Chapter Ten

Night Whispers

T
o my delight, darkness gave way to sunshine as I embarked at dawn
on my first day of monitoring and caring for the recently released
Hawaiian Crows. After the previous evening’s damp gloom, I had
wondered if the sun ever penetrated the cloud forest or if we would reside in
a permanent fog. Garbed against the still-dripping vegetation in boots that
weren’t quite as waterproof as the manufacturer claimed, heavily patched
rain pants, and a raincoat, I carried my binoculars strapped to my chest
in a protective case, my radio-telemetry receiver looped over a shoulder,
and a communication radio attached to my waist. In my hands, I clutched
my field notebook, my Yagi antenna, and a cup of coffee. Tasked with
monitoring the three female ‘Alalā, I programmed one of their transmitter
frequencies into my receiver.
Developed in the 1960s, VHF (very high frequency) radio telemetry
has long been an essential tool for wildlife research and conservation. After
a transmitting device with a unique radio frequency is attached to (or
inserted in) an animal, a researcher uses a special receiver and an antenna to
track the pulsed signals (VHF radio waves in the range of 30–300 MHz)
emitted by the transmitter.1 Knowing how important radio tracking was
for wildlife biologists, I had relished learning how to track birds in Idaho,
and I had been equally glad that the Snake River Canyon had provided such
a challenging environment in which to perfect my new skill.
Holding my Yagi horizontally, I slowly moved it to the left and right.
Listening intently, I noted the point where the beeps that emanated from
my receiver were the loudest, since that would be the direction in which I

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would find my birds. When I moved the front of the Yagi away from the
direction where the signal was the loudest, the sound faded. But radio
waves bounce off trees and vegetation, as they do off cliffs and rock, which
can mislead a radio tracker. So, for good measure, I checked for the signal
behind me, as well. As expected, I heard a fairly strong signal from that
direction, too, but the arc of sound was much narrower than the arc of
sound in front of me, meaning that what I was hearing behind me was a
“back signal” and that my crows were, indeed, up ahead. Judging by the
strength of their signals, they were quite close, and I set off in pursuit.
The captive-reared ‘Alalā were exploring their dense forest home ever
more widely, continuously pushing the boundaries of their known universe.
By tracking them and observing their activities, we could make sure they
were behaving the way healthy, wild juvenile Hawaiian Crows should. As
I clambered over moss-covered logs and pushed through wet ferns and
grasses, heading toward my birds, two of the ‘Alalā unexpectedly found
me, winging over my head as they flew to the aviary for a morning meal.
Lōkahi and Hiwahiwa landed on the aviary netting with a great flapping
of wings, and then I heard Hoapili’s high-pitched call as she arrived in the
wake of the more dominant birds. Despite her slightly smaller size, Hoapili
more than compensated for her inferior stature by having the loudest voice
and using it the most often. She seemed to resonate with indignation at
being left behind again. Not only were subordinate crows slower to mature
vocally than more dominant birds, but they also retained their pink mouth
linings—an indication of juvenile status that would turn black with age—
longer than their more dominant counterparts.2 Landing next to the other
females, which were now tugging at the netting, Hoapili shuddered her
folded wings, lowered her head, and begged plaintively for a handout from
her industrious nestmates.
Ignoring Hoapili, Lōkahi walked around on top of the aviary then flew
over to a feeding tray. Hiwahiwa followed, landing briefly on the adjacent
scale perch before hopping onto the tray. Raising my binoculars, I managed
to read the 495 grams (approximately 1 pound) that registered on the scale.
To my relief, the busy ‘Alalā paid no attention to my presence or my fumbling
activities. After feeding on a mix of papaya, egg, dead mice (that thankfully
were supplied to us), and dog kibble, which we had put out for them earlier
that morning, Hiwa and Lōkahi flew over to the trees bordering the aviary’s
south side. Hoapili, meanwhile, flew to the food tray, landing on the scale
just long enough for me to register her weight: 480 grams.

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A faint but persistent beeping suddenly intruded on my absorption in

the birds’ activities. I looked around in confusion for a moment before
realizing that the noise came from the timer on my watch, which I had
programmed to go off at designated intervals so that I could conduct our
requisite behavioral “scans.” Rather than recording our birds’ activities
throughout the day, as I had done with peregrines in Wyoming, we were
tasked only with monitoring our ‘Alalā for several hours each morning and
evening, documenting their behavior in ways that would allow researchers
to quantify the amount of time that the birds engaged in specific activities.
Every fifteen minutes, for a two-hour period, we recorded the behav-
ior of each crow that we had in view. Recording data at designated times
reduced bias because it forced us to objectively document the activities in
which our birds were engaged, rather than allowing us to inadvertently note
those behaviors that most captured our attention. Biologists overseeing the
‘Alalā’s recovery would use this information to determine the percentage of
time our introduced crows spent foraging, preening, playing, or engaged
in other activities.3 These data could then be compared to the behavior of
wild ‘Alalā to determine whether our youngsters were behaving as expected.
In addition to recording each crow’s activities every fifteen minutes, we
also estimated each bird’s distances from the other ‘Alalā and from the aviary.
Our estimated distances between the ‘Alalā would allow biologists to evalu-
ate the juvenile crows’ interactions with their flock members, as well as with
any adult ‘Alalā they encountered. And by noting our birds’ distances from
the aviary, researchers could quantify the young birds’ eventual dispersal
from the release site and better understand our ‘Alalā’s path to independence.
Jotting down the time and the word scan in my field notebook, I noted
that Hoapili was still feeding at the food tray. A glance with my binoculars
revealed that Lōkahi was clinging to a tree trunk, chipping away bark to
reveal hidden spiders, pill bugs, or other insects. Hiwa, meanwhile, was
poking her beak into a clump of leaves a few feet from Lōkahi. I was aston-
ished at how instinctively and naturally the birds foraged despite having
been in the wild such a short time, and without the benefit of parents whose
behaviors they could mimic. After guesstimating the distances that sepa-
rated the three females and the distances between each of the birds and the
aviary, I returned, with some relief, to recording the birds’ general activities.
Between our every-fifteen-minute scans, we transcribed the ‘Alalā’s doings
much as I had done with my peregrines.4 This continuous (or ad libitum)
data sampling during our observation periods allowed us to capture social

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interactions among ‘Alalā as well as any interesting activities that might be

missed by the scan samples.5
Shortly after I conducted my first scan, Lōkahi and Hiwa left their
tree, calling loudly as they disappeared into the forest. Their vocalizations
belatedly alerted Hoapili, who looked up abruptly from the food tray then
launched herself in pursuit. Late again. But at least Hoapili could fly swiftly
over the dense foliage and treacherous terrain through which I struggled.
I had been warned to proceed carefully since the mosses and ferns that
enveloped my path might cover the weak or pockmarked roof of an ancient
lava tube, formed when molten lava flowed beneath the cooler, hardened
surface of a lava flow. Falling into one of these cavernous tunnels was one of
the lesser-known but no less forbidding ways a volcano could kill or maim.
Those admonitions surfaced disquietingly in my mind as I followed the
voice trails of the ‘Alalā through the forest.
Periodically, the trees gave way to grassy clearings that eased my awkward
pursuit of the crows and delighted me with their verdant, sunlit beauty. They
seemed designed to provide respite and tranquility, the way a well-placed
bench might prompt a welcome break on an arduous mountain trail. As a
small child growing up in Switzerland, I had followed my American father
on walks through forests that cloaked the slopes of the Alps, and discovered
similar clearings. He had mesmerized his wide-eyed daughter with tales of
the quiet spaces coming to life at night as fairies glided down moonbeams
and small forest creatures gathered around rings of toadstools. And while
I hardly expected the dust motes and pollen that danced in the Hawaiian
sunbeams to come to life, the clearings held a touch of magic, and the ‘Alalā
that paused in them to walk single file along a moss-covered log or rest in an
adjacent ‘ōhi‘a provided a special brand of enchantment.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, though, these moss-and-grass-carpeted
glades were the unwelcome and inglorious work of introduced cattle and
feral pigs that had once grazed, trampled, and uprooted the native vegeta-
tion. And while the subsequent barren areas had eventually developed into
patches of pleasing greenery, the former ecological function of these areas,
and the fruits and fibers that once fed and sheltered the forest’s avian deni-
zens, were irrevocably diminished.
Studies in the 1970s and 1980s found that ‘Alalā occurred and nested
in highest densities in closed-canopy koa–‘ōhi‘a forests with native
understories—an already scarce habitat type that became ever rarer in the
ensuing decades. ‘Alalā densities were lower when understories had a mix

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of introduced and native plants, and lower still when understories were
comprised solely of exotic species. Reduced ‘Alalā densities likely reflected
a loss of food plants in increasingly disturbed areas.6
Aside from providing less food, forest clearings also posed a hidden threat
to the ‘Alalā. The only predator to prey on full-grown crows—the Hawaiian
Hawk, or ‘Io—capitalized on the greater visibility of open areas when it
hunted introduced rodents, game birds, and, occasionally, the native ‘Alalā.7
The ‘Io’s opportunism and the loss of the Hawaiian Crow’s protective cover
likely disrupted the historic balance between hunter and hunted. And while
the hawk benefited, the crow skidded inexorably toward extinction.
Lulled by Hawai‘i’s illusory beauty and unaware of these concerns, I
followed the female ‘Alalā and recorded their activities for the rest of the
observation period. The trio perched close together and gently preened one
another’s heads, hammered like woodpeckers at the giant hāpu’u ferns, and
clambered around the treetops like primates, in search of insects and berries.
Too soon, my morning observations ended, and I rejoined Kurt, who had
been monitoring Kēhau and Mālama, for a hearty breakfast at the trailer.
Unlike the intensive field schedules I had become accustomed to over
the previous few years, our daily routine was comparatively undemanding.
Although we often observed the crows opportunistically throughout the
day because of our proximity to them, our relatively short observation ses-
sions were an attempt to balance keeping an eye on the birds with freeing
them from disturbance. In between our formal observations, we cleaned
the birds’ feeding trays, prepared their food, filled up water containers, put
out tubs so the birds could bathe, collected fruiting branches to attach to
the aviary decking, entered our data, and had some personal time to rest,
read, and, in my case, run.
As I prepared for my first run, after digesting a late breakfast, the sun
gave way to clouds that materialized like a conclave of shadowy forms
emerging from invisibility cloaks. The white vapor coalesced around me
until I was ensconced in moving mist. A bit daunted by the vertical terrain,
I set off slowly down the steep track that led away from camp, dreading the
unforgiving uphill that would constitute my return journey. The opaque
fog was slightly disorienting. I felt as if I’d taken up residence in a cloud. I’d
imagined it would be softer—and drier, of course. But despite the penetrat-
ing dampness and the accompanying chill, being surrounded by the drifting
brume was ineffably alluring. It felt surreal, evanescent, as though my sur-
roundings—and the world—were in constant, gentle motion. Comforting

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rather than foreboding. Slightly bewildering, but subtly bewitching. With

visibility reduced to the few feet of dirt roadway and bordering greenery that
unfurled slowly in front of me, I ran as though in a dream, with tiny dewy
droplets continually, almost imperceptibly sprinkling my eyelids. The chill,
the fog, the misting rain lasted until nightfall—until after we’d watched our
five murmuring crows settle down to sleep in adjacent trees—then bright
stars appeared in the skies, preparing us for another sunny morning.
Among the world’s most imperiled ecosystems, tropical montane and
submontane cloud forests comprise less than 3 percent of tropical forests
worldwide and about one-tenth of 1 percent of the Earth’s land surface.
These species-rich forests, which often are endemism hotspots, are disappear-
ing at a faster rate than their better-known lowland rainforest counterparts.
Cloud forests on isolated volcanic mountains—particularly on small oceanic
islands—may be especially vulnerable to both overt human destruction and
more subtle but pervasive anthropogenic pressures like climate change, which
may promote shifts in atmospheric circulation patterns, along with concomi-
tant changes in rainfall, cloud cover, humidity, and hurricane frequency.
Cloud forests occur where warm, wind-driven masses of air and water
vapor—formed by water evaporating off the surface of the sea or land—cool
and condense into clouds when they encounter mountains. Typically found
in a relatively narrow altitudinal zone, cloud forests are characterized by
low-level, persistent or seasonal cloud cover that reduces solar radiation.
The clouds envelop the forests’ distinctive vegetation, which often consists
of dense stands of stunted, gnarled, broad-crowned trees and a profusion of
epiphytes, including bromeliads, mosses, lichens, and ferns. Although cloud
forests may receive significant rainfall, they are unique in receiving much
of their water from the canopy’s interception of cloud moisture—and are
sometimes referred to as cloud strippers. Cloud moisture captured by leaves
and branches drips to the ground, increasing the net precipitation the forests
receive and adding to groundwater and streamflow levels. Often found at
higher elevations and on steep slopes with waterlogged organic soils, cloud
forests play an important role in erosion control and watershed protection.8
—

Although the infrequent sunshine and unfamiliar cloud-forest weather

patterns were an ongoing adjustment for me, the vocal ‘Alalā quickly lulled
me into complacency. On my third morning, I left my bulky tracking gear
behind since the birds seemed to commentate on their activities in such

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exuberantly loud voices that they were easy to find. I was following the males,
while Kurt monitored the females. The two groups still spent portions of
their days apart but were interacting more, particularly as they settled down
to roost. After leaving the aviary area after their morning feed, Mālama and
Kēhau set a blistering pace, moving every few minutes and flying farther and
farther afield. Pushing through a web of vegetation, I stumbled after them.
Hearing the males nearby, I paused to catch my breath and spied the two
compadres perched on a high branch. Kēhau held a large stick in his beak
and jerked his head away from Mālama, who tried repeatedly to grab the
irresistible toy. Hopping along the furrowed branch, Kēhau sought to put a
little distance between his prize and his acquisitive sibling. Mālama hopped
after him and then quickly opened his wings in pursuit when Kēhau left the
tree to fly in a wide circle. Landing on a stout ‘ōhi‘a branch, Kēhau again
brandished his stick, but, after a moment, Mālama got distracted by a cluster
of the tree’s red, fairy-duster blossoms. Perhaps tiring of a possession that
was no longer in demand, Kēhau soon dropped his stick and nibbled leaves.
My own respite was short-lived. Soon the birds were on the move again.
And again. Hastily, I followed until I was far enough away from the avi-
ary to feel a twinge of fear. I had paid little attention to my surroundings
in my heedless pursuit of Kēhau and Mālama. What if I couldn’t find my
way back? There were no obvious landmarks under the forest canopy, no
boulders that might serve as beacons to guide me back along the flounder-
ing path I had forged. No distant mountains helped provide a direction.
No trickling streams served as boundary markers. And now my crows had
fallen uncharacteristically silent. I stood in a stillness broken only by the
squeaking, chirping calls of a Hawai‘i ‘Elepaio—a diminutive, unbearably
cute, brown-and-white Hawaiian flycatcher, with a rust-colored chest,
checkered wings, and a stiffly cocked tail—that was one of the area’s most
endearing native songsters.
Rather than press on in search of the suddenly elusive ‘Alalā, I decided to
try to return to the aviary to retrieve my telemetry equipment. No matter
how far the crows ranged, if I could pick up their transmitter signals, I knew
they would eventually lead me back to camp when they returned to feed.
The raucous sound of the wild ‘Alalā calling nearby also reliably sent our
charges fleeing back to the relative safety of their home base, since the adults
often chased and harassed the youngsters. As I retraced my steps, I flushed
a crimson ‘Apapane from the low branch of an ‘ōhi‘a. The most abundant
of Hawaii’s unique honeycreepers, the nectar-sipping ‘Apapane feeds from

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‘ōhi’a blossoms, whose vibrant red the bird mimics. Turning toward me, the
bird displayed its sharp, slightly decurved bill, then raised its tail, flashed its
dark wings and white undertail, and disappeared behind a tree fern. Lower-
ing my binoculars, I resumed walking, and soon came across an old grassy
road I hadn’t seen before. It headed in the right direction and provided
obstacle-free travel, so I followed it. To my surprise, it led back to camp.
As I approached the aviary, I heard quiet murmurs and broke into a smile
when I spotted Kēhau and Mālama nibbling at the dark-purple berries of an
‘ōlapa tree, an endemic plant whose fluttering, ovate leaves inspired both its
Hawaiian name—meaning “dancer”—and hula dances.9 Pleased as I was to
be reunited with my birds, it was also gratifying to see the parentless crows
eating native fruits like ‘ōlapa, which reminded me of elderberries, and the
lumpy white māmaki berries from another endemic tree whose slightly
sandpapery leaves native Hawaiians used as a medicinal tea.10
Although we regularly attached fruiting branches of both trees to the
hack-box decking to encourage the ‘Alalā to feed on these and other native
fruits, the birds also readily feasted on a wide variety of fruits that we hadn’t
first provided to them. In doing so, they inadvertently fulfilled a critical
ecological role. Many fruit-eating birds disseminate plant seeds through
their excreta, regurgitated pellets, or behavior. Since birds often transport
seeds before eating or excreting them, such avian dispersal can minimize
subsequent competition between the parent plant and its progeny. Birds
can also ensure that seeds are placed in favorable locations by caching seeds
that they later fail to retrieve. And birds can improve germination for
certain plants when seeds that pass through the birds’ digestive system are
scarified. As the Hawaiian forests’ largest songbird and frugivore, the ‘Alalā
was an essential seed disperser that had long sustained and shaped Hawai‘i’s
forest-plant communities. Without the crow, many plants couldn’t repro-
duce, leading to irrevocable changes in the structure, diversity, and species
composition of the island’s forests.11
Soon after I returned to the aviary, the three raucous females joined
Kēhau and Mālama, and the group became increasingly vocal and ani-
mated. I was pleased to see them all together, walking along branches,
cocking their heads when they spotted insects hidden under flakes of bark
or within clusters of leaves, and rushing toward any crow that found an
item of interest. As I watched Lōkahi chipping away at a horizontal branch,
Hiwahiwa hopped over to her and almost bumped up against her. Raising a
foot as if to protest her sibling’s proximity, Lōkahi pushed it against Hiwa’s

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chest. Unwilling to leave, Hiwa raised her own foot in defense. The two
females grasped feet, then pushed and jostled each other. I was reminded of
the legend of that beloved knave Robin Hood who, meeting his imposing
future comrade, Little John, for the first time at a log bridge, sparred with
him to see who would earn the right to cross the river first. Throwing their
weight behind their clasped feet, the crows pushed and pulled. Then sud-
denly, Hiwa opened her foot and dropped away from the branch, gliding to
another tree. Minutes later, the two females perched together amicably, and
preened each other—a behavior known as allopreening.
Later that day, as we neared the end of our evening observations, the five
‘Alalā again congregated in two large trees to roost. Hoapili perched slightly
apart from the others, as she often did, while the other crows perched in close
contact with their respective sibling. As they relaxed, the ‘Alalā periodically
elevated and separated their head feathers, giving them a fuzzy-headed look
that I found irresistible. Even more endearing than their cotton-top heads
and their habitual allopreening were their evening vocalizations.
Not surprisingly, given that the ‘Alalā’s raucous cries accompanied
their every activity, roost time for them was filled with their contact calls.
Unlike the yells, whoops, and growls that ricocheted through the forest
during the day, though, as daylight faded and night’s chill crept through
the undergrowth, the crows murmured quietly to each other, making soft
croaks, squeaks, whispers, zipperlike sounds, and even muffled, kittenlike
mewings. Their lengthy murmurations had a comforting quality, as though
the birds were quietly reminiscing about the day or reassuring each other
about the night to come.
Biologist Bernd Heinrich described similar roost contact calls made by
his captive Common Ravens. “When the murmurs were very low, soft and
long and almost whispered,” he noted, “I learned the birds were at ease,
as could also be seen from their relaxed postures. The calls seemed to be
contact calls meaning, ‘I hear you. Everything is fine.’”12 The ‘Alalā’s hushed
sounds were as soothing to me as they seemed to be for the birds. That night
and in the nights to come, I crouched amidst the wet vegetation transfixed
by the heartwarming sounds. I envisioned, years from now, holding a
conch shell to my ear. Many people do so with the romantic notion that
they are listening to the ocean when they hear surrounding sounds resonate
within the shell’s cavity. But I knew that rather than hoping to hear the
gentle sound of surf breaking on a beach, I would wish forevermore to be
transported by the night whispers of the ‘Alalā.

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