Ian Fraser, talking naturally

A few weeks ago, on request, I posted on a few Ecuadorian orchids of the estimated 4000 plus; you can refresh your memory here. It would be unfair not to continue the general theme and acknowledge the incredible richness of the Peruvian orchid treasure chest as well. While most references suggest 'only' 3000 orchid species for Peru, I have read also that it supports more species than Ecuador, so take the figures with a small grain of salt. What I can say is that, in my own experience, orchids are more evident in Peru, but that might just be chance with regard to timing of visits, seasons etc. I have hitherto only been to southern Peru, so my experience is limited, but even so I'm going to make this the first of three postings.

The drive from beautiful World Heritage Listed Cusco at 3400 metres above sea level over the high Andes and down into the wonderful Manu Biosphere Reserve is an experience never to be forgotten. It is not a simple climb - the road descends into deep valleys, and soars up to ridges 4000 metres high. The beginning of the final descent on the eastern side of the Andes begins at the Acjanaco Pass entrance station that always seems somewhat mysterious to me - mysterious because in three visits I've only ever seen it in wreathed in mist.

Cloud forest - or 'elfin' forest - 3600 metres above sea level, Acjanaco Pass.

Birds appear - and disappear! - in the swirling clouds, but every now and then an orchid, and then another, looms from the shroud. Many of them are limited to these high elevation, low stature, rich, dripping forests.

Epidendrum is a huge, conspicuous and diverse genus of over 1000 species from sub-tropical North America to Argentina; they seem to be everywhere in the Andean forests, though I only saw these two at Acjanaco. As ever, any help with identification will be most gratefully received, though you've remained silent in the face of such requests in the past!

Epidendrum ardens, Acjanaco Pass.

Epidendrum sp., Acjanaco Pass.
The lower flowers have been fertilised and the swelling ovaries are filled with tiny seeds.

Odontoglossum is another widely encountered genus in the cool higher elevation cloud forests of the northern Andes, though after a breakdown of the genus into several smaller ones it has now a mere hundred or so species.

Odontoglossum mycinatum, Acjanaco Pass.
A most striking plant - the mist droplets that constantly deliver water can be seen on the flowers.

Many Odontoglossums at high altitudes however are characterised by huge sprays of hundreds of flowers.

Odontoglossum tetraplassium, above and below, Acjanaco Pass.

Telipogon has nearly 200 species, but most of them grow in the Andes further north than Peru, particularly in Colombia. This lovely little flower was one of the treats that seem to pop out from behind every tree at Acjanaco.

Telipogon semipictus, Acjanaco Pass.

Pachyphyllum is a genus of 50 species; the origin of the genus name, 'thick leaf', is pretty obvious.

Pachyphyllum sp., Acjanaco Pass.
Tiny flowers are another characteristic of this genus.

On the other hand there are only about 10 Neodryas, delightful little orchids. I'm pretty sure of the identification of this one, but as ever am open to suggestions.

Neodryas rhodoneura, Acjanaco Pass.

I hope that one day you get to drive over the Acjanaco Pass into the wonders of Manu. Make sure you go for a magical, misty walk before you start the descent.

BACK ON FRIDAY

In south-eastern Australia, from Brisbane to Adelaide - ie where the majority of the human population lives - one of the commonest and most familiar birds is also surely one of the most colourfully dramatic in the continent.

Crimson Rosella Platycercus elegans, Canberra.
(The Coastal Banksia B. integrifolia, is not native to Canberra.)

Flocks of these beauties fly through suburbia, feeding on flowering or fruiting plants and partaking of back yard seed trays. People tend to get to the 'just a rosella' stage, but I reckon that if these birds only lived in a remote part of the country they'd be a tourist magnet. The generally restrained English ornithologist John Gould, who made such an impression on our zoological landscape in the mid 19th century but was not over-given to hyperbole, wrote of Crimson Rosellas in his 1848 seven-volume opus The Birds of Australia:"I could never fail to pause and admire the splendour of their appearance, of which no description could give an adequate idea."

It seems that others felt the same, as nearly all the rosella species names are more hagiographic than helpful. The genus name Platycercus means 'broad-tailed', as applied by the Irish taxonomist Nicholas Vigors; for reasons not so clear today he felt that this distinguished rosellas from all other parrots. The species name elegans is self-evident, if not very useful - but as we shall see the German zoologist Johann Friedrich Gmelin who named it was not alone in becoming somewhat tongue-tied when faced with allocating names to rosellas.

Unlike other rosella species, Crimsons often confuse mere humans by having youngsters which are quite different in colour. In Canberra in autumn, flocks of newly-independent youngsters, down from their breeding grounds in the mountain forests, carouse through the suburbs and aren't always recognised.

Immature Crimson Rosella, Canberra.

As the year goes on, red feathers appear through the green until by completion of first moult they are all red.

There is ongoing debate over the status of two other rosellas, which are currently (but not universally) regarded as sub-species of Crimsons. Yellow Rosellas P. e. flaveolus live along the riverbanks, in the River Red Gum forests of the Murray-Darling system.

Yellow Rosella, Berri, South Australia.
The blue cheek patch indicates its relatedness to Crimson Rosellas;
just how close is the question and the answer is ultimately subjective. I personally think that the separate habitats and
fairly limited overlap and interbreeding suggest full species status, but of course I claim no expertise.

Like other rosellas, Yellows can be pretty squabbly!

In South Australia is an orange version, the Adelaide Rosella P. e. adalaidea. And given that I lived in Adelaide for 30 years I can't believe I don't have a single photo of one!

Crimsons are largely birds of the mountain and coastal forests; to the west they are replaced by the equally familiar Eastern Rosella P. eximius. Their species name means 'excellent'! Canberra is unusual in that we commonly see Easterns and Crimsons feeding side by side; Easterns are essentially woodland birds, and here we are at the interface of the hinterland montane forests and the great inland grassy woodlands.

Eastern Rosella, near Canberra.
The striking white - not blue - cheek patch is one obvious distinction from the Crimson.

They also lived in the woodlands west of the new colony of Sydney, in an area known as Rose Hill (now called, more euphoniously, Parramatta). Unlikely as the story sounds, we can trace the development of its name from 'Rose Hill Parrot' to 'Rose Hillers' and finally eliding, as the origin was forgotten, to Roselle and Rosella! Oddly the name didn't become applied to other rosellas until the situation was formally tidied up in 1926 - until then they had to manage as just 'parrots'.

The juxtaposition of Crimson and Eastern Rosellas in Canberra gives rise occasionally to another interesting observation too. Their ancestors separated - perhaps by climate-induced habitat changes - for long enough for their progeny to become reproductively isolated (ie separate species) but only just. Hybrids appear here from time to time, though they appear to be infertile, as we'd expect.

Crimson - Eastern Rosella hybrids, Canberra.
(Both shots were taken long ago in a previous yard of mine in fact.)
Below the hybrid appears with its Crimson parent.

Continuing north into Queensland both species are replaced by the widespread Pale-headed Rosella P. adscitus, a softly-coloured rosella, widespread in the drier woodlands well up into the tropics, especially near waterways. Adscitus means 'approved'! The eminent John Latham saw no reason to explain this, but I guess the bird was supposed to be grateful.

Pale-headed Rosella, Roma, Queensland.

Continuing into the tropics and across to the north coast, the comparatively sooty Northern Rosella P. venustus is found across tropical woodlands of the Northern Territory's Top End to the Kimberleys.(This one means lovely, or charming...)

Northern Rosella, above and below, Darwin.
Gould reported that by the 1840s residents of Port Essington (the predecessor to Darwin)
were calling this really very demure bird the Smutty Parrot!
For its colour I hasten to add, rather than a taste in dinner stories.

Finally, in the south-west corner, is the lovely little Western Rosella P. icterotus - and finally too, a sensible name; 'yellow-eared'! More of a yellow cheek actually, but at least they tried!

Western Rosella males - only in this species are the sexes different.
Above Albany, below Stirling Ranges NP.

This one was once known as the Earl of Derby's Parakeet, a nod to the zoologist, zoo owner and president of both the London Zoological and Linnean Societies - in fact it was once derbyi, but that name was applied too late. Gould tried to keep it alive with the cumbersome common name, but for once was unsuccessful - fortunately perhaps, on this occasion.

Now the astute among you - all of you in other words - will have noticed that there's one missing. Indeed. The endemic Green Rosella of Tasmania is not represented in my image collection, but I'm about to do something about that (hopefully). We leave tomorrow for two weeks holiday in the delightful southern island state, and I should have material for several more postings at the end of it.

BACK ON WEDNESDAY 26 FEBRUARY

I got back from two delightful and stimulating weeks in Tasmania a couple of days back to discover that I'd missed a delicious piece of bird-inspired political farce at home - mystifyingly, the Hobart Mercury hadn't seen fit to report it. At the heart of the matter is a beast who seems to have assumed the mantle of centre of contention in Canberra in recent years, at least in matters natural.

Koels are a small group (around four species, depending on your favoured taxonomy) of large parasitic cuckoos in the genera Eudynamys and Microdynamis, found from eastern Asia to Australia. Our understanding of their relationships is still evolving (faster than the birds are); until recently the birds which move south each year from Indonesia and New Guinea to breed in eastern and northern Australia were regarded as part of the single widespread species Common Koel E. scolopaceus. Now many, though not all, authorities regard 'our' koels as part of a separate species, the Eastern or Pacific Koel E. orientalis.

Male Eastern Koel, Rosedale, south coast New South Wales.
Only he is this handsome glossy black; she is gorgeously mottled in browns and creams.

The female parasitises the nests of medium-large species such as wattlebirds and friarbirds (both large honeyeaters), magpie-larks (this being an Australian name, the bird is neither magpie nor lark!) and figbirds.

Immature Eastern Koel, Mount Molloy, Queensland.
This bird was being attended by Australasian Figbirds Sphecotheres vieilloti.

It is fair to say that most Canberrans are uninterested in complexities of taxonomy, and most indeed haven't seen a koel, since they can be surprisingly obscure when calling from within foliage. The common name apparently derives from Hindi, and is clearly onomatopoeic, from the male's somewhat manic two-note rising call; here's one example, but you'll easily find more. His alternative 'wirra wirra' song is probably even more manic. And here begins the story.

By their call shall you know them, and oh we do! We often divide the world into people who love X and those who hate it - and in Canberra often X = koel. People profess themselves to be driven demented by its often nocturnal serenade, though others, including me of course, love it and don't understand how it could be more annoying than traffic noise, say.

Another key piece of information for what's about to follow - and I do seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time getting to the point today! - is that until about a decade ago koels were very scarce visitors to Canberra, with Sydney and the mid-south coast representing their normal limits. Recently however things have changed - a warming world being the most obvious and likely explanation - and they are now common summer visitors, even breeding regularly courtesy of our large population of Red Wattlebirds Anthochaera carunculata.

A newly-elected member of our territory Legislative Assembly, Nicole Lawder (she was only elected on a count-back last June following the resignation of her leader who left for greener fields), has found herself opposition spokesperson on the environment, despite having no evident qualifications. (To be fair it's a pretty small pool of talent from which to draw a shadow cabinet, and indeed a cabinet.) The fact that this is foreign territory to her was shown up with dramatic embarrassment when, on behalf of a couple of her constituents, she asked the Environment Minister about the government's plan "to eradicate or manage" this "imported pest", the koel. Oops.

She later claimed she was merely representing her constituency, but .... no.

Of course thisstrategy, of demonising a species as exotic for personal purposes, is not original. Pigeon fanciers here and elsewhere have long sought ways of discrediting legislation protecting their bitterest enemies - large falcons, notably Peregrines, and goshawks in particular. These bird-specialising raptors are glad to snack on the passing flocks of racing pigeons, whose owners are less than keen to share.

Peregrine Falcon Falco peregrinus, Waikerie, South Australia.
Probably on the lookout for passing pigeon pie.

In the Top End of Australia (a sort of northern Wild West) in the post WW2 years, pigeon owners put it about that the Japanese had introduced Peregrines during the war to disrupt critical carrier pigeon communications lines... At the other end of the country, Tasmanian pigeon folk much more recently were convinced that evil Canberra pigeon-haters were introducing Peregrines to the Apple Isle - and they had proof! This turned out to be in the form of leg bands (taken from Peregrines they'd illegally shot) with a Canberra address on them - the standard inscription on all bands used for bird studies in Australia, which are co-ordinated by the national scientific research institution, based in Canberra.

So, logic and truth can be pretty irrelevant in the face of a good prejudice, especially when vested interests are involved. However, if you're seeking and training to be a government minister, it is probably best to cross-check the claims of your constituents (and perhaps even your political advisers) before you champion them too publicly. In this case, we'll see what's been learnt as time passes.

Next time, I'll aim to start sharing something of lovely Tasmania with you - no pigeons or even Peregrines though.

BACK ON FRIDAY

One of my very first postings in this blog asked the question "When is a REALLY lousy photo OK?". My suggested answer to the question then was "when it's the only way to properly tell a story that I think is worth telling". Today, as you may have divined, that situation raises its head again.

The omnivorous family Procyonidae of the Americas (in the Order Carnivora) includes some familiar species, including raccoons and coatis.

South American Coatis Nasua nasua, Manu National Park, Peru.
A widespread and relatively familiar procyonid.

Among the less familiar species is the Olingo Bassaricyon spp. - I use that term because at least until very recently there was some considerable confusion and dispute as to just what constituted an Olingo. Some authorities recognised just one, while others separated out the central American olingos from those of north-western South America.

Northern Olingo Bassacaryon gabbi, Costa Rica.
Photo courtesy Wikipedia.

Recently the olingo specialists, generally working around Kristofer Helgen at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, did a thorough survey of museum specimens and studied their DNA. It was not particularly startling when they determined that the lowland forms east and west of the Andes apparently represent separate species; others had already suggested that. What was a surprise was their growing realisation that a quite different species of olingo inhabited the cloud forests of the northern Andes, from Colombia to Ecuador and at elevations of 1500 to 2700 metres above sea level.

Cloud forest at its most typical, Bellavista Lodge, north-western Ecuador.

Museum specimens had been lumped with lowland olingos (though one New York zoologist came close to the truth in the 1920s, but didn't ever publish). It transpired that one had even been exhibited in US zoos in the 1960s and 70s, where it understandably declined to breed with 'other' olingos. Helgen's group realised that cloud forest olingo specimens were consistently smaller, redder and heavier-furred than lowland ones with different dentition; they were named 'Olinguito' (little olingo). A targeted expedition to the historical range actually did find the animal in the wild; in August 2013 a publication officially named it Bassaricyon neblina (ie 'misty'), the first new species of carnivore to be named from the Americas in 35 years.

I'd followed the story with some excitement, but never dreamed that I might have the opportunity to actually meet the Olinguito when I went back to Ecuador last month. However it turned out that Bellavista Lodge (where the above photo of prime Olinguito habitat was taken) had been hosting visits from its local Olinguitos for some time, first when they began sharing in the hummingbirds' nectar from the feeders and later when they were offered bananas at an elevated feeding platform.

It was one of the most amazing wildlife offers I'd ever received when our group was invited to come and observe a pair of this very special animal coming down to this feeder at night. This brings me back to my opening comments on lousy photos - obviously enough no flash is permitted and my basic little camera was struggling. Nonetheless I think this is one of those occasions when sharing poor photos is justified - so far not many people have had the opportunity to see the Olinguito in the wild and I think that in that circumstance almost any pic is better than none. (And in any case you can easily find better ones on the web!)

Above and below; wild Olinguito coming to sample some banana at Bellavista Lodge, north-western Ecuador.

Probably in due course other cloud forest lodges will discover they live with Olinguitos too but meantime Bellavista might be one of your few realistic chances of seeing one! And of course the question, yet again, is 'what else is out there?'...

BACK ON MONDAY

There is a lot of homesickness and a need to commemorate the 'home country' to be found in Australian place names, and Anglo-Tasmanians seem to have suffered particularly strongly from the malaise. Indeed it's hard to find non-British names throughout the island. One dramatic case in point is the magnificent 15 kilometre long plateau in the north-east of Tasmania called, with no evident irony, Ben Lomond!

Ben Lomond from Launceston, Tasmania's second-largest town, some 40km away.
(Sorry about the ad - no sponsorship involved, I promise!)

Location of Ben Lomond National Park.

The name was bestowed by Lieutenant-Governor of New South Wales, Scottish-born William Paterson, who was dispatched by Governor King in 1804 to found a colony in Van Diemen's Land (as Tasmania was then known) to thwart any designs the dastardly French may have had in that direction. His colony, after a couple of false starts, was on the site of modern Launceston, so the massif would have been a feature of the colony's life. It was much later in the century that William Legge, commander of the queen's forces in Tasmania, locally-born and living to the east of Ben Lomond, explored the plateau and added another layer of utterly irrelevant names to its features. He'd been in England when news was all of the British search for the source of the Nile, so we find Nile Valley, Victoria Valley and Speke Gorge (for John Speke, one of those searching for the source) on the remote Tasmanian plateau!

To our eyes however, there is no doubt that we're in Australia, though like Western Australia, Tasmania represents something of an alternative Australia, product of tens of thousands of years of isolation. The Bass Strait however, separating Tasmania from Victoria to the north, only exists during inter-glacials; during glaciation, such as the most recent which only ended around 10,000 years ago, sea levels drop and Tasmania is simply a southern peninsula of the mainland.

Ben Lomond is truly Tasmanian in a very particular and obvious way. Dolerite is a basalt-like rock formed deep underground, especially when continents rip apart at continental plate boundaries and molten material pours in. This happened in the turbulent Jurassic, 170 or so million years ago, when Gondwana was beginning to tear apart at the seams. In Tasmania, more than anywhere else in the world, dolerite landscapes dominate, and Ben Lomond is a great example of one.

Dolerite landscapes, Ben Lomond National Park plateau.
Although only 1500 metres above sea level, at this latitude this means cold at any time of year, with heavy snow in winter, and cloud is common.

The steepness of the massif, high above the surrounding valleys, is evident in this shot.

The climb through the forests of the lower slopes is steady but not particularly steep; these forests are typical of other montane forests in Tasmania.

Eucalyptus delegatensis, Alpine Ash on the mainland, Gum-topped Stringybark in Tasmania, dominates the higher forests below the plateau. The bark of this sub-species is much paler than what I'm used to.

The final climb however, up the vicious zig-zag known as Jacob's Ladder, is spectacular and somewhat hair-raising.

Jacob's Ladder, only built in 1963 on the north side of the plateau to service the developing ski fields.
There is a relatively extensive ski village on top, but in summer it is oddly, even eerily, deserted, though the major building is open; it seemed an excellent setting for a murder mystery and we were glad to be out in the open again!

Once on top, the plateau is relatively flat with few major peaks, dominated by dense rich heathlands.

Ten of square kilometres of such heathland, prickly and rich in flowers in summer, dominate the plateau.
This is above the tree-line, which is at least 500 metres lower than in Kosciuszko National Park on the mainland.
(That link will lead you to a discussion on differing tree-lines at different latitudes.)

Richea scoparia, Epacridaceae (or Ericaceae, as is becoming more popular again); one of many species of the Australian heath family in these alpine pastures. This species is endemic to Tasmania.

Gentian Chiongentias diemensis, another island endemic.

Mountain Rocket, Bellendena montana, family Proteaceae;
in this case the whole genus - of which this is the only species - is endemic.
Bellendena is regarded as an early member of the family to have split off from the main line.
The red are fruits, quite different from those of most other Proteaceous plants.

In the forests below, wildlife is quite evident, but is not nearly so conspicuous on the plateau.

Green Rosella Platycercus caledonicus in montane forests below the summit.
This is yet another endemic Tasmanian species.

On the plateau, distant Black Currawongs Strepera fuliginosa and Forest Ravens Corvus tasmanicus call, but it is generally pretty quiet. There are eyes watching us however!

A face in the landscape.
This is a Bennett's Wallaby (known as Red-necked Wallaby on the mainland) Macropus rufogriseus.

On the way down, pause - if traffic allows, though it's likely to be pretty quiet in summer, at least outside of school holidays - to admire the tenacious plants clinging to the sheer dolerite cliffs, far above the valley.

Hakea lissosperma. I'm familiar with this shrub in the Brindabella Ranges above Canberra, where it's not common but does restrict itself to more conventional sites in montane forests!

If you go to northern Tasmania, unless conditions are consistently very cloudy (never out of the question there!) you'll be very aware of Ben Lomond. It may not be on your schedule, but I think you should consider adding it. It is a spectacular spot. More on Tassie in blogs to come.

BACK ON TUESDAY

Anyone who has stepped into a South American forest and become aware of monkeys peering quietly down or crashing in noisy gangs through the foliage will have felt their wonder. And yes, maybe mine is heightened by coming from a continent where there were never any native primates until the coming of people just some 50,000 years ago. I first encountered the thrill of wild monkeys in Africa (I'll never forget the moment in late afternoon in Windhoek, Namibia, looking down at a railway line and noticing the pack of dogs crossing the line - and suddenly realising they were baboons!), but since then I've seen many more, of species and individuals, in South America.

Male Grey Woolly Monkey Lagothrix cana, San Pedro area, Manu National Park, Peru.
(I confess to finding photography of dark animals in the canopy a challenge!)

The mystery is how they came to be there. Most extant South American mammals originated in North America, arriving in the last very few million years when the Isthmus of Panama arose and allowed two-way movement; all South American hoofed mammals and carnivores arrived this way. However there is no evidence of monkeys having ever existed in North America (unlike camels for instance, which arose there, dispersed, then became extinct in their homeland). Further, the fossil and genetic evidence points firmly to an origin of some 35 million years ago, when the two modern American continents were nowhere near each other.

Genetic evidence also makes it clear that South American monkeys (like the old South American rodents, such as guinea pigs, capybaras and viscachas) arose in Africa, so it seems that at a time when the Atlantic was narrower (though still most of 2000km across) a small band of unwilling monkey explorers made what must have been a horrific crossing on a raft of floating vegetation. (There was a highly controversial paper some four years ago which proposed that the monkey ancestors arose some 180 million years ago and were already in situ when the continents separated, but there is no fossil or genetic evidence to support this and it has already largely vanished from the discussion.)

Modern monkeys are divided most fundamentally into those who stayed at home in Africa (or made the more modest overland journey in increments to Asia), and those who crossed the Atlantic. Some of the key characteristics of the Old World monkeys - the catarrhines (from old Greek meaning 'hooked nose') - are narrow nostrils, close together and often down-pointing, and leathery buttock pads for sitting on.

Guereza Colobus Colobus guereza, Queen Elizabeth National Park, Uganda.
Especially if you click to expand the picture, you can see the characteristics of the catarrhine nose
on these two very beautiful animals.

Olive Baboon Papio anubis, Lake Mburo National Park, Uganda.
The useful callouses for sitting on are obvious.
(There is no suggestion that she had anything to do with the bottles before they were emptied!
As indeed didn't I...)

The South American platyrrhines - 'flat nosed' - have open and more widely spaced nostrils, no buttock pads, and most importantly, prehensile tails for grasping, which no Old World monkey has developed.

Ecuadorian Squirrel Monkey Saimiri macrodon, Yasuni National Park, Ecuador.
The platyrrhine nose features are evident.

Colombian (or Venezuelan) Red Howler Monkeys Alouatta seniculus at riverbank clay lick, Manu National Park, Peru,
nicely demonstrating the use of their prehensile tails.

There are five families of South American monkeys now generally recognised, and an interested visitor to the cloud forests and Amazon basin of the northern half of South America has an excellent chance of seeing examples of all five. The species numbers given are likely to increase in coming years, but after some big changes in our understanding in recent years things are starting to settle down again. Allow me to introduce the families, in increasing order of number of species.

* Aotidae, the night or owl monkeys, or douroucoulis, 10 species. These delightful little animals can sometimes be seen basking at the mouth of their communal tree hollow, and inspecting passing visitors. They emerge 15 minutes after sunset (there is virtually no twilight in the tropics) when daytime predators have retired for the day.

Spix's Night Monkeys Aotus vociferans, Yasuni National Park, Ecuador.
They typically live in social groups of up to five members.
Their huge eyes are an obvious adaptation to nocturnalism; while their ancestors had colour vision, typical of most primates, night monkeys have lost it.

* Callitrichidae, squirrel monkeys and capuchins, 16 species. Perhaps the monkeys most likely to be encountered; squirrel monkeys in particular move in noisy groups of up to a hundred, often low in the canopy and stopping to feed at fruiting trees. In such a group of squirrel monkeys, there will be perhaps 20 breeding females and a few breeding males; males play no part in caring for young, but the mothers get help from other females, especially her adult daughters. Capuchins, somewhat larger and less likely to hurl themselves into space, often accompany these foraging parties.

Ecuadorian Squirrel Monkey above, and
below with baby, Yasuni National Park, Ecuador.


Spix's White-fronted Capuchin Cebus unicolor, Yasuni National Park, Ecuador. Taxonomy of capuchins is still hotly debated, and this one is also recognised as a sub-species. Pretty much any plant matter or small animal, including tree frogs, is grist to capuchins' mill. The name comes from a supposed resemblance to the garb of capuchin friars.

*Atelidae, spider, howler and woolly monkeys, 25 species. These are the 'typical' large South American monkeys, at least some of which are likely to be encountered.

The territorial roaring of howler monkeys is, to me, the sound of the Amazon, rolling over the forest by day or night, as the big males use an inflatable throat pouch and enlarged jaw bones to produce one of the loudest animal sounds known.

Colombian Red Howler Monkey, Manu National Park, Peru.
They have a large caecum and colon to assist with fermentation-digestion of a leafy diet.

Mantled Howler Monkey Allouata palliata, Manglares Churute Reserve Ecuador.
Here this species inhabits the highly threatened Pacific drier lowland forests.

Grey Woolly Monkey, Manu National Park, Peru.
As well as lowland rainforests, woollies can live higher in the cold cloud forests than do most other monkeys.

Black Spider Monkeys Ateles chamek at riverside clay lick, Manu National Park, Peru.
Sorry, the best I could do! Spider monkeys are characterised by very long slender limbs and tails for swinging along below the forest branches.

* Pitheciidae, uakaris, sakis and titi monkeys, 40 species. Despite being a large family, these monkeys are not so often encountered, at least in areas where I've visited. They tend to be high canopy fruit eaters; sakis, unusually among South American monkeys, do not have prehensile tails.

Monk Saki male Pithecia monachus, Yasuni National Park, Ecuador.
This big male was typically wary, despite being way above our heads. Much of the apparent bulk is actually fur.


Dusky Titi Monkey Callicebus moloch (but I think this one - the species, not this monkey! - has been split up), Rio Madre de Dios, Peru. Unlike most primates, titis apparently form long-term pair bonds. They feed quietly and closer to the ground than sakis.

* Callitrichidae, marmosets and tamarins, 41 species, including the smallest, and some of the most threatened South American monkeys. Some 20% of these species have been described in the last 20 years or so, and the number is rising. Groups of up to 20 of these tiny exquisite monkeys roam the canopies, gleaning almost anything they find. From the ground the view can be frustrating, but some will also come down near to our level, to provide some of our most precious memories of the continent.

Graell's Black-mantled Tamarin Saguinus graellsi, Sacha Lodge Rainforest Tower, Ecuador.
Now regarded as a separate species from the Black-mantled Tamarin from further east, this one can often be seen in the gardens of Sacha Lodge.

Golden-mantled Tamarin Saguinus tripartitus, Napo Lodge, Ecuador.
These glorious little animals are a feature of this Quichua community-owned lodge.

A longer than usual posting, but it's a big topic, and I hope as interesting to you as it is to me. No substitute for seeing them for yourself though of course!

BACK ON FRIDAY

Much has been written on the topic of camouflage in nature, and I don't have the access or the equipment to show you some of the truly marvellous examples in nature that I'm sure you've seen on the telly. However, maybe you'll enjoy some of the examples that have come my way over the years; they represent some of the most wonderful - and I use that word both advisedly and often with regard to nature - examples of evolutionary adaption imaginable.

Several approaches to camouflage are recognised. (The word incidentally comes to us straight from the French camoufler, simply 'to hide' or 'deceive'. It only appeared in English, for reasons unclear to me, during the First World War, referring to military applications.) The two most widespread in nature involve firstly breaking up outlines by use of bold and irregular patterning, and secondly blending into the background by matching colours, minimisation of shadow, and/or an overall posture and shape resembling an 'uninteresting' object.

And camouflage works remarkably well for big animals as well as small ones; there is nothing quite like the shock of realising - preferably from within a vehicle - that that movement is the flick of an elephant's ear, and that it is attached to an elephant, and that there is a whole herd all around. (Not that I can suggest why an elephant needs camouflage!)

Context is critical. An animal which disappears into its environment is entirely conspicuous out of that context, as the following examples demonstrate.

Sumatran Tiger Panthera tigris sumatrae, Adelaide Zoo.
No missing it here, but in dappled shade among grass and shrubs, it can disappear as its outline vanishes.

Coiled among foliage, this green tree snake Thrasops batesii (Limbe Botanic Gardens, Cameroon)
would not be nearly so obvious.

Titan Stick Insect Acrophylla titan, Nowra, New South Wales south coast.
Among foliage or twigs this superb monster - some 20cm long - would effectively vanish.

For the rest of this posting I am going to focus on vertebrates; don't be too exasperated, this is merely because I have too much material for one posting, and I will make sure our invertebrate friends get their full due next time!

The examples above represent two predators and one potential prey; both roles can require camouflage, for evident and complementary reasons.

Most of the following examples employ their camouflage with the intention of not becoming someone's dinner, though in the case of the lizards and frog for instance (and the tree snake above) they play the role of both dinner and diner in different situations.

One group of animals which needs effective camouflage comprises nocturnal birds, many of which roost in the open during the day. As such they are certainly vulnerable to direct predation, but owls in particular are also unmercifully harassed by diurnal birds, who know perfectly well that at night the owl is a very dangerous neighbour and would rather it slept and woke somewhere else entirely. Tree-roosting species have evolved some superb resemblances to tree bark, with perfect patterns of cracks and fibres.

Tawny Frogmouth pair Podargus strigoides, south of Canberra.
While they have chosen to roost by an inappropriately smooth trunk, they match the branch they're on.
If concerned - and these weren't - they will stiffen and pull in the feathers to look remarkably like a broken branch.

Tawny-bellied Screech-Owl Megascops watsonii, Amazonia Lodge, Rio Madre de Dios, Amazonian Peru.
Again, perhaps not the ideal situation, but imagine if that underside was alongside a tree trunk,
rather than in the bamboo clump that it has chosen.
Note the slightly open eye, just checking on me...

And while looking at creatures wanting to be mistaken for lumps of tree, how about the sloths, which are permanently at risk in the canopy from large eagles?

Brown-throated Three-toed Sloth Bradypus variegatus, Puerto Maldonado, Peru.
Had I not zoomed in and centred on her, this animal (two actually, if you look closely at her belly)
would not be at all obvious.

OK, so maybe these examples aren't convincing you, though I can promise that in the right situation they are remarkable, but the ground-roosting nightjars are something altogether else! Try this one - a Standard-winged Nightjar Macrodipteryx longipennis at Ngaoundaba Ranch, central Cameroon - before looking at the clues in the caption.

How did you go? If it weren't for the extraordinary wing standards (resulting from a hugely elongated central feather shaft, much of which is bare) this would be impossible. The dark patches are the standards - look closely and you can see the bare shafts. In front of the one on our left is the bird's head, looking to the left. Now you can fill in for yourself!

Some frogs are pretty good at it too.

unidentified tree frog, Manu National Park, Peru.
This a night photo, when the frog doesn't need to hide, but in the day imagine those remarkable skin patterns
against a mottled tree trunk.

Lizards, like frogs, are both hunters and hunted and many adopt camouflage accordingly.

Lined Earless Dragon Tympanocryptis lineata, Bladensburg NP, central Queensland.
Beautifully hidden among the ochre and rust colours of its arid environment.

The dragon lizard family, Agamidae, is also widespread in Asia and Africa; unsurprisingly, agamids in similar habitats in these continents adopt similar camouflage.

unidentified agamid, north of Maroua, northern Cameroon.

In the Neotropics there are no agamids, but there are plenty of Anolis lizards (family Anolidae or Iguanidae, depending on your taxonomic preferences). Here the priority is more likely to be towards hiding in the greenery.

Gem Anole Anolis gemmosus, Mindo Valley, Ecuador.

Young animals are especially in need of camouflage, especially before they are able to accompany their parents or, in the case of birds, able to fly.

Common Potoo chick Nyctibius griseus, Sacha Lodge, Ecuadorian Amazon.
In this case it really isn't obvious where branch stops and chick starts!

Dusky Woodswallows Artamus cyanopterus (family Artamidae, nothing to do with 'real' swallows), east of Canberra.
They nearly always nest in such a situation, in tree forks or hollow stumps or spouts,
where bark-like camouflage is also important.

But even before the chicks, eggs and even nests must be hidden from predators.

Patagonian Tyrant Colorhamphus parvirostris on nest, Alerce Andino National Park near Puerto Montt, Chile
We can just see the parent peeping over the top of this beautifully disguised nest; this nest, I am told, is not often seen, not least, I am sure, because of the lovely camouflage of mosses and lycopods.

Egg of Red-capped Plover Charadrius ruficapillus, Comerong Island, south coast New South Wales.
Many ground-nesting shore birds have done away with nests altogether, as being too conspicuous.
Here the egg resembles a stone to a remarkable extent.

Next time, I will conclude this mini-series by looking at some pretty impressive invertebrate disguises.

BACK ON TUESDAY

Last time I introduced the concept of camouflage in nature by looking at some vertebrates - mammals, birds, reptiles and frogs - which have evolved some superb patterns, shapes and postures to disappear into the background. As promised, today I'm going to continue the theme by putting the magnifying glass onto some smaller animals, invertebrates - if I can find them!

Camouflage is for the benefit of both hunters and hunted, and small animals are always potential prey, irrespective of whether they are also hunters themselves. The first few examples then are of animals which live by catching other animals, but they must also stay out of sight from the myriad of larger animals, vertebrate and invertebrate, which would devour them if given a chance. The first is one of my favourites - and I will confess that I saw it only after photographing the flower!

The flower spiders, Diaea spp., family Thomisidae, comprise some 80 species of specialised Crab Spiders,
found on every unfrozen continent, with over 30 of them native to Australia.
They lurk in and around flowers, aided by cryptic colouring (ie often brightly coloured!), and hook
unwary pollinators with their curved front legs.
This one, in the National Botanic Gardens in Canberra, is hiding, albeit in the open,
on a common local daisy, Chrysocephalum semipapposum.

A Western Australian crab spider, probably Diaea sp., on, appropriately, a spider orchid,
Caladenia (or Arachnorchis) longicauda.
The characteristic powerful jagging two front pairs of legs are obvious here.

Spiders which hunt elsewhere must also hide, including those which guard a web; a spider in a web in the day is very vulnerable to birds in particular. This one was beautifully camouflaged on the tree bark at the edge of its web.

Eriophora transmarina, family Areneidae, Gungahlin Hill Nature Reserve, Canberra.
The pattern is surprisingly reminiscent of the Tawny Frogmouths, hiding against an identical background,
that featured in my last posting.

And the spiders which do not ambush or build webs, such as the ground-ranging wolf spiders, must also take care not to be conspicuous from above.

Wolf Spider, family Lycosidae, White Dam Conservation Park, South Australia.
The dark patches resembling shadows, and the grey legs and abdomen, break up the outline superbly.

Praying Mantises, like the flower spiders, often hide in foliage or by flowers to trap pollinators; here too resembling the background colour is a big help.

It worked for this one, which is munching on a small fly!
Corang River, east of Canberra.

If you're a grasshopper or moth however, there is no question where you come in the food chain, and while it's not the only defence, camouflage can only help. Here are some examples that impressed me.

This grasshopper, in stony country near Broken Hill, western New South Wales, would have made my point better,
and been a lot safer, if it had stayed on the paler rocks, but you can see how well it would vanish there.


This beauty, in a granite landscape in Torres del Paine National Park, Chilean Patagonia, was doing a much more convincing job.

As was this one north of Maroua, in the Sahel of Cameroon.
It is also an excellent example of the importance of orientation.

The camouflage of this beautifully mottled Hamadryas sp., above and below,
works equally well on different backgrounds.
Cerro Blanco Reserve, Guayaquil, Ecuador

Like the Broken Hill grasshopper above, this lovely moth wasn't on the perfect background for its pattern, but we can imagine the effectiveness if it was on a licheny tree trunk as above.

San Pedro area, Rio Madre de Dios, Peru.

A variant is to suddenly 'vanish', by flashing coloured legs (some grasshoppers) or wings (some butterflies and moths) in flight, and suddenly hiding them on alighting. The simultaneous appearance of a big eye is an additionally unnerving experience for their puzzled pursuer!

Owl Butterfly, Caligo sp., family Nymphalidae, Sacha Lodge, Ecuadorian Amazon.
Above and below.

Insect larvae are of course even more vulnerable, and many caterpillars try to stay hidden while feeding in the open.

Caterpillar on Snow Gum twig, Namadgi National Park, near Canberra.

And finally for today, it's not just land vertebrates that need and adopt camouflage, though I'm not in a position to record these for the most part. This crab however, photographed from a mangrove boardwalk, really caught my attention when it moved.

Huskisson, New South Wales south coast.
See how perfectly the carapace pattern matches that of the sun of the sand grains!

I've had fun with this, and I hope you have too. Back next time with something completely different; something for the Gunn lobby!

BACK ON THURSDAY

It's probably fair to say that Ronald Gunn is not widely known, at least outside of his adoptive home in Tasmania, and outside the world of botanical history. Part of the fault is his own - though hard-wording and a most diligent field collector, he published very little of his work, leaving that to others.

Born in South Africa in 1808, he followed his army father to Reunion, Scotland and Barbados, and eventually into the army himself, albeit as a clerk. Urged by his older brother William, he resigned and sailed to join him in Hobart, where Ronald obtained a position under William as overseer of convicts in Launceston, and later became police magistrate and eventually private secretary to Governor Franklin. He went on to be a member of the Tasmanian parliament, and then Deputy Commissioner of Crown Lands and State Coroner.

Ronald Gunn in 1848, by Thomas Bock; courtesy State Library of New South Wales.

From our perspective however, his key appointment was as estate manager for William Lawrence in 1841, before he (Gunn) went into politics. Lawrence was one of Tasmania's leading land owners and a highly intelligent and scientific man in his own right, but the key connection for Gunn was the development of his friendship with Lawrence's son, the ill-fated Robert. Young Lawrence only lived in Tasmania for eight years before his premature death on his 26th birthday, but in that time he was an assiduous correspondent with and collector for the great British botanist William Hooker, then of Glasgow University, later director of Kew Gardens. Lawrence introduced Gunn to Hooker, and for the rest of his life Gunn travelled throughout the state, including its very wildest parts, gathering plant specimens to send to Hooker.

Gunn's Willow-herb Epilobium gunnianum Family Onagraceae, Namadgi National Park near Canberra.
The type specimen was collected in Tasmania, and named by German Epilobium specialist Heinrich Haussknecht.

He became close friends with Hooker's son Joseph, who spent some time in Tasmania travelling with him; Joseph in due course would succeed his father at Kew, and achieve his own eminence in the botanical world. Gunn of course supplied him with plants too.

Deciduous Beech Nothofagus gunni Family Nothofagaceae, Cradle Mountain NP, Tasmania.
This is one of the very few deciduous plants native to southern Australia.
It was named in Gunn's honour by his friend Joseph Hooker.

While best known for his plant expertise, as befitted a good naturalist of his age - and he was a very good one - Gunn also took an active interest in zoology and geology. He was responsible for sending the first live Thylacine back to England, and accompanied John Gould on his Tasmanian expeditions. In addition he took an active interest in the reptiles and snails of the island.

Eastern Barred Bandicoot Perameles gunnii; now almost extinct on mainland Australia, but still
quite common in Tasmania. The type specimen was sent by Gunn to London, where it was named
for him by zoologist John Edward Gray.
Photo courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

He edited the Tasmanian Journal of Natural Science and was recognised in London by being elected to both the Linnean and Royal Socities - both most prestigious appointments. His private herbarium is now part of the National Herbarium of New South Wales (an oxymoronic name, but one which dates back to pre-Federation days).

The orchid genera Gunnarorchis and Gunnia were named for Gunn, but they
have since respectively been subsumed into Dendrobium (above) and Sarcochilus (below).

He died in 1881, widely respected both for his scientific and social contributions. At least 50 plant species, the majority of them Tasmanian, were named for him. Joseph Hooker (not William, as claimed by Wikipedia) wrote in his introduction to his Flora Tasmaniae: "There are few Tasmanian plants that Mr Gunn has not seen alive, noted their habits in a living state, and collected large suites of specimens with singular tact and judgment. . . . accompanied with notes that display remarkable powers of observation, and a facility for seizing important characters in the physiognomy of plants, such as few experienced botanists possess". At the time it would have been hard to imagine a more significant endorsement.

Baeckea gunniana Family Myrtaceae,Cradle Mountain NP, Tasmania.
This shrub is also found in montane bogs on the mainland but was probably collected originally by Gunn,
and named for him by German botanist Johannes Schauer.

BACK ON TUESDAY

It mattered to me when I was a boy, getting taken to Tarzan movies for the animals. (I was less keen on the mandatory quicksand scenes and Loyal Native Bearers falling off narrow cliff tracks.) But I would be inevitably infuriated by what were to me monumental gaffes, such as having the wrong elephants in Africa!! (On the other hand I was quite relaxed about the preposterous basic premise of the story, which says something about me.)

I can't say for certain if this is Johnny Weissmuller (the US Olympic swimmer turned
archetypal Tarzan) but I can say with authority that these are Indian Elephants!

My search for screen animals broadened when the family up the road got a telly in the 1950s (or maybe early 1960s), and I used to go up to watch Jungle Jim in black and white. My boyish fury was unabated. Unlike Tarzan it wasn't always clear where it was intended to be set, but it didn't matter much - the combination of animals was wrong!

Grant Withers, the original Jungle Jim.
The would-be man-eating lion seems to be asleep (or worse) but that wasn't my main concern.

Withers was in time supplanted by Johnny Weissmuller, looking for a life after Tarzan.
And the tiger supplanted the lion (though I recall it was pretty random). I gather the original comic book series
was based in South-East Asia (in which case a tick for the tiger) but it was not at all clear
where the TV series was supposed to be.

And of course every 'jungle' movie ever made, including Tarzan and the Jungle Jim series, whether set in Africa, Asia or South America, includes as an essential element of the sound track Australian Laughing Kookaburras, South American Screaming Pihas, and Asian Green Peafowl (peacocks).

Both the Screaming Piha Lipaugus vociferans, Sacha Lodge, Ecuador, above
and the Laughing Kookaburra Dacelo novaeguineae, Canberra, below,
would probably be most surprised to hear their own impressive and distinctive voices ringing
out above Tarzan's head, Wherever-he-is in Africa.

My interest in this aspect of entertainment was unexpectedly reawakened over the weekend, when we went to see the movie Tracks, based closely on the 1978 book by Robyn Davidson of her truly remarkable solo camel trek of some 2000km west from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean. (To be honest I don't go to many movies, so I'm not about to set up as film critic, but I enjoyed this one, especially the landscapes, while not entirely seeing what it added to the book.)

But.... In a scene not from the book, whose significance evaded me entirely, a large python slips across the sleeping 'Davidson' deep in the western deserts.

Irrespective of the purpose of the scene (I'm sure it will be immediately obvious to you), there's a
very fundamental problem. Carpet Pythons Morelia spilota, which this undoubtedly is, do not occur
anywhere near the western deserts - indeed there are no large pythons at all in the vast sandy tracts.
You can see the scene briefly here, at the 1 minute 27 second mark; being technologically limited, and
unable to find a still of the scene, I photographed it from this promo on my computer screen, hence the poor quality!

(There was another little blip to upset the biologist too, albeit not biogeographical; a Euro is shot for food by an Aboriginal elder, but mysteriously turns into a female Red Kangaroo when dead! The Euro only appeared briefly, and I'd like to see it again, but I tend to trust myself on this. On the other hand if it was a make of car, say, they could get away with anything as far as I'm concerned!)

Another famous bioblunder I recall from way back - though at least I was at uni by then - was the inexplicable insertion of Brazilian Tapirs Tapirus terrestris into a scene at the start of the epic 2001: a space odyssey. The problem is that the scene was set in the early days of human evolution - quite rightly in Africa.

The black hairy ones are our ancestors - the tapirs (whose alternative name South American Tapir says
it all really) are... well who knows?!

I hardly expect cartoons to be scientifically rigorous, but still... I recall Antz, an animated movie (yes, about ants - I can't explain the 'z') from the late 1990s. All the soldiers were explicitly male!

As most of us could have told them, ALL useful members of an ant colony, most certainly including
the soldiers, are exclusively female.

One I didn't see was Lion King, but I have read about the opening scenes, featuring leafcutter ants above the savannah.

Oops, sorry - only in South America!

Another I didn't see was Jurassic Park, but acting on a tip-off I looked up the amber-trapped mosquito which carried the dinosaur DNA (and I'm not getting into that one here!).

Very nice, but the lovely plumed antennae tell us that it's a male -
and only female mozzies feed on blood. Males are staunch vegetarians.

Another I managed to miss was the apparently history-annihilating 300, featuring Persians versus Spartans. The Persians apparently brought 'war rhinos' to the party - interesting concept, though I'd be fascinated by the logistics of training and control. However the movie makers fell into the Tarzan trap, albeit in reverse.

This redoutable accoutrement has two horns; the only plausible Asian rhino has only one.
They were looking at pictures of either of the two African species...
(I had a lot of trouble tracking down a still of this one - I'm still not totally sure this is it.
If you know I'm wrong, please let me know. However I have read elsewhere that the
movie war rhinos do have two horns so the story stands.)

At a different level entirely, even the saccharine and very English Mary Poppins is culpable. The well-known earworm Spoonful of Sugar refers to a robin 'feathering his nest'. Given that it's set in and around London, one might reasonably expect a familiar European Robin Erithacus rubecula. One would in that case be disappointed and surprised.

Did they think no-one would notice it was an entirely unrelated and dissimilar American Robin Turdus migratorius?
(Or that it is apparently stuffed, but to be fair the film was made 50 years ago - this year in fact.)

And while we're on Mary Poppins, it seems the use of male gender in the line from the song above
wasn't used lightly. I'm no expert on North American birds, but I'm almost certain this pair comprises two males.
A very bold statement from Disney back in 1964!

Mary Poppins isn't the only classic under my scrutiny today either. Harry Potter's faithful female Snowy Owl Hedwig regularly went out for nocturnal excursions; unfortunately Snowies are almost wholly diurnal. Also it is unlikely that Harry's evil relatives would have been so disturbed by her hooting (she literally couldn't give a hoot), though they may have got a bit fed up with her squeaky screeches which didn't rate a mention.

And even the wonderful Finding Nemo got one important point bizarrely wrong. Why would you impose an American Pelican - Brown or Peruvian, I can't be certain, though it's a bit of mix really - onto the Australian east coast?? There are plenty of Australian Pelicans there who would have been happy to step in!

Nigel was never going to pass muster as an Australian Pelican, which is essentially black and white!

Even a couple of my favourite recreational authors have let me down on occasions. Peter Corris, in one of his historical ventures (I think it was Wimmera Gold) talked about 'the mulga' in western Victoria. Acacia aneura covers a large part of inland Australia - but the only mainland state where it isn't found is Victoria. And Paul Doherty, in his generally well-researched ancient Egyptian series, more than once dressed important people in jaguar skins; I'm pretty sure the Egyptians didn't ever make it to South America!

Does any of it matter? Well if it doesn't bother you, then of course it's not important to you. On the other hand if you saw a car model, or a clothing style, that you knew wasn't possible in that context, it may jar enough to make you question other things that you would otherwise trust, and generally spoil your enjoyment. That's how it is for me with regard to tigers in Africa or Carpet Pythons in the western deserts. And these days in particular, there's really no excuse, is there?

Any contributions anyone?

BACK ON THURSDAY

The current ice age began some 2.6 million years ago. The assertion that we are now in the grip of an ice age might surprise you, but that's because ice ages comprise a series of cycles of glaciation and warmer inter-glacials, and we're in the midst of one such inter-glacial now. Further, we use the term 'ice age' carelessly for the glaciations within the overall ice age, hence the confusion. For the first one and a half million million years of the ice age the cycle was about 40,000 years; since then however the cycle has stretched, so that we've fairly reliably experienced a pattern of some 20,000 years of relatively balmy inter-glacial followed by 80-100,000 years of cold, dry, windy glaciation.

The most recent glaciation had its major impact in Australia from about 35,000 years ago, ending only about 13,000 ago. But what's this got to do with Tasmanian birds? Fair question, and the answer is 'just about everything'. During glaciation a large amount of the earth's water is locked up in ice sheets, especially at the poles. Sea levels drop and large expanses of continental shelf are exposed - that is, the shore lines are much further out relative to modern ones. In particular currently major islands, including Tasmania and New Guinea, were simply highland areas across grassy plains where Bass Strait and Torres Strait now surge.

The shadings represent dry land at the height of the last glaciation; I've indicated Tasmania with
the red arrow for those unfamiliar with Australian geography.
Map courtesy of Peter Brown.

So, for those 20,000 years animals (including humans and birds) could move freely between what is now Tasmania and the mainland. Moreover it is likely that this was also true (albeit not for humans) for at least some of the other nine glaciations in the last million years, though the most recent one seems to have been particularly intense.

On the other hand, the cold treeless steppe-lands of the Bassian Plain (now Bass Strait) would have been highly unattractive to forest birds, so for them the plain may have been as effective an isolator as the current 200km of stormy sea. All this means that the evolution of the twelve species of birds endemic to Tasmania need not have occurred in the last 13,000 years, and indeed is unlikely to have done so, particularly for one which is in its own genus.

OK, enough background - let's just meet a few of those birds, along with their nearest mainland relations with whom they share a common ancestor.

Perhaps the first you are likely to meet - and the one you're probably going to see most regularly in the east - is the wonderful Tasmanian Native-hen, one of only two flightless rails in Australia. It is no coincidence that the other is also an islander, the Lord Howe Island Woodhen. It is also no coincidence that, while the Tasmanian hens are known from mainland fossil deposits, they abruptly disappeared at the time the Dingo arrived, some 4700 years ago. There can be no smoking gun, but a flightless bird would have been hugely vulnerable to such a quick clever hunter. Further, it's most unlikely that a smallish flightless bird would have evolved on the mainland, so I suggest they arose in Tasmania, and 'crossed over' during the last glaciation; unlike all the other endemics, they're not forest birds.

Tasmanian Native-hen Tribonyx mortierii, Copping, north-east of Hobart.
The powerful running legs - they are reputed to manage 50km an hour - are evident.
Another name is Narkie, probably from the nasal aggression calls, and possibly from an indigenous word.

Black-tailed Native-hens Tribonyx ventralis (and Great Egret)Kinchega National Park,
western New South Wales. Found right across arid Australia, and the only other member of the genus.

Green Rosellas Playtcercus caledonicus are clearly closely related to the mainland Crimson Rosella P. elegans, though are not as abundant or quite as cooperative for the most part.

Green Rosella, Bruny Island.

The resemblance is most striking to the immature Crimson Rosella (adults are indeed crimson).

Another loud and proud Tasmanian is the world's biggest honeyeater, the huge and raucous Yellow Wattlebird Anthochaera paradoxa. As with the closely related mainland Red Wattlebird, the name refers to the colour of the facial wattles, a source of endless confusion.

Yellow Wattlebird with cicada snack, Bridport, northern Tasmania.

Red Wattlebird, Canberra.

Another with very obvious mainland connections is the big noisy Black Currawong Strepera fuliginosa. Oddly though, in high-use national park areas where it was abundant and decidedly pushy when I was last there 13 years ago, and where the literature claims it still is, it was virtually non-existent. Not so in the forests south of Hobart however.

Black Currawong, Tahune Forest.

Pied Currawong Strepera graculina, Canberra.
Currawongs, fruit eaters which also prey on animals, especially stick insects but also nestlings,
are in the same family as Australian magpies, butcherbirds and woodswallows.

Of the smaller endemics, undoubtedly the most abundant in shrubby understorey from rainforest to coastal scrubs is the rather plain Tasmanian Scrubwren Sericornis humilis. There is some disagreement as to whether it is indeed a separate species from the equally abundant mainland White-browed Scrubwren S. frontalis, but the current general consensus is that it is.

Tasmanian Scrubwren, Freycinet National Park, east coast.

White-browed Scrubwren, National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.
Her leg adornments are due to the fact that she lives over the road from the
Australian National University Zoology Department.

Another in the scrubwren family, with no close relations (the only one in its genus) is presumably the product of an earlier period of Tasmanian isolation. The active little Scrubtit Acanthornis magna is a busy and inconspicuous insect hunter of rainforests in particular, often overlooked I suspect.

Scrubtit, Liffey Falls, west of Launceston.

There are three small endemic honeyeaters, two of them in the genus Melithreptus, short-billed honeyeaters which primarily glean insects from leaves rather than rely on nectar. The Strong-billed Honeyeater M. validirostris is, in my experience, the least common of the three, but is the only one I managed to photograph. The other two are the smaller Black-headed Honeyeater M. affinis and the Yellow-throated Honeyeater Lichenostomus flavicollis, both of which I found impossible to entice to stop still for more than a millisecond!

Strong-billed Honeyeater (immature) Wielangta Forest, south-east Tasmania.

The mainland Brown-headed Honeyeater M. brevirostris (here near Canberra) seems to be its closest relative.

The other Tasmanian endemics are the Dusky Robin Melanodryas vittata, the Tasmanian Thornbill Acanthiza ewingii (of which my only picture is too fuzzy to inflict on you) and the rare Forty-spotted Pardalote Pardalotus quadragintus. I hope you track them all down when you next go to Tassie - it's not that hard - but meantime I think that having some understanding of how they came to be is interesting in its own right.

I'll pursue this theme with Western Australian endemics at some time in the future; and I've now made lists of all the topics I've promised to pursue 'at a later date'!

BACK ON TUESDAY

Hello all, and my apologies to those hoping for another posting today, as promised.

The last day or so has been all about hospitals and stents, rather than anything healthier and happier. All looks good now, but I'd best defer the next posting for a few days. My thanks for your understanding.

Meantime, as an interim offering.

Waved Albatrosses Phoebastria irrorata, Espanola, Galapagos.
The world's only tropical albatross, which apparently only breeds on this one small island in the far southern Galapagos
and spends winter on the Ecuador and Peru continental shelf.
Espanola is earmarked for its own posting here one day soon!

BACK ON FRIDAY, ALL BEING WELL...

As I mentioned a few days ago we've been having some serious health distractions in our home this week; the patient (not me!) came home today, to my immense relief, so it's time to make you another offering. I'm feeling pretty wrung out, so maybe a gentle return to the orchids of southern Peru is in order. We began this exploration here, a few weeks ago.

From the Acjanaco Pass the road to Manu begins a huge winding descent of the eastern Andes into the Amazon Basin, ending at the somewhat wild little town of Atalaya on the Upper Madre de Dios River where the journey continues by boat. There is so much to see en route however that you are likely to make a couple of overnight stops before beginning your Amazon experience. If you are lucky and well-informed, the first of these might be at the Wayquecha Research Station run by ACCA, the Asociación para la Conservación de la Cuenca Amazónica (Association for the Conservation of the Amazon Basin). The station, at 3000 metres in the rich dripping cloud forest, also provides basic accommodation for visitors who can use the reserve walking tracks and learn something of the research being carried out at the time by visiting scientists from all over the world.

Cloud forests at Wayquecha, in unusually clear conditions!

The views from the balconies are superb.

However, this is a post about orchids, so having set the scene, I should show you some orchids! Yet again I will plead for any help you can give me with any of these identifications - inevitably there are species and even some genera I can't put a name to.

Cyrtochilum is a genus of nearly 150 species of the high Andes, from Venezuela to southern Peru. Many of them have huge sprays of flowers, a metre or more long.

Cyrtochilum sp. Wayquecha.
Full raceme above, and close-up below.

Odontoglossum is another commonly-met genus of the cloud forests; once its members numbered in the hundreds, but taxonomic reallocation of many of them leaves us with only 100 or so select from!

Odontoglossum spp., above and below, Wayquecha.

Pachyphyllum ('thick leaf') is a genus of some 50 species found from northern South America to Mexico; we found two species along the research centre forest walking tracks.

Two Pachyphyllum species, Wayquecha, above and below.

Habenaria is a vast genus of some 800 species, found in much of Africa, southern Asia, tropical Australia and North and South America. It is believed that it arose in Africa and only reached South America relatively recently; tiny dust-like orchids seeds are very suited to being distributed by winds over huge distances.

Habenaria sp., Wayquecha.

Maxillaria is yet another huge genus - nearly 600 species - but this one is limited to the tropical and subtropical Americas.

Maxillaria sp., Wayquecha.
Perhaps we can almost see the resemblance to a jawbone referred to in the name.
Maybe if you squint??

Stelis is yet another massive genus, of at least 500 small-flowered species, over 40 of which are found in Peru.

Stelis sp., Wayquecha.
If the identification is correct, it is atypical in that most Stelis have white flowers.

And inevitably there were a couple I couldn't even get to genus level; I really would be grateful if you can help!

Unidentified orchids, above and below, Wayquecha.

Much lower down the mountain, but still within the cloud forest zone, the San Pedro area is at around 1200 metres above sea level. The orchids are not as obviously abundant here as in the high elevation forests - perhaps just because the trees are higher - but there are some delights, notably among the Sobralias which, unusually for tropical orchids, are terrestrial. These are big plants; in some remarkable species the flower stems can be 10 metres tall!

We found two of the 120 or so Sobralia species along the roads near the lodge.

Sobralia virginalis, San Pedro area.

Sobralia sp. San Pedro area.

I hope you've enjoyed this little orchid ramble; I've found it decidedly therapeutic! I look forward to my next visit to this most wonderful part of this wonderful world.

BACK ON TUESDAY

No, not a typo or colonial ignorance - Kibale really is a fabulous place for primates, including human visitors! Kibale Forest National Park covers some 80,000 hectares of primarily rainforest in the moist south-west of Uganda, not far from the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The location of Kibale National Park is indicated by the end of the red arrow.
Confusingly it is not near the town of Kibale!

Past logging has degraded it, and current pressures on its edges are concerning, but it is still a superb and invaluable reserve. Its value is enhanced by the fact that its habitats continue to the south in the Queen Elizabeth National Park, providing a forested corridor some 180km long.

My very memorable day there, travelling with the estimable Rockjumper birding tours, began in the dark, because it is at dawn that the Green-breasted Pittas call. Our guides - both Gerard - were superb, finding their way through a maze of faint elephant tracks in the dark as we might make our way from bedroom to bathroom at night.

The Gerards, top and bottom, left and right....
The rifles, which I understand to be old AK47s, were in case of unhappy elephants.
In urban Australia we are lucky enough not to need to know much about guns, but I was not reassured by these,
and I'm glad for all concerned that no annoyed elephants appeared.
The lack of a stock on one weapon alone would, I assume, make it a bit trickier to use.

Pre-dawn pitta hunt, Kibale.

It was delightful to be in the forest in the dark, then watching it slowly emerge around us. We arrived in a pitta territory in the dark, and waited until Gerard heard the faint distant call, like a wooden mallet melodiously resonating on a hollow wooden pipe. Closer up it resolved into a double note, like the very lowest end of a xylophone, with two bars being hit almost simultaneously. We dived after it and located the birds on the ground – a pair and a juvenile. Absolutely stunning birds, as pittas are, especially the three vividest blue wing stripes.

It was far too dark for my camera to provide you with a photograph of the bird; here is a lovely painting by early 20th century British artist Herbert Goodchild.

Green-breasted Pitta Pitta reichenowi, courtesy Wikicommons.

But the best was still to come. We walked for perhaps an hour, up and down hills, zig-zagging through the forest, then heard distant yelps and roars, and edged around bushes glistening with reeking chimp urine. Then, there she was, a female undeniably in oestrus, feeding high above us.

Chimpanzee female in oestrus, Kibale.
I find rainforest canopy photography difficult, but I hope the subject compensates.
She is part a large loose group of 130 chimps, habituated to visitors,
both researchers and fee-paying tourists.

These were the first wild apes I'd seen, and it was a remarkable experience. We watched as the big boss male threw a shrieking tantrum, rushing upright along a log, scattering all the others. He did it again later, more distantly, and the one I was watching at the time hid behind a tree trunk, peering round it until the trouble had passed. We followed them until they all climbed high into the trees, their huge strength evident in the way they swung easily up vines and trunks, often with one arm.

We assumed that that was the end of it, but not so! As we were preparing to leave, completely overwhelmed with our privilege and the experience, half a dozen males descended rapidly and proceeded to put in some serious snoozing on the forest floor.

Reclining male chimp, Kibale.

It wouldn't matter if we'd had to sleep on the ground ourselves for such a treat, but in fact the accommodation at Primate Lodge was superb.

Primate Lodge, Kibale National Park.
Open-air restaurant above, and my room below;
my little verandah looked across a little clearing into the rainforest.

As well as the chimps, there are another 12 primate species known from Kibale, including some uncommon ones.

L'Hoest's Monkey Cercopithecus lhoesti is restricted to the eastern Congo basin.
It is primarily terrestrial but takes to the trees when disturbed - see comment above on
my canopy photos! I've nowhere near done justice to this beautiful monkey.

Grey-cheeked Mangabey Lophocebus albigena.This somewhat scruffy delight is found west from Uganda to Guinea, travelling in troupes to gather forest fruits.

Of course there are always smaller animals to fascinate too.

Unidentified skink, Kibale.

Orbweb spider with katydid lunch, Kibale.

Platanna, or African Clawed Frog Xenopus sp., Magombe Swamp, Kibale Forest.
Widespread in sub-Saharan Africa, toothless and tongueless, it nonetheless eats
a wide variety of food courtesy of its claws with which it tears goodies apart
and pushes them down its throat.

There is of course a huge range of plants in any rainforest too, but this one especially intrigued me.

Thonningia sp., family Balanophoraceae, Kibale.
This remarkable plant is a root parasite on surrounding plants, by use of its tuber; its scaley leaves have no chlorophyll. Moreover the flowers emerge from under the ground! I'd never encountered anything like it.

Kibale forest is a delight at all levels and is an essential part of any visit to Uganda.Ultimately though, it's above all about the chimps.

BACK ON FRIDAY

Periodically I've dedicated a post here to my favourite trees - the latest was here, and you can track back from there if you so desire. The last three, including this one, have been dedicated to eucalypts and maybe it's time to diversify, but not today.

As winds and cold rain batter the mountains above Canberra, most animal species are either moving to lower elevations (or lower latitudes), or going into one form or other of torpor. Many plants are also closing down, surviving winter as underground roots or tubers, or as seeds. Not the trees however - and at the highest altitudes this means just one species, the wonderful Snow Gum Eucalyptus pauciflora. (In Tasmania Snow Gum refers to other species, but today I'm just talking about the mainland.)

Snow Gums, Kosciuszko National Park.
Growing seasons up here are short and harsh, and the brutal conditions of their youth
inevitably show in their gnarled later years.

Up at the tree line in Kosciuszko (here at 1800-1900 metres) the Snow Gums are
more stunted and permanently wind-bent.

There are many wonderful things to say about Snow Gums, but one of the greatest mysteries is down to us - why the name? Pauciflora means 'sparsely flowering', and while I unfortunately can't show you here, the flowering can be quite profuse and regular. It was bestowed by the early 19th Century German botanist Kurt Sprengel, from material supplied by Czech-born collector Franz Sieber (his tragic life is worth exploring further another day). Presumably it was either atypically sparse in buds or flowers, or was damaged in transit; the type specimen would tell us, but I don't have access to that...

Snow Gums, as we'd expect, have some pretty nifty adaptations to short growing conditions, with snow on the ground for weeks or months of the year and frosts all year round.

Winter Snow Gum, Namadgi National Park.

One neat trick is to change its optimal temperature for photosynthesis as the season progresses, so that whatever temperature it is, is the best temperature for growing! (ie it photosynthesises better at lower temperatures earlier and later in summer, and higher in mid-summer.)

These old-timers at Charlotte Pass, high in Kosciuszko National Park, grow among
and sprawl over the granites. They probably have only a few weeks a year in which to grow.
These high altitude Snow Gums are sometimes given their own species, E. niphophila ('snow-loving'),
though most botanists recognise them only as a sub-species.

Further, at lower altitudes the optimal photosynthetic temperature is also higher. For Snow Gums at the tree line the preferred temperature is 18 degrees; at the same time the most efficient temperature for their colleagues at 900 metres is 28 degrees.

Low altitude Snow Gums north of Canberra (800-900 metres); at these altitudes
they form a distinct sub-category of the grassy woodlands, one of our most threatened habitats.
Where E. niphophila is recognised, these low-down Snow Gums remain E. pauciflora.

In the devastating fires of 2003, vast areas of mountain Snow Gum woodlands burnt. Numerous ancient trees were burnt to the ground, though there is vigorous resprouting from subterranean shoots.


Ten years later. Views through the regenerating Snow Gums, from the ridge line of Namadgi National Park, above Canberra.

One characteristic of Snow Gums is the 'scribbled' bark, legacy of the larvae of a tiny moth, which chew along within the nutritious cambial layer; when it's time to pupate they drop into the litter at the base of the tree. Until recently they were know as Ogmograptis scribula (the 'wavy-writing scribe') from the highest Snow Gums to the sea, and west into the slopes country. Then a wonderful collaboration between a Canberra school girl and some retired scientists - botanists and entomologists - revealed the existence of at least a dozen related scribbly moth species. The story, told in detail here, is well worth your while reading.

One of the many fascinating things about this little caterpillar is the
fact that it nearly always turns around and tunnels back parallel to its existing track.
Perhaps it is taking advantage of the tree's response, growing new tissue to
replace the damaged material - like a burglar returning after the insurance company has replaced his loot!

As we start to put our warming strategies into action down here in wet cold Canberra, high above us the Snow Gums endure, as they always have and always will long after I'm forgotten.

BACK ON WEDNESDAY

In the heyday of taxonomy - from the late 18th to well into the 19th centuries, when there were scarcely enough working taxonomists to cope with the flood tide of plant and animal specimens pouring in to Europe from all over the world - classical allusions were rife. Perhaps the fact that the descriptions had to be in Latin (as indeed they still did for plants until very recently) helped inspired this, but most such authors would have had a classical education anyway.

There were of course many gods to choose from, and an obvious one was Venus, the very popular Roman goddess whose portfolios included love, sex, fertility and beauty. Oddly, I can't readily find any plant named directly for her - though there is a northern hemisphere moth genus named Venusia - but I'd be surprised if it didn't exist somewhere. However, like any respectable Roman god (or is that an oxymoron?) she had aliases. One of these was Acmena (though I have also read that Acmena was a sort of house-nymph to Venus).

Acmena smithii Family Myrtaceae, 'Lilly Pilly', Nowra, New South Wales.
An attractive rainforest tree, with edible fruits (I make jam from them).
(Some taxonomists would now incorporate Acmena into Syzygium.)

Another manifestation of Venus was as Verticordia, 'the heart turner'; a magnificent genus of Western Australian Myrtaceous shrubs has been accorded this name - and quite rightly too, in my opinion!

Verticordia grandis, Gathercole Nature Reserve in the Wheatbelt east of Perth.

Diana, Roman Goddess of hunting, the moon and forests was another available option, including in the diminutive form, Dianella.

Dianella caerulea, Family Phormiaceae, Canberra.

Diana's Greek counterpart Artemis appears in the familiar daisy genus Artemisia, which included wormwood and tarragon.

Not all the divinities were so marketable however - though that didn't stop classically-educated taxonomists from having a go. In a farming society like the Roman it was quite reasonable to have a god of organic fertiliser - which sounds better than a god of manure... His name was Sterculius (or Sterquilinus) and a genus of tree was deemed appropriate to the implications of his trade.

Sterculia foetida, Family Sterculiaceae (which some would include in Malvaceae), planted in Port Douglas, Queensland.
(Some references extend its wide natural range, from east Africa through southern Asia, into northern Australia,
but this doesn't seem to be the case.)
This tree has seriously - well, foetid-smellling - flowers or the leaf stems.

Nymphs were a whole series of minor goddesses who seemed to enjoy themselves more than their seniors mostly did (other than when the grown-up gods were tormenting humans of course). Many nymphs were associated with water.

Nymphaea violacea Family Nymphaeceae, Fogg Dam near Darwin.

Then there were plenty of non-god classical denizens to call upon too. Pandora (from Greek 'all gifts') was the first mortal woman, showered with gifts by the gods as they created her. Being gods though, there was nothing nice about all this - in fact, bizarrely, it was an act of punishment on humankind for Prometheus' theft of fire. (And yes, this implies that humanity hitherto comprised only males - don't ask me, I'm just passing it on!) Being human she was curious about the contents of a jar (not a box as we'd now say in the familiar phrase) and peeped in, releasing all the ills of humankind. And what could have inspired someone to name a plant for her, you may well ask?

Pandorea doratoxylon, Spearwood, Family Bignoniaceae, Kata Tjuta, Northern Territory.
It is claimed that the time of collection of the type specimen on Norfolk Island
corresponded with a plague of unspecified insects...

One of the silliest names is Corybas, and one steeped in scientific villainy. Corybas was founder of the cheerfully orgiastic dancing priests of Phrygia; what he could possibly have had in common with the demure little helmet orchid genus of Australia is beyond imagination (mine anyway). The application of the name was apparently a piece of blatant robbery too. The great Robert Brown had already proposed the appropriate name Corysanthes, meaning ‘helmet flower’, but it was waiting in a long queue while he worked through publishing the huge Australian collections. Meantime Robert Salisbury saw an illustration from Ferdinand Bauer, published an inaccurate description from memory and gazumped Brown!

Corybas hispida, Canberra.
There has been a move recently to break up Corybas and return some species (including this one)
to Brown's genus Corysanthes, but as usual that has been staunchly resisted
by the Australian botanical establishment.

Caius Mucius Scaevola was a hero of ancient Rome. When the city of Rome was besieged by Lars Porsena and the Etruscans, and after Horatius had held the bridge*, Mucius sought to break the siege by sneaking out to kill Lars Porsena. Caius accidentally stabbed Lars Porsena’s secretary instead, was caught and threatened with torture. He responded by putting his own right hand into the altar fire; impressed (clearly none of them were too worried about mere secretaries'!) they let him go, and the Romans called him Scaevola, ie 'Left-handed' or 'Lefty'!. Oh yes, the flower of the genus named for it is hand-shaped.

*If that allusion passed you by, then you probably went to school long after I did, so here's the poem if you're interested. If you don't have an afternoon to spare you might like to skip to verse XXVII, and skim thereafter...

Scaevola parvibarbata Family Goodeniaceae, Nyngan, New South Wales.

And more general classical allusions also abound. Nepenthes was a plant described in the ancient Greek literature which was said to assuage grief and even induce euphoria. Linnaeus himself seems to have missed the point of the wonderful pitcher plants when he assigned them this name based on their supposed medicinal qualities.

Nepenthes sp., National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.
The story of these wonderful carnivorous plants will doubtless appear in this blog at some point.

St John's Wort, Hypericum perforatum Family Clusiaceae, is a common and serious southern Australian weed, though we have some native species too. Hypericum means 'above the image (or icon)'; in ancient Europe flowers were placed above the doorway on mid-Summer's eve to ward off evil. This festival was later usurped by the newer religion was St John's Feast, hence the common name

Hypericum gramineum, Morton National Park, New South Wales.

I could doubtless find more such classics, but that's enough to go on with now. Next week I'll conclude this mini-series with some classically-derived animal names.

BACK ON TUESDAY

Last posting was about some plant names derived from classical mythology; I promised that this time I'd do the same with some animal names. Well, yes and no... In practice I discovered that there were far too many good classically-based stories to be found in the world of animal names, so this mini-series has evolved into a three-parter - birds today, other animals next time.

The kingfisher families are especially rich in such allusion, because the Greeks were quite excited about kingfishers - even though they only knew one species initially (at least until they got into Africa). Ceyx was the son of Hesperos, the Morning Star, married to Alcyone, daughter of Aeolus, the wind guardian. Blissfully happy, they made the mistake of comparing themselves to Zeus and Hera - big mistake actually, as Z and H turned out to be not at all happy, and punished their presumption by drowning them both with a storm. The other gods felt that this was a bit over the top and turned them into halcyons, birds generally agreed to be kingfishers. (I can't help but think they might have preferred to have been themselves again, but what would I know?) Not being very experienced in such things, Alcyone opted to nest on the beach near the waterline - her dad arranged for windless days to allow her to get away with it. These were of course the original Halcyon Days. So, let's meet some of their etymological descendants, starting with the obvious.

Azure Kingfisher Ceyx azureus, Barmah Forest, Murray River, Victoria.

Blue-breasted Kingfisher Halcyon malimbica, Budonga Forest, Uganda.

Pied Kingfisher Ceryle rudis, Queen Elizabeth National Park, Uganda.
Ceryle was an alternative name for the Halcyon.
Other kingfisher genus names, including the American ones, build on this name.

Ringed Kingfisher Megaceryle torquata, Isla de Chiloe, Chile.
A handsome big kingfisher, found from southern USA to the Strait of Magellan;
there is no evidence that it has ever heard of ancient Greece or Alcyone though.

Malachite Kingfisher Alcedo cristata, Queen Elizabeth National Park, Uganda.
Alcedo seems to have been the Latin equivalent of Alcyone.

Many other bird groups bear similar burdens, though apparently blithely.

The tropicbirds comprise three species of glorious white seabirds, with no close relatives, found throughout tropical waters. For no evident reason (Linnaeus rarely deigned to explain his names, though he probably didn't have time to do so) their genus is Phaethon, 'shiner', named for the son of Helios the Sun God, who gave in to nagging and lent the boy the family vehicle for the day. Oops, he lost control, set the world alight and died in the crash. Not the birds' fault!

Red-tailed Tropicbird Phaethon rubricauda, Lord Howe Island.

Some other birds are also named for Phaethon, though whether directly or via the 'shining' implication is unclear.

Crimson Finch Neochmia phaeton, Darwin.

White-whiskered Hermit Phaethornis yaruqui, Alanbi, Ecuador.
Phaethornis is 'shining bird' - or 'cocky teenager bird', as my friend and co-author Jeannie Gray would have it.

Back at sea, there are several other classically-named birds. The great Wandering and Royal Albatrosses are Diomedea, for Odysseus's companion in his Boys' Own adventures, Diomedes. Other albatrosses have been monickered similarly. Phoebastria was a Greek prophetess (though not necessarily a specific one).

Waved Albatross pair Phoebastria irrorata, Espanola, Galapagos.

Pandion was a king (or perhaps two kings) of Athens; he (or they collectively) had three children, all of whom were turned into birds - there was a lot of it about. He didn't share their fate then, but now has been, in name at least.

Eastern Ospreys Pandion cristatus at nest, Eyre Peninsula, South Australia.

Terns are regular classicists too, though the exact identity of the mythical Greek nocturnal bird Gygis remains a mystery, as does the thinking of the genus' German author Johann Wagler (actually he was primarily a herpetologist, which might help explain it). Certainly the exquisitely delicate White Tern doesn't eat other birds at night, as its namesake was alleged to do.

White Terns Gygis alba, Lord Howe Island.

Procne was the very ill-fated daughter of Pandion - see above - and you really don't want to know what happened to her! However in the end she was turned to a swallow, which helps explain the use of her name in a couple of tern genera.

Caspian Tern Hydroprogne caspia, Moulting Lagoon, Tasmania.
Hydroprogne is of course 'water swallow'.

The Nereides, daughters of Nereus, were Mediterranean sea-nymphs, and surprisingly nothing especially bad seems to have happened to them - being transformed into a delightful Fairy Tern certainly isn't bad!

Fairy Tern juvenile Sternula nereis (right; the big blokes are actually relatively diminutive
Silver Gulls Chroicocephalus novaehollandiae), Goolwa, South Australia.

Back to Pandion again - his son was Nisus, turned (of course) into a bird, apparently a sea-eagle; later his name was associated with the European Sparrowhawk Accipiter nisus. And here's a really weird story; the Australasian hawk owl or boobook genus is Ninox, a blend of Nisus and Noctua, an owl! Who knows??

Southern Boobook Ninox novaeseelandiae, Nowra, New South Wales.

A more familiar type of mystery is the 'what does this bird have to do with her?' type. Amytornis, the grasswrens, are 'Amytis birds', Amytis being either the daughter of Medean king Astyages, or the later daughter of Persian King Xerxes, renowned as 'the most beautiful and licentious woman of Asia' according to one source. The French ornithologist Rene Lesson saw no reason to explain his thinking in naming the not-very-evidently licentious birds for her.

Dusky Grasswren Amytornis purnelli, Desert Park, Alice Springs.

To end, something of an anticlimax - a god, Myiagra, whose sole role was apparently chasing flies away from sacrifices to more significant Roman deities. How humiliating must that have been?! Needless to say, the Australian flycatchers named for him do chase flies, but not 'away' if they can help it.

Leaden Flycatcher Myiagra rubecula, National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.

Back next time with more weird and wonderful stories from times fortunately long gone, as they have insinuated themselves into the names of other animals - especially insects, with some spiders and mammals thrown in.

BACK ON SATURDAY

This is the last - for which you may be grateful! - in this little series on plant and animal names derived from classical mythology. Having talked at some length on birds last time, we'll conclude with a bit of a round-up of 'other animals' - though I confess that another bird has also slipped in here, which I trust you can forgive.

Let's start with a family who pretty much embody all that the Greek theistic panoply stood for - murder, outrageous punishment and revenge, and lots of sex, preferably incestuous. Uranus was god of the skies, married to Gaia, goddess of earth. (These are very much the abridged versions of the stories, of which in any case there are often differing and even conflicting versions.) They had six sons and, conveniently, six daughters, who pretty much inevitably formed six couples producing children. The youngest was Cronus, married to sister Rhea. For reasons typically obscure the French zoologist Mathurin Brisson applied Rhea as a genus name to the South American ratites (an ancient group of giant flightless Gondwanan birds) in 1760. (Though other sources credit German biologist Paul Mohring, a little earlier - I don't understand this.)


Darwin's Rhea Rhea (sometimes called Pterocnemia) pennata, with chicks, Torres del Paine NP, southern Chile.

These twelve siblings were the Titans, generally described as 'godlike giants'; the word has of course become a synonym for anything large.

Acrophylla titan, Nowra, New South Wales.
This magnificent stick insect can be 30 cm long.

Another son - and another giant - was Anax, a word which in Ancient Greek also more generally meant a king.

Green Emperor Anax gibbosulus, Litchfield NP, Northern Territory.
Even emperors can come to grief it seems, this time in the form of a spider web.

Gaia really needed a break from all this fertility, especially with the production of giants being involved, and enlisted Cronus and his sickle to help. Where the drops of blood from Uranus' castration fell to earth, the Erinyes (equivalent to the Roman Furies) emerged. These beauties have been described as having dogs' head with the interesting embellishment of snakes wound round them, bats' wings and eyes that dripped blood. At least two of them live on in the names of two very different, but equally blameless, animals.

Tisiphone fell in love with the mortal Cithaeron - lucky him! When he politely demurred, she killed him with the assistance of one of her convenient head snakes. What this has to do with a butterfly is anyone's guess.

Swordgrass Brown Tisiphone abeona, National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.

One of her sisters was Alecto ("the implacable of unceasing anger" - a bit like some teenagers actually). Now while fruit bats can be pretty squabbly, this description seems a bit over the top.

Black Fruit Bats Pteropus alecto, Charters Towers, Queensland.

Yet another product of Cronus' dreadful deed was, according to some stories at leastand improbable as it sounds, Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, inter alia. Aphrodite (her Roman equivalent was Venus) went by numerous aliases, partly due to different groups of worshippers, and partly to her many roles. Adonis Morpho, 'fair shaped', was used in Sparta.

Morpho butterfly, Morpho sp., Sacha Lodge, Ecuador.
When opened the wings are a gloriously brilliant blue, but I was always too slow to snap them!

Aphrodite Urania was 'heavenly Aphrodite' (in apposition to the more earthy love of Aphrodite Pandemos). The Urania moths are limited to the tropical Americas; I refer here to the genus Urania, though the common term is also used for all members of the family Uranidae, which is much more widspread.

Green-banded Urania Moth Urania leilus, Yasuni NP, Ecuador.
Many butterflies and moths sip moisture from river bank silts with their proboscis.

And there I think it's time to leave that particular family of gods well and truly alone. An apparently more benign entity was Hamadryas, mother of the hamadryads, eight spirits associated with particular trees.

Cracker Butterfly Hamadryas sp., Cerro Blanco Reserve, Guayaquil, Ecuador.
These butterflies typically use their camouflage to hide on tree trunks. Their common name is based on their
habit of 'cracking' their wings, apparently by clapping the tips together, though the purpose is still debated.
The Hamadryas Baboon, Papio hamadryas, of north-eastern Africa and Arabia, is also named for her.

King Aegeus was key to the founding of Athens, according to the legends; the Aegean Sea, in which he drowned himself through a classic misunderstanding, was also named for him. So is this rather nice local butterfly.

Female Orchard Swallowtail Butterfly Papilio aegeus, National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.

Diana the Huntress has many names also; apparently Diaea is one variant, applied to a genus of spiders by Swedish aracnologist Tord Tamelan Teodor Thorell, working in Italy. He described over a thousand spider species in the second half of the nineteenth century.

Flower Spider Diaea sp., National Botanic Gardens, Canberra.

I'm going to end though with a name from legends much closer to home. When Mike Archer, then curator of mammals at the Queensland Museum, named a new genus of tiny marsupial carnivores as recently as 1975, he turned to indigenous stories of minute nocturnal hunters with short feet - all very descriptive of the animals he called Ningaui.


Wongai Ningaui Ningaui ridei with delicious winged termite. Photo courtesy of David Nelson.

Before closing I must tender apologies to Jeannie Gray, co-author of our Australian Bird Names; a complete guide, on whose work much of the material for my last posting on Australian bird names was based, for failing to give her appropriate acknowledgement. More such stories can be found in its pages!

This time however I must take full responsibility for anything you wish to dispute. I'm not sure what we'll be discussing next, but it won't be names, and murderous or licentious Greek deities will not rate a mention!

BACK ON WEDNESDAY

It probably seems surprising to my Northern Hemisphere readers, but outside of Antarctica only the southern tip of South America lies below 50 degrees south; Australia and Africa come nowhere near it. 50 degrees north however is well inside northern Europe, Asia and North America, but my Australian readers will probably share my wonderment at the concept of a healthy forested ecosystem - and orchids - 1000km south of Hobart.

This is Patagonia, and today I want to offer another snippet on South American orchids, a very different one from previous postings on orchids of tropical Peru and Ecuador. Orchids are so widespread and successful that it shouldn't be surprising to find them absolutely anywhere, but when I first came across them in these distant cold wind-blasted lands I was amazed as well as delighted.

Two Chilean Patagonian habitats where orchids may be found.
Above, open pampa - high dry grassland - east of Coyaique.
Below, Nothofagus (beech) forest, Torres del Paine NP.

The first one I found was the lovely and robust yellow Gavilea lutea - not surprising as it is not only big and conspicuous, but as I now know it tends to favour disturbed sites, including clearings in the beech forest, roadsides and disturbed grassy areas which are often found around lodges in parks such as Torres del Paine National Park in southern Chile.

Gavilea lutea, Torres del Paine NP.
The thick stem can be 60cm high and bear over 20 flowers.
The Spanish name for it translates simply as Yellow Orchid; I don't know of an English one.

There are 14 Gavilea species, all in the south. A much less common one, in my experience at least, though no less lovely, is G. araucana, Araucana Orchid. I found this one on a very wet bank (on a very wet day!) along a section of the Sendero de Chile (the Chile Track) just south of Torres del Paine.

Gavilea araucana.
The species name comes from the Spanish name for the indigenous Mapuche people.
This one is found as far north as 35 degrees south.

A larger genus is Chloraea, with some 50 species, mostly from the southern Andes. As expected, they are tough, able to withstand not only the deep snows of winter, but drought and even fires, by means of underground tubers - this of course is a characteristic of many terrestrial orchids.

Chloraea magellanica, Porcelain Orchid, is a most striking orchid, up to 40cm high and robust like Gavilea
(well you have to be tough to survive in Patagonia!) and also found in relatively open sites.
Chloraea for the greenish flowers, magellanica for the far southern distribution, as far south as the
Strait of Magellan.

The last one I know from down there is a delicate little delight which can form carpets in the beech forests. One of the best places I know for it - though it's widespread - is the walk to Lago Grey in Torres del Paine, where the icebergs come to die on the black sand beach. The orchids grow in sight of the ice.

Iceberg approaching the beach, Lago Grey.
(The glacier in the background, where the berg was born, is 18km away -
it is big!)

Codonorchis lessonii, Lago Grey.
Dog Orchid in English (purportedly for the scent!) and in Spanish,
somewhat more poetically, Palomita - 'little dove'.
(Though there are other meanings, ranging from popcorn to a dive in football!)
There are only two members of the genus - this one is found also across the Strait of Magellan
on Tierra del Fuego, and even on the Falklands.

So, not the overwhelming diversity of orchids that are found far to the north, but I find these little survivors fascinating and very beautiful. You'll probably not go to Patagonia specifically for the orchids - but when you do go, don't miss them!

BACK ON SATURDAY

I often think of a wonderful week we spent a while back on Lord Howe Island, out in the Tasman Sea (part of the Pacific Ocean) 600km off New South Wales. For some more information, here's a past posting, which in turn has links to others. It's a relatively recent (about seven million years old) crescent-shaped volcanic crater remnant some 10 kilometres long.

Lord Howe Island is clearly marked just to the east of the word Newcastle in the Tasman Sea.
It is on the edge of the Lord Howe Rise, an extensive seamount chain stretching north for some 1000km,
surrounded by water more than 4000m deep.

One of our most memorable afternoons of a memorable week was a boat trip out to Ball's Pyramid, a spectacular eroded remnant of the shield volcano 24km to the south-east of Lord Howe.

The sizes of the two islands give an idea of the remoteness of the pyramid from Lord Howe.
Map courtesy of Oregon State University.

We were very privileged, in that the trip is cancelled due to bad weather more often than it is run, and I've met people who've failed to get there in several attempts. We however had a perfect afternoon, albeit with a moderately heavy swell running. Our guide was the wonderful Ian Hutton, synonymous with Lord Howe natural history, a quiet, charming and immensely erudite man whose retiring personality can give the misimpression of abruptness.

The pyramid is a huge overwhelmingly steep and rugged near-vertical lump of rock, which imposes on the southern skyline of Lord Howe even at such a distance. It rears 550 metres straight up out of the ocean, though is only twice that in length and just 300 metres wide; it claims to be the tallest volcanic seastack in the world.

Ball's Pyramid looming in the distance from Clear Place, on the north-east coast of Lord Howe,
at least 30km away.

The trip, in an open boat, leaves from the harbour in the sheltered bay just south of the north-western 'hook' of the island (see outline in second map above) and travels north to pass along the eastern coast, giving views of the island not otherwise obtainable.

Mount Eliza, far north-west corner of the island.

The trip home completes the circumnavigation, passing close to the base of the mighty hills that form the south of the island, Mounts Gower and Lidgbird. (The names were applied with an honest lack of modesty in 1788 by Lieutenant Henry Lidgbird Ball, the first European to sight the Lord Howe group.)

Mount Gower (above) and Mount Lidgbird (below) from the sea.

These views however, while superb, are very much the supporting acts. Once clear of the main island, the vertical bulk of the pyramid becomes increasingly riveting.

The only thing that distracts the eye is the abundance of seabirds, and especially the wheeling
Flesh-footed Shearwaters Puffinus carneipes, whose main breeding areas include Lord Howe.

You can watch the shearwaters for a long time, banking into the wind and riding down its waves,
over and again, without seeing them flap. They are supremely at home in the winds,
second, if that, only to the albatrosses. Their family name, Procellariidae, means 'storm birds'.
And with a wingspan of 130cm, they're very impressive indeed.

The sheer wall of rock rising half a kilometre above us is very dramatic indeed.

In fact, it is so abruptly vertical that, close up, it is pretty much impossible to convey an accurate impression.

A wider angle shot of the pyramid, from close up on the south side.

The seabirds are constant and magnificent (and encouraged by fish scraps and fish oil!).

Flesh-footed Shearwaters, above and below.
The tubular nostrils, characteristic of the group, are clearly visible above.

While dominant, the Flesh-footeds are not the only family members present. The delicate and tiny storm-petrels are usually only seen far out to see, and in my experience provide immense challenges to photographers; while not in any way extolling the photos I managed of them that day, they are infinitely better than anything else I'd ever achieved with regard to them!

White-bellied Storm-Petrel Fregetta grallaria.This 'pattering' feeding behaviour on the sea surface is typical of the birds long known to
sailors as 'Mother Carey's Chickens'.
('Petrel' incidentally, seems to have arisen in English by the start of the 17th century, with no evident influence from another language, but with no obvious English origin either; later attempts to explain it by reference to Peter - who supposedly walked on water - or from 'pitteral', referring to 'pitter patter', are speculative, though the latter seems to have some merit.)

Nearly all the Lord Howe seabirds nest on Ball's Pyramid (though ironically, not the abundant Flesh-footed Shearwaters) including the locally scarce Kermadec Petrel Pterodroma neglecta - indeed this is the only place in Australian waters that it does breed. Rolling seas and boat operators' much-appreciated caution about approaching too close make photography a bit tricky, but here are a couple of attempts - these were the first Grey Ternlets I'd ever seen.

Grey Ternlets Procelsterna albivitta and Common Noddies Anous stolidus,above and below.

However perhaps the most interesting inhabitant of Ball's Pyramid is not a bird, and is not accessible to visitors. The stack wasn't successfully climbed until a team from Sydney did so in 1965; the dangers involved, and the presence of numerous nesting birds, mean that it is now mostly restricted to researchers. However an otherwise unsuccessful climb in 1964 found a dead insect, which excited great interest as it had been presumed extinct since 1920. Like several endemic bird species, the magnificent Lord Howe Island Stick Insect Dryococelus australis was rapidly exterminated on Lord Howe by Black Rats escaping from the SS Makambo which ran aground in 1918 - yes, it took them just two years to wipe out the entire species. But fortunately, not quite... Despite the appearance of more dead animals, it took 37 years for scientists and rangers to find live ones; they are nocturnal and success required a climb of at least a third the height of the pyramid at night!

They found just 24 individuals in just a few Melaleuca bushes. Captive breeding at Melbourne Zoo has been very successful. In time, when ambitious but realistic plans to eliminate all mice and rats from Lord Howe have proved effective, it should be possible to rerelease the insects onto the main island. Meantime I understand that it is possible to see some at the excellent island Visitor Centre and Museum, though they weren't there when we were.

Lord Howe Island Stick Insect, courtesy Melbourne Zoo.

If you get any opportunity at all to do so, please visit Lord Howe - it's one of the Special Places. And when you do, I hope you're as lucky as we were in getting out to the unforgettable Ball's Pyramid.

BACK ON WEDNESDAY

Orchids of Southern Peru 1: Acjanaco Pass, Manu Biosphere Reserve

Rosellas; a flash mob

The Koel of the Wild; an exotic tale?

Enter Olinguito

Ben Lomond - the Tasmanian one!

South American Monkeys; wonderful and mysterious

Camouflage; hiding in the open

Camouflage #2; spinelessly hiding

On This Day 13 March; death of Ronald Gunn

When Movies Fail Basic Biogeography; does it matter?

Tasmania's Endemic Birds; born of ice and isolation

Rain Check

Orchids of Southern Peru 2; the eastern slopes

Kibale Forest National Park; a primative haven

Snow Gums Sublime

Some Classic Names; plants

Classic Birds

More Classical Animal Names

Orchids by the Ice; Patagonia

Ball's Pyramid; mighty outlier of Lord Howe Island