprised when Eurides commented that we only had a half hour ride ahead of us. It seemed too little time to bring us into the heart of healthy untouched forest, unless we were making for an overlook above the valley. I tried to relax, and patiently listened to Paulo translate his question and answer session with Eurides. What I heard had me salivating.
“Have you actually seen this eagle?” Paulo began.
“Many times,” Eurides replied matter-of-factly.
“When was the last time?”
“A few days ago. Bringing one of our lambs to the nest.”
“Lambs? How often does that happen?”
“Oh, he’s a regular customer. But he eats other things, too. Like foxes. Sometimes snakes.”
Less than thirty minutes up the trail, Eurides pushed back his brim and began to scan the trees in earnest. His vigilance increased my tension. We were about to see something. But what? Eurides halted, dismounted and told us to stay put. Motioning to a tree about 75 yards away, he assured us the nest was there. Standing unchallenged in the open grazing land was a towering jatobeiro tree. In the center of the dark foliage, at least fifty feet above the ground, we could make out a massive nest, five or six feet across and equally deep. But there was no sign of either parent bird or a chick in the nest.
Our cowboy strode off, only to crouch low next to a bush, using it for cover. “Ali está…” he whispered, tension in his voice. There he is… Instantly, I slipped off the saddle and was the first to join Eurides. He pointed to a pale shape in the leaves far to the left of the nest. My heart pounding, I held my breath and brought the binoculars to my eyes. Yes! The majestic head of a Harpy Eagle with its double-pointed crest was clearly visible. There is no other spiked crown like this in the kingdom of birds. I gave a thumbs up to Steve and Paulo, and they came running. We all stared, transfixed, euphoric in the eagle’s presence. This was the most awe-inspiring bird we had ever seen. We moved to get a clear view of the Harpy as it perched on a thick limb overlooking its nest. Setting up the scope, we took turns shouldering each other aside to see this magnificent creature. At 30-power magnification, the nearly four-foot tall raptor filled the frame, and for an hour we feasted on every stunning detail: the enormous hooked beak, the broad black collar, the fine barring on its thighs, and the unique split crown feathers that appeared to swivel independently in the light breeze. Those fearsome talons clamped on the rough bark looked every bit the efficient lamb-killers. The eagle was supremely alert, following the movement of each bird that flew through its domain. Occasionally, it would fix its fierce eyes on us, shifting its head from side to side, watching the watchers.
Eurides told us about the time he came riding around a bend in the trail and found the Harpy on the ground, wrestling a big snake. The huge bird was flapping its wings, spread over seven feet wide, as it worked to tighten its hold on the writhing reptile. The wild scene spooked his horse, so Eurides had to dismount until the battle was over. After killing the snake, the eagle stood there, its bold, penetrating stare daring Eurides to make the first move. It seemed afraid of nothing and no one. The cowboy shouted and flailed his hat in the air, to no effect. Finally, he picked up a dirt clod and heaved it at the Harpy before it flew off.
Paulo was impressed, and asked Eurides, “How long has this sort of thing been going on?”
“About five or six years.”
“What?!” This was too much for Paulo. “I’ve been leading trips here for years. Why wasn’t I told about the nest?”
“But you’re the expert who knows everything about the birds around here. We thought you knew.”
As Paulo scratched his head in chagrin, we kept a close eye on the tree. We suspected this bird had young in the nest and was standing guard while its mate was away hunting, but we never saw another adult. After it flew to the other side of the tree, almost out of sight, we decided we’d been there long enough. To minimize stress on the bird, we withdrew to the horses and mounted up. The hardest thing about leaving was giving up the opportunity to walk right up to the biological treasure-trove scattered at the foot of the tree. Better than roadkill. I had visions of monkey skulls, toucan beaks, snake skins, the remains of who-knows-what jettisoned from the nest. Had I looked, Eurides reckoned, I would have found the woven pouch-nests of Yellow-rumped Caciques, larger cousins of the Oriole. The Harpies had apparently acquired a taste for these common birds, and would sail through their breeding colonies indiscriminately snatching the hanging nests in mid-flight. Back home, the eagles would rip open the packages and eat whatever hapless birds had been trapped inside. “Harpy fast food,” Paulo quipped.
As we rode out, a herd of zebu cattle slowly plodded past us in the late morning heat. The cattle were more proof that this pair of Harpy Eagles was extraordinary. They had resisted pressures that would have forced most birds of prey to abandon a territory. Obviously, they were not bothered by cows chewing their cud in the shade of their nest tree, and they were used to humans, at least those on horseback. Every morning, at exactly 7:00 a.m., they put up with the horn blast announcing the start of the work day at the quarry. Against all odds, they had learned to co-exist, adapting to a fragmented and disturbed habitat. Our admiration for their resilience grew as Eurides told us that a few years ago a hired hand shot and killed one of the birds for its trophy talons. He was rebuked, and moved on. But the lone adult Harpy was tough enough to stay and, miraculously, it found another mate to keep the nest going. These birds were true pioneers and survivors.
As the eagle flies, it was only two miles from the nest to our air-conditioned rooms and ice-cold bottles of ‘Antarctica’ beer. Everything had unfolded so perfectly. Almost too effortlessly, I thought, riding back in a swirl of unanswerable questions. An unattainable bird had been delivered to us as a gift. Was it luck, or fate, or the simple willingness to travel that put us in the right place at the right time? So often, despite the energies we devote to quests, we fail to find our long-sought birds. Yet there are times, like this unexpected day in backcountry Brazil, when nature brings us to a state of grace.
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William Keener is a writer and environmental lawyer living in Marin County,California. His chapbook, “Three Crows Yelling,” authored in collaboration with poets Bill Noble and Michael Day, won the 1999 National Looking Glass Award sponsored by Pudding House Press. He can be reached by e-mail at crowpoets@aol.com.
