Chapter 5

That evening Lois sat with me between my site and the greenery.

“What’s up?”

“Birds, in general, aren’t very clever. If they got dinner near here last night, they’re unlikely to hunt for another restaurant.”

“Makes sense. Ants, scorpions have no brains at all. If you find a track, it’ll be used until it’s disrupted.”

“What attracted you to them?”

“Oh. First, it was the physical architecture. The way termites build mounds that are cities; the intricacies of bees’ hives; the engineering of ants’ nests. Then it was the way their societies are built up. The organization. The workers. The foragers. The nursemaids. The armies. Now, it’s the wonder of the way evolution has filled niches. Different locations. Different diets. The variety of plumage among your birds, too.” I got quiet.

“You’re full of enthusiasm. Will you keep it when – uh – if you find someone?”

“Why not? Arthropods aren’t everything. I go to art shows, to concerts, to the opera. There’s more than this.” I waved a hand. “We’ve just a lot going on in our heads besides working out what kind of bird ate what last night.” I paused again. “And I don’t just mean the job and sex. No. There’s more.”

“You’re very deep. Really deep.”

“Look! Over there!”

“What is it?”

“Not a bilby. Might be a mouse. No. Look at it moving along. It must be a dunnart. Sandhill dunnarts are most commonly known as the marsupial mouse. An it’s sucking up ants.”

“We’ll have to tell Al.”

“Yes. I’d try to grab him, but I think they’re endangered, maybe just threatened.”

“Well, I bet he won’t be endangered or threatened much longer.”

“Oh?”

“If you look towards the top of the eucalypts, you’ll see the silhouette of a brown falcon. Brown falcons are generalist, opportunistic predators that take prey from a huge range of different wildlife, though they sometimes concentrate heavily on particular prey types, like rabbits or reptiles. The pattern likely results from individuals taking advantage of local, small-scale changes in prey abundance. This one most likely got that dunnart last night and came back for more. As I said, birds aren’t very clever.”

“Here he comes!”

There was a swoosh, but no squeal.

“And there he goes. Well, that’s my adventure for this evening. I’ll tell Al about that marsupial. What was it, you said?”

“Sandhill dunnart. Sminthopsis psammophila.”

“Thanks. I won’t remember the Latin.”

“Sokay. There’s no exam.”

She left and I took out my pocket torch. The spider was still waiting – or waiting again? There were a few crepuscular ants, but no honey ants. Melophorus bagoti, the red honey ants, were in their nest, waiting to emerge into the hot sun. But there was a Myrmecia and I popped him into a vial – without getting stung nor bitten. I’d type him later or in the lab.

I gathered a few handfuls of dried twigs, some bark and some stiff grass (was it grass? Aggie’d know) and went back to my swag. I built myself a small fire and sat, thinking, pushing the unburnt bits into the barely flaming middle. I could hear the others speaking, but not what was being said. The light woke me around six or so.

As I drained my bladder, I thought about what I wanted to do. I wanted to stake out a few square meters and really examine them. There’d be mulgas nearby. The camponotus I’d seen wouldn’t forage far from the nest. And many species of them liked mulgas.

I smelt fire, some of the others must be up. I went for breakfast.

“Day-ee.”

“Mornin’” It was Reg, he’d a fire going and I could see the water was about to boil. “Any plans for today?”

“I was going to head further in the direction where Aggie located the eucalypts.”

“Oh?”

“It seems to me there ought to be some mulgas – the acacia, not the snake.”

“Sounds right,” came Aggie’s voice. “Scrub, not trees, though. Why do you want mulga?”

“Oh, Camponotus aurofasciatus. Wheeler documented them as plentiful in certain districts on the hard sandy plains, and also very abundant in patches among the mulga scrub. I saw a few yesterday. But I’d like to locate a nest. And if I don’t there might be moths.”

“I’d like to look at some mulga, too.” said Al. “Allegedly, bilbies dig warrens among the mulga taproots. While we’ve no evidence, this isn’t an impossible area for bilby.”

“That makes sense. Mulgas have a taproot which can help the plant access deeper moisture and store water and nutrients. Mulga seedlings just 10cm high may have taproots extending three meters into the ground.”

“Right. And while bilbies don’t drink, they extract their liquid from what they eat, which includes insects and their larvae, seeds, spiders, bulbs, fruit, fungi, and very small animals.”

“Sounds like a group expedition. Lois!”

“Yea?” came a voice from inside the tent.”

“Are there any birds that like mulga scrub?”

“Sure. Gimme a mo to get my shoes on. Is there tea or coffee?”

“Tea.”

“Aggie, save me some!”

“Yes, dear.”

Lois emerged, tousled, wearing a t-shirt and chinos. “Wazzup?”

“Are there birds that like mulga scrub.”

“Sure. The scarlet-chested parrot, the chestnut-breasted quail-thrush, the grey currawong. Gilbert’s whistler, and (of course) the emu. There are others, too, like the splendid fairywren. Why?”

“We thought we’d all go exploring, wanna come?”

“Sure. We’ll pool our ignorance and remark on the obvious.”

Al laughed. “Dead on. Better wear boots, though.”

She looked at her bare feet. “Yeah. An’ sleeves, too.”

“Gordy and I’ll put together some water and grub. The rest, get dressed properly and get your collection kits. Twenty mins to departure,” said Reg.

“What about my brekker?”

“Shoulda gotten up earlier, Lois.”

I went and found my compass, then returned to aid Reg in assembling five water bottles and ten food bars. We’d each carry a musette or sorts. Reg had a collapsed aluminium flagpole. He tied a ‘Stralia flag to the top and rammed the but into the sand. “We’ll try not to get lost in the desert,” he remarked.