The Well of Ishrahan

Chapter III:  Unprotected Species

Reported location: N43º 15.3' W000º 33.1' Activity level: 9. Ambient: 21 DegC. Days since reset: 43. Daily VMG: 10.0 km/h

Self-confidence is a wonderful thing. Mine had been growing with every day that passed, so when it came time to cross the next major stretch of water [1] I was more than ready for it. The wind was fair, visibility was good, and the flight took me only a couple of hours with the far shore in sight from the outset. I did not stop but pressed on: south and west as instinct directed: a good day's flying achieved before my next big decision came up.

There were two possible routes: the first, sensible enough, to follow the coastline with all its inlets, hills and valleys, and other terrain. I remembered how much extra time I spent when I had done this before – but there was an alternative: the direct route southwards would save days of extra migration time and there would be no diversions or obstacles to be avoided....

But this meant flying over the ocean itself.

Some preparatory work was in order. I found a rocky cliff and circled high in the updraught it provided. Far below I could see tiny pink humans frolicking on a beach in the late summer sunshine (some turning from pink to red as I watched) and all indulging in their favourite pastime of making as much noise as possible. The sea itself was quiet, with a long rolling swell offshore, and no high cloud patterns that might indicate an imminent change in the situation. All my innate weather-senses combined to tell me that these were perfect conditions for a night flight, and I decided to go for it.

I started from fairly high altitude, going well, for the wind was stronger away from the shore and it was behind me. The sun set early and – bang on schedule – a bright harvest moon rose to light my way. Below me, a small group of seabirds heading in the same direction caught my attention: they were moving much faster than I, and yet only made occasional wing movements to do so. Intrigued, I spiralled down to that level and made an astonishing discovery:-
Just above the sea surface a layer of cooler denser air had formed. By flying along the boundary of this, I got extra lift from my wings – as if a set of springs were pressing me upwards. The horizontal wind shear sent me forwards on what felt like one long continuous glide, but with no loss of height and almost no effort required on my part.

The water was black, and laced with silver shards of moonlight. My free ride southwards continued all night, a strange dream-like progress with no sound but the gentle rush of air over my own feathers. I cannot tell you how much distance I covered, but it was a lot – because as dawn broke, there was high land on the horizon. I turned south-east and headed towards it, crossing the shore around mid-day. A rather special day because, that evening, I caught my first fish - and lost it again.

The brightly-coloured fish was swimming in circles, confined in a small pond set in an immaculately-manicured garden. I grabbed it in a single motion (first time, too!) and perched nearby to eat. A man came out shouting and shaking his fist at me and, startled, I dropped my meal and flew away over the rooftop.

Presumably he wanted the fish for himself. I hope he enjoyed it.

The following morning I headed towards the distant mountains, since there seemed no way to go around them. The land below was green and fertile, with many vineyards on the lower slopes making a striped contrast to the arable fields. By afternoon, these had given way to more open and rugged countryside, with silver-trunked pines predominating.

Ahead, I could see a wide valley leading up towards a pass between several peaks. This was an obvious route as it would require less height gain over the remaining distance – something that is always tiring. I was joined by many other migrant birds, all funnelling up towards the pass: a large flock of swallows passed to my right, moving fast on flickering wings and constantly chittering to each other, the way they do. Larger species: storks, cranes and many raptors, made a more sedate progress but all in the same direction. It was a peaceful and idyllic scene, so when two of the little swallows tumbled and fell, I didn't immediately associate this with the loud bang that had come from the ridge up ahead. 

A sparrowhawk went down next, its wing smashed, and the other birds veered away in a panic. This brought them (and I) towards the west side of the valley and a whole volley of shots rang out. I looked down behind me and saw little puffs of smoke rising from the ground there too: we had flown into a trap and there was no escape! [2]

 I swung away left and drove forward with short wingbeats, losing precious altitude for a gain in forward speed. There was a deafening report below and something fanned across my face. It was clear that remaining in the air was tantamount to suicide and I scanned the rock-strewn hillside below for some kind of refuge as more shots rang out.

Moments later I pitched into a thorny bush just below the top of the reverse slope, weakened with fear. There were several other small birds there – none in much better state than myself – and another osprey, a young adult female. By her accent she might have been from somewhere far to the east and her comments were difficult to understand – not least because she was in a ferment of rage:

“... curse them all with damn! If I could, I would make shit on them from great height... maximum fishy shit, what does never wash out!” She peered down at me. “Do you be injured?”

“I don't think so,” I gasped, “they missed me. But why do they shoot at us, in such a place?”

“Bah!” The female tucked her head in and risked a look back at the shooting line. “Is same every place where mountain make us come low: shoot bird, shoot beast, shoot anything... bastards.”

Minutes passed and then there was a sudden lull in the fusillade above. 

“What is happening now? I can't see...”

She cackled with glee: “One of the fools has shooted himself by drunken accident. He is being helped away and the others put mock on him with gesticulation, the finger right up.”

“I wish they may all shoot themselves, or each other.” I muttered.

“We cannot remain us here. Soon the sun will be away and then they will hunt through tree and bush, kill birds that hide, every one.”

“But WHY?” I asked, “Is it to eat?”

“Not for eat. Just makes kill for enjoy, calling sport... But see now – one has made images of others on small shiny box and all gather to make watch of it. Now is our escaping chance...”

There was a steep v-shaped gulley running down the southern slope, shadowed from the setting sun. We took off together, flying hard down and away. A few desultory shots followed us but already we were almost out of range. The female was larger and stronger than I and soon disappeared into the distance, weaving in and out through the tree-tops. I kept flying while there was still enough light to see before finding a straggly pine to roost in for the night. Huddled close to the trunk and not knowing if there might be unseen hunters behind every bush, I barely slept at all that night.

South of the mountains, the landscape broadened into a vast plain, arid and airless in the late summer heat. The baked ground produced rising columns of air, and I saw large birds taking advantage of these to gain significant altitude with little or no effort, spiralling upwards almost out of sight. Envious of this performance I tried it a few times myself, but our wings do not really have the best shape and profile for soaring flight and I found that it was good fun but not really worth all the trouble and time.[3] Such low level winds as there were still favoured a south-western path and I exploited these instead.

Over the next days I made good progress but I was becoming concerned at having no sight of a coast to follow. My instinctive navigation abilities were improving with each leg of the journey, and I found that I could now get a good positional fix from the sun while in flight – rather than having to wait until it had fully risen. This was an important skill-development: it meant that I could make an earlier start each morning, rest up during the hottest part of the day, and then continue late into the evening before roost. There was only one real problem...

I was getting very thirsty.

As nestlings, we obtain all our water requirements from our food. And in migration mode, my body generated water as a by-product of stored fats being broken down to provide energy for flight. It is a good system but not quite sufficient, and so occasional drinking becomes necessary. And oddly, it was humans (who had done me little good up to now) that provided the answer to this...

As I finally approached the coast in the south-west, I passed over several large patches of ground that did not seem to be farmland, although they were well covered with short-cropped grass in strange linear patterns. I could look down and see, on each pattern, small groups of people waving metal sticks round their heads and cursing audibly. (I had no idea what this activity might be, but by that time I had realised that nothing done by humans made any sense whatsoever.) Occasionally, one of them would push a small white egg into a hole, at which point there would be more swearing and they would give each other money.

The only interesting thing about this whole pantomime was what happened when it was over: once all the people had left in the evening, jets of water would emerge from some hidden source and be sprayed around the entire layout. This was a wonderful discovery: it meant that I could get a drink AND bathe my feathers as well which improved their condition no end. In the same place, I also found some small lakes that contained easily-caught fish – though the fish were woefully small and rather tasteless. Nonetheless I remained there for almost a week, resting up in a small woodland by day. Nobody came near me there and the only danger was of being hit by one of the flying eggs.

The rest was very beneficial but it wasn't bringing me any closer to Ishrahan. All good things must come to an end and, two days later, they did.

The wind changed direction.

Editor's notes:-

[1] The English Channel, presumably.

[2] In southern Europe and around the Mediterranean, the weapon of choice for illegal bird hunting is the 12-gauge repeating shotgun. These cheap and widely-available firearms are made in Turkey and the Middle East, usually incorporating pump action or gas-blowback designs. They hold either 7 or 8 cartridges in a tubular magazine, enabling a withering rate of fire to be maintained.

[3] The efficiency of soaring flight is dependent on several elements in a bird's wing shape and layout. Eagles and vultures have “high lift-to-drag ratio” wings that are lightly loaded at low speeds. Osprey wings have a higher aspect ratio (around 9.2), and a different lift-to-drag factor: these give better performance (higher optimal speed) in flapping flight.