UKARUMPA, PNG — The fog was thick enough that I couldn’t see into the treetops — at least not well enough to make out field marks on small, active birds — so I ignored the lorikeets calling from the schoolyard and headed downhill, hoping that the fog might be lighter by the river.

I saw a Black Kite in the road, and I heard a few Rainbow Lorikeets screeching. Both species seem scarcer than they were in the winter, when the Black Kites were ubiquitous and the lorikeets roosted in noisy flocks, flying in and out each night and morning. Their clamor started before dawn. Now they are present, but they don’t seem to be behaving in quite the same way. Has their roost shifted? Do they act differently in the summer?

Along the road that leads to Ukarumpa village, I encountered two Long-tailed Shrikes. I’d seen them on the roadsides when I was here before, but I’d never had a really good look. They are beautiful shrikes — black-headed with small, stubby bills and gray napes. Their backs are rich red-brown, their breasts gleam white, and their flanks are cinnamon. Their tails are black and are indeed notably longer than those of the North American shrikes. Their flight is recognizably shrike-like, though their tails seem to drag a bit behind them.

An obnoxious dog barked as I went past his home, and when I turned around to go back, I saw him sitting in the muddy road. Wondering what I would do if he decided to do more than bark, I looked instead at a pair of Ornate Melidectes in a low flowering shrub. He barked once or twice, and then ambled off. Good.

Our center isn’t an ideal place to bird, I decided. There are houses everywhere, and I’m just not comfortable staring into people’s yards and gardens with binoculars. Usually, there are lots of people driving and walking along the roads, but Saturday morning seems like the quietest time, though I did encounter several pedestrians along the way. Nevertheless, I saw plenty of the more common passerines as I walked: Pacific Swallows, Gray Shrike-Thrushes, and of course, Willie-wagtails. I heard the mournful, descending whistles of Brown-breasted Gerygones, but (little surprise) never saw any. They are tiny treetop-dwellers and are very hard to find.

In one heavily treed spot, a flock of Rainbow Lorikeets fed high overhead, joined by several Ornate Melidectes. I never could see any of the birds very well — a pity since they’re all so spectacular. Ornate Melidectes remind me of flickers in that they are decorated with a wide variety of seemingly incongruous colors and patterns. Not hearing or seeing anything else in the trees, I continued on my way.

By the time I neared the store, I had started to hear the shrill, high-pitched calls of my presumed Pygmy Lorikeets. I followed the sound until I arrived at the base of two eucalyptus trees. One especially sounded as if it was teeming with the little birds, and I leaned my body against the trunk of the other, prepared to wait until I saw my life bird.

I could see several birds moving, but getting a good look at one was another matter altogether. I concentrated on the lower branches, and I quickly raised my binoculars to a quivering bunch of leaves. Tiny red bill, green body, yellow streaks…. There it was! A Pygmy Lorikeet.

I kept watching, noting flashes of red as one bird flew. I fixed my gaze on another as it crawled through the leaves, feeding on the small white flowers. The yellow streaks on its breast seemed fine enough to have been drawn with a pencil, and the bird’s crown showed hints of red and blue. What a beauty!. Before I left, I saw a Willie-wagtail chase a little male, and as he banked high over my head, his red underwings almost glowed.

I worked my way to the western fence, where I knew I’d have a view of grasslands and perhaps Pied Bushchats. I turned up a grassy track and found myself at the Horse Club, where a small bird landed in a patch of shorter grass. It was streaked, and I figured it was either a pipit or a lark. Working a bit closer, I had only seconds to take in its streaked, whitish breast and pale supercilium. It flew, and I saw narrow white edges to its tail.

When I lowered my binocs, I saw the reason it had flown. Someone was walking toward me across the pasture. He turned out to be a young German teacher (no, not a German teacher — a German teacher), and we talked for a few minutes. But I couldn’t help wishing I’d had a little longer with the bird.

The track I was on quickly deteriorated into a muddy little swamp. I’ve gotten in the habit of wearing socks with sandals here (Who does that?), and my lower extremities were soon very soggy.

I flushed a flock of Hooded Munias ahead of me as I walked. They kept moving just a little bit farther ahead, stopping again on tall grass and the wire fence and always calling in their chiming, squeaky way. Some of the birds were immatures, or so I deduced from their dull brown upper parts and dark masks. A pair of Pied Bushchats appeared a bit farther on, and I had an especially good look at the female, noting her thrush-like face. They do behave something like bluebirds, dropping from perches to catch their prey.

As I was watching the bushchats, I saw a few dark birds in a tree up ahead. They were not attractive — slaty gray above and streaked below with creepy orange eyes. They reminded me of young Singing Starlings, but they seemed dingier with paler eyes, and I didn’t hear their usual loud calls. They had moved on before I got there, and when I consulted with “Birds of New Guinea” later, I didn’t get very far.

Singing Starlings, as I thought, are primarily birds of lower elevations, though the authors allow that they may occasionally reach 1500 meters in mid-montane valleys. We are in a mid-montane valley, but we’re about 1600 meters high. What difference a hundred meters makes to an apparently brash and opportunistic species I cannot say. I can say, however, that nothing else I saw in the book — starling or otherwise — fits the birds I saw.

I had by that point reached the top of the hill, and my descent led through a more heavily treed area. A large bird flew up into a tree as I walked, and when I got closer, I could see it was still there. I raised my binoculars — and recognized the bird instantly. It looked like the Fawn-breasted Bowerbirds I’d seen in Moresby last weekend, but its lemon-yellow belly was immediately apparent. A Yellow-breasted Bowerbird — and now I’ve seen two species!

Then I started hearing a chattering noise — more like the calls of a Sedge Wren than anything else I’d heard — from a hedge nearby. I saw tiny silhouettes flitting through the leaves, and one bird perched for an instant. Its tail was cocked high, and it looked all dark. I followed them a little ways and then lost them. Just as I was about to give up, willing to concede that some mysteries could wait until another day, one popped up in the grass — then another, and another.

Fairywrens. All-black fairywrens with white shoulder patches. They clung to the grass stems, tails cocked straight up over their backs, and one of the little birds seemed to have a white crescent above its eye.

When I got back to the house where I’m staying, I spent a few more moments outside, watching the Pacific Swallows and a swift or two.

It rained the rest of the day, leaving me plenty of time to pore over books. The fairywrens are, to the VAAM’s satisfaction I’m sure, called White-shouldered Fairywrens. The bird in the horseyard, I decided, had to be an Australasian Pipit. It was either that or a Singing Bushlark, and its bill was certainly not stubby and conical like a bushlark’s is said to be. Too, it did not show rufous in its wings, nor did it fly like a moth.

I’m still puzzling over the swifts. I never figured them out last time I was here, and I still haven’t so far. The birds I see here in Ukarumpa fly with somewhat floppy beats, and they glide on tent-shaped wings — quite unlike the rigid beats and bow-shaped wings of the Chimney Swifts back home.

They seem larger than Chimney Swifts to me, and they show pale underparts and flight feathers when the light is right. They never make a sound. They aren’t blue above, and they don’t show any white patches on flanks, rumps, or throats. “Birds of New Guinea” discusses four drab swiftlets: Three-toed (Papuan), Whitehead’s, Uniform, and Mountain swiftlets.

The descriptions are unhelpful: “smaller,” “slighter,” “large-headed.” The species supposedly inhabit different altitudes and ranges, but the descriptions of Papuan and Whitehead’s ranges are sketchy enough not to inspire confidence. If anyone out there has experience with the Aerodramus (sometimes Collocalia) swiftlets, I’m all ears.

UKARUMPA, PNG — I’ve rarely had my binoculars fog as badly or persistently as they did this morning. It must have had something to do with the relatively cool temperatures and high humidity, but it certainly wasn’t helping as I tried to see field marks on the noisy parrots in a distant tree.

I saw a larger shape and assumed it was a Rainbow Lorikeet, but when I got it in the binocs, I saw a dark, stocky body and orange bands across the bird’s breast and belly. It seemed aggressive toward the other birds, spreading its wings and hopping toward them. Then my lenses fogged over completely.

The bird or (more probably) others like it offered me a few more looks, allowing me to see their large orange bills and pale yellow-orange crowns. They were slightly bulkier and shorter-tailed than the Rainbow Lorikeets that also fed in the trees. Their color scheme seemed odd for a parrot, as if they might fit in Halloween or Thanksgiving decorations.

Persistence rewarded me with a few glimpses of the tiny birds. All I could see was green, but there could have been field marks I simply wasn’t able to make out. A couple of times, I thought I saw red underwings when they flew. I think they were about the size of goldfinches.

I checked “Birds of New Guinea” before grabbing a slice of cold homemade pizza and heading for the office. The brown and orange birds were called Dusky Lories, and I began to suspect that the tiny ones were Pygmy Lorikeets.

I’d actually heard the tiny parrots calling on and off since Tuesday, and I knew that the call wasn’t something I’d heard the last time I was here. Nevertheless, it bears a marked resemblance to the calls of larger lorikeets, but with as little as I know that might not mean much of anything.

Pygmy Lorikeets are mostly green with red underwings (males), and they live in the mountains. Pygmy-parrots and the Papuan Hanging-Parrot are primarily lowland species with different behavior.

But, I think it’s worth waiting to see if I get a better look before I write them down. As you may recall, I thought I had Dusky Lories near Madang last year, but today’s looks were satisfying at last. May it be so for the Pygmy Lorikeets!

PORT MORESBY, PNG — I knew they’d be life birds if only I could find them, but I just couldn’t see the calling birds. Where were they? What were they?

I woke suddenly, but the musical calls didn’t stop. Maybe there was still a chance!

Two small doves sat on the wires close to a power pole. I quickly took in their gray, black-barred bodies, including the barring on their necks and upper breasts. Peaceful Doves! One of the birds leaned forward, neck inflated slightly, and then I realized that the doves were the source of the calls I’d heard even before I awoke.

I lingered outside, wishing I weren’t confined by the fence topped with barbed wire — or more precisely, by the concerns that had helped to put it there. The little doves came and went, landing for a few moments at a time on the wires before disappearing again into thick trees across the street.

Once, a pair flew over, and I could see constrasting dark underwing coverts, though against the bright sky I couldn’t discern the reddish color.

Another time, two birds landed together on the wire, and the male (or so I guessed) approached the female, bowing and flaring his tail to expose the white feather tips. He gave a soft, purring coo that rose and fell in pitch, quite different from the endlessly repeated louder calls.

Why were they silent yesterday but so insistently vocal today?

House Sparrows squirmed around in the trees and shrubs, and I saw a Yellow-tinted Honeyeater or two. Torresian Crows honked in the distance, and I saw one flying high and very far away.

BOROKO, PNG — The first thing I noticed, as I drifted awake this first morning in another world, was the paucity of birdsong. Traffic roared outside, and the ceiling fan whooshed and squealed continually.

But aside from distant snatches of Willie-wagtail song, the avian world was silent.

I spent some time just looking out the windows, but I saw a very few birds: House Sparrows, two woodswallows, and one Willie-wagtail.

Shortly after eight, a strange screeching started up outside my window. I paid little attention at first because I didn’t think the sounds were actually coming from birds. The noise didn’t stop, so I went to the window to check it out.

Two birds flew through the branches, and I knew almost immediately that they weren’t parrots, which had been my guess based on the raucous sounds. I got my binoculars on one of the birds: a largish passerine with a stout black bill and pale cinnamon underparts. Proportionally, it had a longer neck and a smaller head than most songbirds do, and its big black eye was set in a streaked, brownish face. The birds’ upperparts were drab and streaked, as were their upper breasts.

After I’d watched them moving around a bit, they went out of sight, but the squawking didn’t stop. I hurried outside to watch them some more, and there I could see that there were four or more in the tree. They didn’t stay still for long, and I never could make out what they were actually doing. I didn’t see them eating anything, and they didn’t appear to interact much with each other.

I knew they weren’t honeyeaters, and the only thing I could think of was bowerbirds. But I had never imagined bowerbirds 1. in the treetops or 2. in a city. In a few more minutes, the birds had moved out of sight, and I went inside to get breakfast.

Breakfast done, I returned to my room to research. I found the species easily enough: Fawn-breasted Bowerbird. Cool!

As the morning went on, I watched two Willie-wagtails swooping around a bougainvillea, their black-and-white plumage contrasting sharply with the bright magenta blooms.

A woodswallow landed on a powerline, its bill clamped firmly on a large sphinx moth. The moth seemed to be half the bird’s size, and I wondered what the bird was going to do with the creature, now that it was caught. The process wasn’t quick, but eventually, the bird managed to remove all four wings, getting its face covered with dusty scales as it worked.

Once it got down to the cigar-shaped body, the situation looked more hopeful, but the body was still too large to be swallowed. The bird was not equipped to hold the moth between its feet and tear off pieces, so it shook the body around and knocked against the arm of a telephone pole. It sat for long moments not doing anything, just looking around with the corpse still held firmly in its blue-gray bill.

Eventually, after it had torn off and swallowed a few smaller pieces, it maneuvered what was left of the abdomen and started gulping. It took a little while, but finally the whole thing was down, and the bird sat still, looking around and bobbing its tail in satisfaction.

BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA — With plenty of time before my plane to Moresby, I decided to wander around the international terminal, staring out at any greenspace I could find. The day was gray and wet, which made the rich and varied greens even more beautiful. On my last trip through Brisbane, everything had been dry and brown. The swallows I remembered from last year were not nesting under the building’s eaves. I suppose it’s the wrong time of year for them.

A couple of Australasian Magpies hunted around on the ground, and one had a grayish nape and grayish scaling on the back. I wasn’t sure whether it was of another race from the birds I’d seen in Sydney or whether it was an immature. Subsequent research told me that it was a young bird.

A few windows down, I hit the jackpot. The trees outside were flowering, and a small flock of Rainbow Lorikeets clambered among the branches, feeding. Their brilliant reds, blues, greens, and yellows nearly took my breath away, but this time I had the presence of mind to observe their blue bellies — something the birds in PNG do not have.

Noisy Miners and small, spunky honeyeaters fed in the trees as well. The little honeyeaters were plain brownish-gray with blurry streaking on their breasts, pale bellies, and a small pale mark behind the eye. They were very active and seemed to spend most of their time chasing each other around.

I thought one of the lorikeets looked mostly green, and I finally got a good look at it. Its bill and eyes were red, and it had a few yellow feathers scattered on its back and flanks. I saw red underwings once when it flew, and its crown seemed a vaguely bluish-green, but otherwise it was quite plain compared to its larger companions.

Movement down in the parking lot caught my eye, and I was amazed to see a spectacular pigeon wandering along the sidewalk. Its head was topped with a tall, slender black crest, and its eyes and feet were red. Its head and breast were grayish, but its shoulder showed a pink tinge, and its wings were barred with black and edged with white. I saw it fly, and when it landed, it bobbed once, tipping its long tail forward.

A bird whose back was a most extraordinary shade of yellow-green perched in a tree at about eye level (I was on the second floor). Its head was black and white, and the bulging skin around its eyes was spectacular shades of blue. When it turned its head, I saw a bright yellow eye, but the side that was facing me seemed disfigured. The place where its eye should have been was covered over completely with blue skin. The bird preened, stretched, and flew.

I could tell it was a honeyeater, and I remembered seeing its picture in a book but couldn’t think of the name. I saw a few more before I left the airport, a couple flying over and another bird (this one healthy) perched in a tree. It was at a slighly different angle, allowing me to see the black throat that bled down onto the bird’s white breast.

A couple of Australian Ibises flew over, and then I saw two Crested Pigeons fly to the top of a tall light pole. The second bird approached the other slowly with his tail held high, bowing deeply and repeatedly as he walked. Then they took off again, flapping, gliding, flapping, gliding.

On the way back toward my own gate, I saw a black-and-white bird in a tree and at first carelessly identified it as a another magpie. But it had white collar and breast and a black hood. Its tailfeathers were lined with white, and its bill was long and heavy. It had to be one of the butcherbirds — and a Pied Butcherbird it was.

At the opposite end of the terminal, I watched a few Spotted Doves and more Crested Pigeons feeding on the ground. I saw a Magpie-lark, and I knew it was a female because of the vertical, not horizontal pattern of black and white on her face. A few House Sparrows moved about the bushes.

Soon enough, it was time to board the plane. I was quite pleased to have seen four life birds without ever leaving the terminal: Brown Honeyeater, Scaly-breasted Lorikeet, Crested Pigeon, and Blue-faced Honeyeater.

PORT MORESBY, PNG — Buffy-plumed Cattle Egrets flew along the runway as we taxied toward the airport. Familiar heat, smells, and sights greeted me as we deplaned and made our way through customs, and the rich, lazy phrases of a Willie-wagtail seemed the ideal music on a such a humid afternoon.

I saw a dove fly up to a low perch as we drove. It was small and slender, and I knew it was a species I hadn’t seen. I didn’t have time for binoculars, so I hoped for the best as we drove past. It flushed, flashing white edges on its tail.

When I arrived at my accomodations, I was anxious to wash off my 35 hours of travel. But on my way to the shower, I persistent call alerted me to a White-breated Woodswallow on the powerline outside, just as I’d anticipated. A quick look wouldn’t hurt, I decided, so I went back for my binoculars.

The bird’s plumage was edged with gray and white — it was only a youngster.

Later in the afternoon, I took time to look up the dove I’d seen. Two smallish, pale species live here. The Bar-shouldered Dove approaches a Mourning Dove in size and has rufous flight feathers. The Peaceful Dove is 7 or 8 inches long and has rufous only on the underwings. They differ in other ways too, but none that would be visible with the kind of look I had.

I saw the bird’s upperside as it flew, and I did not see any rufous coloration. I wasn’t looking for it, but in my experience with Inca Doves and ground-doves, the color really stands out, even in brief glimpses of a flying bird. Also, despite the dangers of judging absolute size, I’m quite certain the bird I saw was very small.

But I haven’t decided whether to put it down yet. Maybe I’ll see another one — better.