One of my favorite Bushlers and one of the most commonly encountered birds of the dawning Himalayan winter, by sound usually if not by sight; Following it up and down the mountains as the winter sets in, is, as though, one is migrating with the bird itself. Late autumn, by November end this bird was found as high as 2100 meters in the Garhwal hills around the Mussoorie-Tehri ranges; as the winter of the Himalaya finally creeps in, I made every effort to follow the bird and its journey down the mountains; By early December, the bird was found at elevations ranging between 1600 to 1800 meters in the Kumaon hills along the rustic streams, strewn with beautiful clutters of thriving Stinging Nettle (Urtica dioica) bushes interspersed with other weeds and vegetation, the bird nearly descending albeit still settling; the numbers significant with about two or three birds calling from close quarters, while now and again, its close congener, the Brownish-flanked Bush Warbler, quietly made an appearance or two, but only now and again. By mid-December, found this fellow lower to about 1400 meters with few light patchy snowfalls in the Lesser Himalaya driving the migrants to lower valleys. Subsequent birding at respective elevations did not yield the bird, however it may be a matter of chance and that all birds may not migrate to even lower altitudes. By the New Year and soon after few heavy snowfalls, the bird has been observed dwelling in the Duns or the flat stretches of land between the Sivaliks and the Lesser Himalayan foothills, where it may comfortably spend the remaining part of winter. It is exciting to witness such elevation migrations. Identifying the call is the lead at first, followed by sudden vibrational movements in the bush which certainly help to ascertain ‘where’ the bird is, but most times the question arises as to ‘what’ the bird is (bushes are shared homes)! At this point, a flock of restless and similarly sized Black-chinned Babblers cause some confusion to trace the whereabouts of my bird within the density of the same bush. I heard it calling, a clear and monotonous “Schip tschip tsip tsip” with a slight jingle, such as the slightest hint of sweet sound of a tambourine, when it is gently laid to rest on a wood surface; Now the question arises for it to show up; for no apparent reason the Black-chinned Babblers swished out of the bush, one after the other, and their long tails posed a distraction; while an invisible Chestnut-headed Tesia sang its best song within an arm’s length, while I stood at the edge of a brook; perhaps the song of the Tesia altered my perception of its source distance, but I reckon it was even closer than I assume. It never decided to show up though, but gladly sang graciously for over two minutes (!) as per my sound recordings - tiny little Opera singer, by all means. Meanwhile, the Pink-browed Rosefinches are crying like babies in the distant, and a bunch of Dark-breasted Rosefinch females (mixed first winter males?) are climbing onto a near horizontal tree trunk, greedily biting off the mossy threads of lichen to feed. The echoes of the White-tailed and the galactic trills of the Chestnut-bellied Nutatches heard from up and down the ravine respectively. A croaking of a faraway Golden Bush Robin, while the Slaty-headed parakeets are dealing with their usual amusing hysteria. Too many distractions, I need to focus. One glimpse of a bird is costing way too many others. A sudden movement again, while I know the bush is devoid of other birds, I’m certain that it has to be my Bushler. I have my hopes pinned up, just not quite yet; an abandoned Black-chinned Babbler foraging deep within the twigs became a last minute spoiler when it whirs out of the bush to reveal its identity. The light is going down by the second, with the mountain overcoming and taking the sheer life out of the last ray of feeble sunshine; the air gets nippy and too quickly; and now, even quickly the drama begins, the Bushler finally decides to undertake a quick survey before the dusk fell, pops his head out, his chestnut crest raised in anticipation, as though reluctant to take a leap but nevertheless makes a swift dash into a neighboring bush. He looks nothing like (but of course way better than) any of the illustrations in the book – the chestnut cap is much vivid and sharply contrasts the moist verdant bushes within which he dwells. He hops forward on to a stone, shuffles in a characteristically bush warbler like manner, likely to flee into the nearest bush and always ready for a nose dive; while the waning sun, shines its last ray and lights the twinkle in his mischievous eye; he quickly dives, nose first, and disappears into yet another bush, and before long starts to call; while I consider my good fortune of its obscured views while he calls frantically, his vivid chestnut colored crest raised deliberately. The sun soon sets behind a big black mountain, the air becomes dense, while the irony of the now fully composed orchestra of bird song becomes relatively louder; and the parakeets followed by bright yellow-tinted tails, take their last flight somewhere up the mountain.
Regards,
Puja Sharma
New Delhi, India
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