UKARUMPA, PNG –

Manmade grasslands cover huge areas of these populated highland valleys. Those patches that have escaped development inside the Ukarumpa center harbor mannikins, fairywrens, and grassbirds.

White-shouldered Fairywrens (Malurus alboscapulatus) are skulkers, but they have a habit of hitching up the grass stalks, which makes them much easier to observe than obsessively shy grassbirds.

Lovely, tinkling songs or dry, staccato chips announce the presence of these hyperactive birds long before they are actually seen.

Hooded Mannikins (or Hooded Munias, if you prefer) are plainer than some of their relatives, but I’ve always liked their clean, classy look.

I counted 73 mannikins here; this was only a portion of the flock.

Mannikins sweep in flocks over the grasses, alighting to scan their surroundings or munch a few seeds before taking off with a rush and a clamor of tiny voices.

UKARUMPA, PNG — The sun came out between downpours, and a familiar, insistent call pulled me out the door. I sat on the decaying concrete steps while mannikins swept like a small chestnut cloud through the kunai.

I have a only few days left here, whether I can believe it or not. I’ve solved so many mysteries with patience and time, but some of them remain, gnawing at my mind.

That is why I went outside — or at least, that was one of the reasons. The call has become quite familiar, but I never saw the body that produced it, not properly. I knew it was the grassbird though, so I suppose it was no longer a mystery. It was instead an unattained challenge.

The grassbirds called at intervals while the jittery mannikins fretted. Brush Cuckoos sang mournfully, and they are another challenge, but a challenge for another day.

The brisk call sounded close, and again I studied the grasses. Then, there, at the edge of a tangle my eyes caught the slightest stirring. Was it …?

Yes, and for the next few moments, I peered as if through a window into the private world of the grassbird. I watched it slipping through the stalks and blades, long tail often cocked a bit, crown red-brown in sun.

The window closed as suddenly as it had opened, as if the dense green growth had absorbed the bird like water into a sponge.

Whether the bird’s first name is Tawny, or Papuan, or something else again, the people who wear labcoats have not made up their minds.

And if the grassbird knows its name, it didn’t tell me this day. It gave me a glimpse of its world instead, and for that gift I’m grateful.

UKARUMPA, PNG — Less than 48 hours ago, I slipped down an impossible track through the foothills of the Torricelli Mountains, hurrying toward the river plain below and the Cessna 206 that was coming to meet me, daring the clouds, racing against the setting sun.

My Pouye companions pointed out footprints left in the soft river sand by cassowaries, feral pigs, and crowned-pigeons. A hornbill whooshed high overhead. As I stumbled over tangled, slimy roots, my hopes for lowland rainforest birds finally slipped away.

The week had been good, but not for birds, and I grappled with disappointment. I don’t know when I’ll ever come back, if I ever do.

“Klostu liklik,” my guides were urging, when a loud rush of wings erupted to our right. “Guria,” said Roland, and I forgot my frustration in that moment, pleading for a chance to see the crowned-pigeons we had flushed.

Leaving the track, creeping through the sparse underbrush, I really let myself believe that I was about to see the enormous, spectacular birds. One man had glimpsed them, and we pressed closer — until another rush of wings knocked aside my hopes as quickly as the mud had taken my feet out from under me.

“Traim tasol,” I said, trying to remain cheerful. But I had no doubt that my only chance was finished. Done. Em tasol.

We trekked on, nearly finished with the grueling hike.

Then, in a moment I did not expect, we heard a rushing sound again. I peered frantically into the vegetation — and then I saw them: four huge blue forms ascending almost vertically into the canopy, more like ghosts than birds.

The minutes that followed were tense as I pulled out my binoculars and followed Roland, wondering whether we’d spot the birds. Alone, I might not have, but the Pouye people know these forests, and their eyes are keen.

In the end, I watched one bird through the leaves and branches, high in a canopy tree. Its size alone was awesome; its blues and maroons were stunning in the muted light.

But the bird’s true glory was its crown, which shimmered and danced as the bird’s head jerked in agitation. Each feather tipped with white, the pigeon seemed to wear a constellation in its hair, stars mounted in a fan of lacy feathers.

Tok Pisin lacks the words to express what I was feeling, and now I think that English fails me too.

The huge blue pigeon in the canopy will not fade quickly from my mind’s dazzled eye.

UKARUMPA, PNG — My birding adventures seem to have consisted of the 60-second variety for days now: The Ornate Melidectes pecking at a spider cocoon until I got too close; the kingfisher flashing blue across the road, gripping an insect; the sweet, sad songs of Brush Cuckoos as I awoke. Tomorrow morning I will set aside the laptop for a whole week and venture into remote and distant Sandaun Province. I’ll be busy even there, but surely there will be time for birds.

Pacific Swallows, Hirundo tahitica, on our clothesline this morning.

UKARUMPA, PNG –

16-hour work days haven’t given me much time for birding this week, but I can still hear the Grey Shrike-thrushes sing and see Pacific Swallows out the windows. The other afternoon, soft, incessant calls alerted me to the presence of Hooded Mannikins (or Hooded Munias, Lonchura spectabilis) on the road outside, and I snapped a quick shot before a stray dog inadvertently scattered the tiny birds.