Close encounters of the bird kind

Fran Gillespie recently

published a series of books for

children on the fauna and flora

of Qatar. Here she describes how

she found out just how it feels to

be an endangered species when

she went in search of Australian

wildlife and encountered a

two-metre  tall bird.

Woildlife, is it?’ remarked the elderly Queenslander. ‘Jus’ ya remember, most Austraylian woildlife’ll try to get ya, one way or another.’

My daughter and I were on the north coast of Queensland, equipped with binoculars and field guides and intent on seeing as much of the rich and diverse wildlife as time would allow.

We knew that anyone investigating Australian wildlife would do well to temper enthusiasm with caution. Home to a wide selection of venomous snakes, Queensland has more than its fair share of nasties, including stinging forest trees, spiders with potentially lethal bites, giant estuarine crocs and the lethal box jellyfish. And then, of course there are the sharks.

All in all, bird-watching seemed a safe bet. Australia is a paradise for the amateur birder. So many of its 800 feathered species are either very large, or brilliantly coloured, or have recognisable squawks, that even I can confidently identify them with the aid of Simpson and Day’s bird book.

We set off up the Blue Arrow walking trail on Mount Whitfield, a steep, thickly forested hill overlooking Cairns airport. A sign at the foot of the trail advertised the presence of cassowaries in the forest. Exciting news indeed!  A chance to see one of the world’s largest and rarest flightless birds.

Cassowaries are classified as an ‘endangered species’ as so much of their rainforest habitat has disappeared.

Cassowaries could sometimes become aggressive, warned the sign. It advised that, should a less-than-friendly bird be encountered, the correct procedure was to get off the trail and behind a tree.

I had only once seen a cassowary, in the Jurong Bird Gardens in Singapore. The creature was grazing quietly and looked about as threatening as a sheep. Mind you, it was on the other side of a fence at the time.

Climbing steadily, we passed a few bush turkeys and scrub hens busily scratching in the undergrowth. A green light filtered down through the tall trees and giant ferns, their branches thickly entangled with vines. The heavy scent and deep silence of the rainforest wrapped us round. We conversed in whispers.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crashing in the undergrowth. A huge bird burst onto the path ahead. It looked wildly improbable, like something out of a cartoon — a gaudy red and blue head with a bony crest like a dinosaur, a dark, hairy-looking body and outsized feet. And its height! I had failed to grasp the significance of the ‘Size: stands up to 2m,’ in Simpson’s bird book. I now realised that it translated as, ‘A lot bigger than us!’

The bird advanced towards us in a purposeful manner, swinging its head and fixing its great dark eyes upon us.

We knew what the worm must feel like as the blackbird approaches, and lost no time in selecting the largest tree in the immediate vicinity and retiring behind it. There was a noise of dry leaves crackling — we held our breath — the next minute the head of the cassowary appeared round the tree.

Then followed a scene which no doubt would have appeared hilarious to any onlooker, had one been around at the time — two terrified women tearing round and round a tree with a science-fiction creature in hot pursuit.

At the time it didn’t seem so amusing. What exactly did cassowaries do to you, I wondered wildly as I made the seventh circuit. Did they peck you with their sharp beaks, or knock you down and stomp on you with their huge scaly feet, or kick you from here to Hades? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to find out, not if I could help it.  

It became obvious that the cassowary, evidently a practised hand, was prepared to play this game all day. We made a dash for the trail and fled along it with the creature galloping in pursuit. It caught up with my companion and tried to knock her down by buffeting her with its body. Desperate, I landed it one around the head with the only weapon to hand, the bag containing our lunch-time sandwiches.

I think this rash action may have offended the bird, because it diverted its attention to me, lunging repeatedly at my face. I backed away, covering my head with my arms. We continued to stumble backwards as it followed us.

Then, quite suddenly, for no apparent reason it seemed to lose interest, turned away, and pottered off down the trail, no doubt to lie in wait for the next unsuspecting victim who happened along. I could have sworn I heard it sniggering quietly to itself as it disappeared into the jungle.

Later that morning we met a ranger repairing some wooden steps on the trail. That is to say he had been repairing some steps until — wait for it — he’d been chased off by a cassowary!

We told him our story and he had quite a lot to say about our ineptitude and lamentable lack of technique in defusing a cassowary confrontation.

‘You should back away,’ he said, ‘and hold something at arm’s length in case it kicks out. Never run away, that only makes it more aggressive. Better still, sit down.’

Sit down? With a monstrous great bird pounding around? You must be joking, mate.

Later, after I returned to Qatar, I read reports in Queensland newspapers that attacks by this particular bird, a female who apparently answered to the name of Charlie, had continued. One luckless tourist was so terrified that he leapt over the edge of a ravine, doing himself no good at all, and clung to some vines for more than an hour until Charlie got bored and left. Another, a woman, was kicked in the stomach and suffered lacerations from the bird’s razor-sharp claws. Unbelievably, the authorities neither closed the trail nor removed the bird to a remote area of the rain forest where it would not be stressed by humans encroaching on its territory. A year after our scary experience, the problem was solved. The cassowary made the mistake of taking on a pit bull terrier — and lost its head.