The hunt for Al-Xenaida
by Anthony McGeehan
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Mourning Dove, Inishbofin Island, Co. Galway, November 2007 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan).
A story always goes with the finding of a rare bird. Sometimes published accounts skip the turn of events surrounding the bird’s discovery and concentrate on tedious descriptive details. For something as distinctive as a Mourning Dove there was never going to a prize for identification perception, although it was important to try and establish the bird’s age (see below). I had been on Inishbofin for part of October and got into the habit of keeping a diary, mainly to link weather conditions to migration. Little did I know what lay ahead in the final chapter. Only through a convulsion of luck did I happen to be on hand when the bird appeared. The following excerpt was written as events unfolded, its conclusion worryingly unclear until the very end. ‘Friday 2 November. Low cloud and grey, dreary light. SE wind. Lying under a duvet and waiting for signs of daylight, it took just three calls to get me outdoors. A Robin ticked, Siskins twittered and then a Yellow-browed Warbler hit high notes just outside the bedroom window. As ever with this magical island, there was hardly time to wonder if there might be something fresh in, when a male Blackcap flitted past. A Willow Warbler (rare in November) was nearby and by dusk the warbler totals stood at seven Chiffchaffs and five Blackcaps. That made 15 individuals of four species. The day went well, despite not rising above an enjoyable mix of common migrants. When, about 1700hrs, I flushed a dapper male Brambling from a crop patch which perched and gave perfect views, I named it Bird of the Day. I hurried on, walking briskly along the road above Lough Teampaill, keen to squeeze birding time from the embers of daylight. I was trying to reach Regina’s garden before dark, thinking that there might be just enough time to glimpse warblers making final insect sorties before going to roost. Coming fast towards me but dropping low and out of sight, I saw what I speculated might be a Rock Dove. Its fast erratic flight said pigeon but I sensed that, if I saw it again, it could prove to be something else; maybe nothing more than a kamikaze Blackbird zooming off to bed. I was, nonetheless, curious. I got to the top of a rise and there it was – standing in the middle of the road about 30 metres ahead. Before raising binoculars I hoped that its small size was going to materialise into a Turtle Dove – new for Inishbofin – but as soon as I looked I knew what I beheld. The pointed tail, short red legs and especially the big black ‘fingerprints’ on the rear of its folded wings screamed MODO! That second was a long one. In the space of it, I switched from Turtle Dove to Mourning Dove and experienced a pulse-rate rise from average to imminent coronary. I had a new bird for Ireland parked on the road in front of me. I suppose a kind of panic set in. I desperately wanted to get a picture – but in semi-darkness? I needed to reconfigure the ISO setting on the camera in order to boost shutter speed. I heard voices. People were on the road ahead of me and any moment now would walk around a bend and almost step on the dove. I shouted but it was too late; it sprang into flight with the speed of a clay pigeon. I fired the camera in what I knew was a vain, futile attempt to immortalise an epic rarity. As the group filed past me– virtually the only human beings I had seen all afternoon – I was in meltdown. I should have been in seventh heaven but it felt more like purgatory. The prize had been snatched away. It had flown off in the direction I was walking, so I continued. Incredibly, it had settled beyond the bend. Proving that cruelty can be limitless, this time a cat was stalking it. In a flash, the cat saw me and bolted. That action panicked the dove and it was off again, hanging right and dropping out of sight towards the hostel. I didn’t pursue it, preferring instead to leave it in peace and pray that I might relocate it tomorrow. Writing these
words hours later, I don’t know why I am not in a celebratory
mood. I saw it briefly but well enough to identify it. Surprisingly,
the hopelessly blurred photographs – handheld at one eighth
of a second – show enough information to confirm the identification.
I guess that I am less than ecstatic because, when you wait 40
years for such moments to arrive, you want them to consist of
something better than 40 seconds of blind panic. Saturday 3 November. Total overcast and perfectly calm. It was a night of one long post-mortem. Sometime in the wee small hours I became completely satisfied with the ability of my three photographs to resolve the indisputable image of a Mourning Dove. I started remembering Photoshop settings to boost shadows and bring up contrast. In my mind’s eye I could visualise the bird’s outline popping into a recognizable figure with short sandgrouse legs and a spiked appendage for a tail. There would be sufficient detail to upgrade it from smoke to substance. Job done, I began to pore over tactics for daybreak. Should I position myself on a height and hope to see it fly from roost and return roughly to where I last saw it? What, exactly, was it up to on the road? If it were digesting grit, then maybe it would not return to a particular spot. Was the best policy to walk and walk and hope that our paths crossed once more? At 0730hrs the calls of two Yellow-browed Warblers were almost ignored. Regina’s trees would have to wait. It felt like heresy, but nothing mattered until there was a conclusion to the hunt for Al-Zenaida. I walked slower than the pace of American tourists and made long sweeping scans over roads, telegraph wires, stone walls and fence posts. It was a rare morning of perfect calm. Calls could be heard at long range. One call that will forever transport me back to childhood drifted from afar. An unseen Great Northern Diver was wailing from somewhere on the sea between Inishbofin and Inishlyon. I have heard the sound just twice before in Ireland, each time on flat calm November mornings. The eerie yet beautiful call formed a backdrop in Tales from the Riverbank, the TV of my toddlerhood. What a time to hear it again. Redwings, Fieldfares, a pair of Bramblings, and two apiece of Chiffchaff and Blackcap were the pick of migrants making their way through East Quarter. Now events overtook solo birdwatching. The Island Discovery had been chartered and was due at 0945hrs. At 1000hrs a 50-strong column of birders filled the road at Regina’s garden gate. Thus far, my searching had been in vain. Could reinforcements find it? Like a cell-dividing bacterium the posse split and headed in more and more directions at successive road junctions. With troops deployed and six hours at our disposal, surely somebody would bump into it? That depending on it still being alive. Well, it was. At the Clossy road junction I was with a splinter group that had turned right. Scouts among those that had turned left contained Michael O’Keefe who struck off on an unknown bearing. From an invisible location in West Quarter he phoned Seamus Enright who passed on the happy news that lit up my world. What followed was a gravitational surge in the direction of others who had line of sight of Michael. It took ten minutes of speed walking to reach him along the track leading to the construction site of the new airstrip. And there it was, a phantom no more, the first transatlantic arrival at Inishbofin’s Mourning Dove International Airport. What a moment.’
Mourning Dove, Inishbofin Island, Co. Galway, November 2007 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan).
Ireland’s first Mourning Dove becomes the sixth for the Western Palearctic. The first was on the Isle of Man on 31st October 1989. Subsequently, others have occurred on Vestmannaeyar, Iceland, on 19th October 1995; Corvo, Azores, on 2nd November 2005; and North Uist, Outer Hebrides, Scotland, from 14th-16th November 1999. Just a day before the bird on Inishbofin, the second for the Outer Hebrides was found at Carnach. However, once local inhabitants on both Inishbofin and Carnach saw the birds, they were able to amend the arrival dates for both. Apparently, the Carnach individual was first seen on 29th October, which also proves to be the likely first date for Inishbofin’s Mourning Dove. It was seen on gravel beside his house by Pete Tierney. He was so impressed with the bird’s novelty that he fetched binoculars and then a camera. Once he opened a window to take a picture the dove immediately flew off. Nevertheless, there appears to be no doubt over his observation. Interestingly, over the time of its stay, the dove was not seen again anywhere near his house, which lies close to the sea on the northwest-facing side of Inishbofin. In other words, a part of the island where the bird may have made its first landfall. Quite why it shifted is unclear, although the presence of cats is a likely factor. The weather in late October was most suitable for a transatlantic crossing from 27th onwards. From this date until 29th October, Ireland and Britain became unsettled in a strong westerly airflow, especially along western coasts of Scotland and northwest Ireland, both of which received wind and rain. Prophetically, the strongest winds recorded in UK were gusts of up to 60 miles per hour at Stornoway, Outer Hebrides (on 26th October). The weather settled down again after 29th October.
Synoptic chart of the Atlantic, for 28th October 2007.
Mourning Doves breeding in southern Canada – the species’ northern limit – move south in late autumn, presumably doing so once winter bites. The occurrence dates for vagrants that have reached the Western Palearctic seem to indicate that some birds are comparatively late migrants. Although they are one of the rarest Nearctic landbirds recorded on this side of the North Atlantic, the species was jointly the fourth most common North American passerine recorded over 100 voyages made by Alan Durand between New York and London (at all seasons) from 1961 to 1965. He recorded a total of 14 individuals, albeit comprising just four instances of birds arriving at sea. A species with an identical tally was Blackpoll Warbler. Bruce Mactavish, who is occasionally at sea for weeks at a time up to 150 miles east of Newfoundland, has recorded several Mourning Doves both over-flying and landing on board ship; those that settled later flew away from the ship. Once juvenile Mourning Doves moult, they strongly resemble adults. Presumably, they undergo a fairly complete moult of body plumage, replacing virtually all juvenile feathers that might have been a handy guide to their ‘first-winter’ age. By autumn, ageing is best done by referring to wing moult. Adults have a full set of fresh primaries, whereas first-winters show a contrast of old juvenile outer primaries (just the outermost two) against newer, less worn primaries. Looking at flight photographs taken by Fergus Ahern and Michael O’Keeffe (see this page) it seems that such a moult contrast exists – making the bird a first-winter. The same age classification applies to all three Mourning Doves recorded in Great Britain and also Iceland (I have no information on the age of the bird from the Azores). A photograph of the Mourning Dove at Carnach taken by Andrew Lawson on www.surfbirds.com shows the bird’s outer two primaries protruding slightly at rest. The difference in wear between these feathers and the remainder is obvious. Mourning Doves have 14 tail feathers. The central pair is distinctly longer than the rest. Given the species’ low centre of gravity and ground-hugging propensities it is not surprising that its beautiful tail feathers come in for a fair degree of wear. The Isle of Man individual had one central tail feather missing and another undergoing replacement. In its published account, a comment was made referring to the condition of both the Manx bird’s tail and the state of wear noted on specimens housed at Tring Museum. The text states: ‘Some of the tail feathers were quite worn, but there are late-autumn specimens at Tring with very abraded tails.’ Sadly, the Inishbofin Mourning Dove was minus a tail few feathers. Given the fortuitous combination of weather and joint occurrence with another on the Outer Hebrides, its gappy tail cannot be regarded as having any bearing on the bird’s wild provenance. Even had it landed on a ship, there is no reason to think that it would have been confined there, leading to damaged plumage. We will never know how it came to be without some tail feathers. However, on two occasions cats endeavoured to catch it. Maybe it had a closer call than we think? References Acknowledgements Anthony
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