Kaua'i (Garden Isle of Hawai'i) December 2022 (1 Viewer)

[Tiraya]

It was not long ago that I had assigned myself a very specific rule. As fate would have it, it only took a gentle threat to circumvent this rule of "stop going to Hawai'i over new destinations". A decided four days later, fortunately timing well with work vacation, I was once again in Lihue, for the second time this year. What drove me to undertake such a trip, at a time of year so rampant with COVID, flu, RSV, and expensive hidden resort fees? Birds, naturally.

My first visit to Kaua'i was the very same trip I took in January this year. I had arrived with company from Los Angeles, with intents much like those of just about any other birder who sets foot on the Garden Isle. See as many endemic birds as possible! Alas we are a little ill-prepared, or perhaps better to say that we were unmotivated and physically unfit to tackle the severity of the trails required to be thorough. As many who have studied up on Kauai are aware, island endemics Kaua'i 'Amakihi, Kaua'i 'Elepaio, and 'Anianiau are more easily accessed. But there's also three others, which I affectionately call the Kaua'i-3. 'Akikiki, 'Akeke'e, and Puaiohi, all very remote and some of the most challenging birds to come across in the archipelago. To make matters worse, all 3 of these species are sharply declining, multiplying their difficulty from "very hard" to "nearly unthinkable". Needless to say, I did not encounter any of the K-3 in January.

Fast-forward to December of this year. A foraging group of 'Akikiki, the least numerous of the K-3, is reported from the remote swamp wildlands of Kaua'i. The population of this species is thought to be as low as 30 birds as of the time of writing, and the window to see them was shrinking rapidly, with the possibility of extinction in the wild as soon as January next year. Simply put, if captive breeding and release fails, this would be the last chance I'd ever have if I wanted to see one in the wild. To sweeten the deal, this far into the wilderness, there was also a non-zero chance at encountering the other 2 species of the K-3, the Puaiohi and 'Akeke'e. I contacted someone I knew had been to the area and arranged a tour of sorts whenever dates allowed. But there was another problem. December is the wettest month of the year on the Garden Isle, and the forecast seemed bleak. Even a slight drip of rain would relegate the steep muddy hiking to perilous insanity, and there was a high chance the road would be impassable even with 4wd. I watched with nail-biting anxiety as the forecast continued to show heavy rain for every single visible day of the month, continuously. But among the doom and gloom, a single day offered a boon of sun. Weather forecasts in Hawai'i are scarcely reliable, but there was nothing I could do about it. If I wanted to see this bird, it could not wait for next year. Despite being skunked by Palila many times this year, a bird that is rare but still considered several leagues easier than the Kaua'i-3, I was stubbornly hopeful.

Day 1 - The Arrival
The plane arrives shortly after noon. I packed this short trip specifically to avoid luggage, and so the long wait for suitcases to be funneled from the plane was thankfully eliminated. Lihue is a small airport, and waiting times can be great. The weather is marvelous -- patchy clouds, but otherwise clear. It was a positive omen, and one I was dearly crossing my fingers for. I meet company at the airport, who helpfully hired a Jeep for the coming venture. The road to the wilderness required 4wd with no exceptions, and that was when it was feeling benevolent. But today was not the day of the hike, and so we spent the afternoon combing the north and eastern shore of the island for various odds and ends.

Kilauea Point (aka The Lighthouse) is a popular location for tourists. Sometime since COVID, this area now requires advance reservations to access, but thankfully spaces were ample for our visit, and we were able to decide last minute. Kilauea is a scenic peninsula on the north shore of Kaua'i, and offers great views of common seabirds. The first endemic bird of the trip is the Nene (nay-nay), also known as the Hawaiian Goose. All modern day Nene on Kaua'i are the result of an accidental introduction of captive birds, and this may be part of why they are well-habituated to human. A short walk to the lighthouse produced several common, but interesting birds: Red-footed Booby in the thousands, a smaller handful of Brown Booby, occasional fly-bys of Greater Frigatebird, White-tailed Tropicbird, and rarely, a Wandering Tattler. Turning our back on the ocean, we scoped a small colony of Laysan Albatross that were nesting under Casuarina trees to the southwest, above nearby residences. My only previous sighting of this albatross was off a pelagic in Santa Barbara, California, many years ago, and it was a treat to see more, even if at long range.

But I had been informed me that there were far better viewing opportunities, and so we drove to Princeville. Before turning into the neighbourhoods, we briefly stopped to check out a Snow Goose on a golf course nearby. This adult bird stood out like a sore thumb, and was accompanying a family group of Nene. Ponds here gave the first views of both Hawaiian Coot and Hawaiian Gallinule (ssp.) of the trip. It isn't clear to me why only the coot is considered a full species, and the gallinule isn't, but I suppose taxonomists had their reasons. Both of these birds have larger facial shields than their mainland (American) equivalents. It was soon time to carry on, and a short winding drive through the neighbourhoods of Princeville revealed two things to me. First, that the houses in this area were more expensive than I could ever imagine. Second, that there's next to nothing in the tightly manicured urban streets that looked like albatross habitat. Turns out, I was quite wrong. We drive to the end of the road, where the ocean is visible through gaps in the houses. I step out, and observe a concrete driveway, with old battered stones and covered in moss and lichen. Parallel is a high hedge that reaches as far up as the roof of the house standing on that very property. But between the hedge and the driveway is a narrow strip of grass, not even wide enough to stand on without feeling the leaves on your back. And on that grass, is an albatross, fast asleep.

Our "find-an-albatross" scavenger hunt of this neighourbood resulted in 3 albatross total. It's seemingly absurd that these hulking birds have chosen this developed area to set up their nests. As we observe one bird sitting on another lawn, we turn our heads and see a lumbering motion of white travelling up the driveway. Another albatross has arrived, plodding with ungainly footing towards us. It spends a few minutes sharing bill clicking displays with the bird we were originally watching, before simply crossing the road and waddling up the street and around the corner. Presumably, somewhere in that direction, was another nest.

With sunlight threatening to fade, we make our way towards the taro fields of the Hanalei National Wildlife Refuge. On the ponds by the road, we quickly come across several pairs of Hawaiian Duck, in addition to more Hawaiian Coots. The first Night-herons of the trip are also observed, silently posing among the taro, along with the smartly-patterned Hawaiian Stilt (ssp.). Kaua'i is the only island that Hawaiian Duck can be safely determined, as hybridization with Mallards is very limited. Hopefully it stays that way. One of the Hawaiian Coots present was the less common morph, with red pigment on the facial shield. Of course, it was also the least cooperative Hawaiian Coot I have encountered, with the bird making a very swift and frantic escape on being spotted. Another time, then.

With light falling short, attention was shifted to other organisms. A nearby stream offered some decent, but ripple-obscured views of two endemic gobies, 'O'opu Nakea and 'O'opu Naniha. Because I spend little time in the water, fish observations are few and far between, so it was nice to have a chance to observe and check off a couple more, and endemic species to boot. The day commenced in a shallow cave further to the west, one which I had visited in January and discovered an unusual cricket song. Although the singing males were again elusive in deep crevices, I was able to find females on the cave floor and identify the species. Unfortunately it is non-native, but nonetheless a welcome tick on the list. The day is over, and we head back to Lihue. Tomorrow was the day of our journey into the wilderness, and ample sleep eagerly awaited.

 

[Tiraya]

Day 2 - The Trek
A rooster ensures sleep after 2am is a challenge. Someone from the room nearby takes matters into their own hands, continually storming out of their room, causing a great kerfuffle of man vs. bird. It returns, every 10 minutes. Footsteps repeat from the room nearby, and eventually the rooster takes the hint and moves, allowing another hour or two of sleep to fondly cherish. The air is 50°F (=10°C) at sunrise, and there is dew on the air. It's a half hour drive to the town of Waimea, before the road turns sharply north into Waimea Canyon State Park. The elevation climbs, from 50 feet, to 400, 1000, 2000, 3000...and soon we are through and into Koke'e State Park. A right turn at the Koke'e lodge brings us to the dreaded Road-With-No-Name. Surely this road has a name, but I have never seen one indicated. With little rain the day before, the road is thankfully passable. Ruts, river-crossings and rambling rocks are traversed, and we feel fortunate that a road with such a poor reputation was no particular challenge. Just before daybreak, through the light mist, we glimpse a Pueo (Short-eared Owl ssp.) in the middle of the road. Before any cameras can be raised, it's gone, casting to the air and vanishing into the forest. Not a rare bird, but a delight indeed. Another 10 minutes of winding, bumpy, muddy roads and finally we have arrived. Towering groves of sugi (Japanese Red-cedar) surround us, adding their shapes to the form of the forest. This was as far as a vehicle could take us, and that only left the trek ahead to conquer.

Needless to say, the trail was no walk in the park. The first mile is a fairly moderate ascent, with an early stream crossing, and a muddy walk to the ridgeline. The real challenge in that first mile was a roughly 100 foot hill with what could hardly be called steps, the trail of which was entirely slippery and clayish mud. Perhaps mud spikes on my boots would have been sensible after all, and saved the mud stains I accrued from each attempt it took to reach the top. Beyond, we start to hear and glimpse our first forest birds, 'Apapane (ap-ah-pah-nay), Kaua'i 'Elepaio (el-ah-pie-oh), and Kaua'i 'Amakihi (am-ah-kee-hee), the first two of which mark a continuous presence for the rest of the day. From there on out, for another 2 miles, the trail is straightforward. Non-native forest cleanly transitions into a much more wild, clearly Hawaiian ecosystem, and it's always a treat to experience. We briefly peer from viewpoints in the forest to scan for the unlikely, but not impossible, 'Akeke'e, one of the K-3 species. The rise and fall of elevation, while nothing tremendous, was still enough to steal my breath at times. But it's relatively tame, aside from the threat of 1000 feet or greater drop-offs. Needless to say, this was a truly untamed trail. The wind is powerful too now, gusting through the ridge-top forests we are traversing, and while the occasional views of the great canyons of the wilderness are staggering, so too are the elements on my legs. The thoughts of how wild this trail was become more apparent in the next two miles, as portions of the trail have turned into unstable slopes and narrow knife-edge wanderings. The trail is no longer wide enough to traverse safely with both feet side-by-side, a threat that is worsened when great mounds of ferns encroach up from those steep gullies. It ensures, and requires, that every foot step you take is tested before committing. A single slip or misstep at this point was treacherous, and tumbling down several hundreds of feet of a viciously steep slope is not my idea of fun or safety. I find it strange that no one I had known to take this trail had mentioned these details before. Ah well, at least we were more than halfway there now. Sun continued to bear down through the morning, and for that, I was thankful. Rain at any point would have put a damper on things, quite literally.

The forest finally relaxes, and we finally lower into the swamp of the Alaka'i plateau, the heart of Kaua'i's wilderness. Tight-knit trees space apart, and the plethora of fern species unique to the Hawaiian ecosystem are eager to entertain weary and curious eyes. The ground becomes muddy again, but it is different this time. This mud was darker, and much more keen to swallow a boot than it was to pull a rug out from under a hiker's feet. The ground sunk gently under every footstep, particularly on moss-covered ground that offered the only definite safety to the sinking mire that marked our descent. But not far in, we were finally here, and it was still just shy of 9am. We soon had our first trip views of 'Anianiau (ani-ani-ow), the least common of the regular Kaua'i honeycreepers. I worked hard to see just one in January, but they were evidently more common this far into the wilderness and several were observed without any effort. A vivid flash of red in the canopy was that of the most famous honeycreeper, the 'I'iwi (ee-ee-vee). This species, once common on the Garden Isle, is now limited to very remote areas. And so sightings on Kaua'i are lately few and far between.

It's then that we hear a distinctive sound from the dense jungle ahead. It's a sharp, harsh call that anywhere else would seem generic. But here, only one bird offered that call, and that was Puaiohi (pyu-ay-oh-hee), one of the K-3 species. Immediately, any calm and relaxed demeanour of ours shifts gears to a serious poker face. The tension thickens, and the thump of adrenaline climbs. But good species or not, the greatest reward was laying eyes on the bird itself, and so we split up, working around the trees. But 15 minutes later, we turned up nothing, and it seemed clear that the bird had disappeared, as they unfortunately tend to do. No further calls were given, and chances are that was our only chance of the day to find this elusive species. That we even had the chance to hear one is an opportunity only a portion of visiting birders were afforded. While we mused on that thought, something snapped us back into reality. A song. But not just any song. It was a Puaiohi song, followed by the familiar harsh calls of moments preceding. We apologized to the 'I'iwi that caught our eyes and rushed to the edge of the forest plateau, where the habitat turned to steep cliffs down into the lower elevation forest. Our first concern was that the bird was down there, and if so, there was no way to access it. But when the bird called again, it was clear it was not down there at all, but in fact, sounding so close, it must have been right...

"There!"

And there it was. There was no mistaking the stumpy, short-tailed thrush before us, frozen still, and seemingly eager to please. We had our Puaiohi, and it was a sight to soothe the weary (primarily me!). The bird fluttered about the canopy, a little unexpected as I had learned this species thinking it occupied a zone closer to the forest floor. But while craning our necks, the bird had multiplied, drawing our eyes each in different directions. The single Puaiohi had become a pair, and then they were gone. Two dusky blurs through the trees and off into the thickets, and that was that.

We could have left there and then, with no further birds, and it could have been considered a great success. Fantastic views of a K-3 species, with photos to boot. But the day was still young, for now. For the next few hours, we made loops around this small forest area. 'Elepaio were the most common species, hopping and flitting in all manners of ways that often times had me fooled for something else. They clung to trees like 'Akikiki, they skulked in the undergrowth like Puaiohi, and shuffled in the canopy like 'Akeke'e. Granted, it was never tiresome to observe these mobile balls of fluff, as much as we had our nails bitten for other species! I take a series of photos of one such 'Elepaio, and from a particular overlook across the ferns and swamp, something calls. Hawaiian native bird calls are tricky business, though. If your call doesn't come from a Puaiohi, it's rather challenging, with several species featuring several calls, many of which overlap with another species also found here. For instance, 'Anianiau, 'Amakihi, and 'Akeke'e all have several calls that overlap with each other, or all three of their cohorts. But this call was slightly off. It was quiet, and the pitch was unusual. My company investigates, and I am not far behind. We stand on the rim of the forest, and watch the trees across the gully. A pair of birds, greyish, and clinging to the trees like nuthatches, slowly ambling along and foraging through the mossy bark. We're immediately we're vibrating in joy. That's it. That's them. That's 'Akikiki. The views are distant, but I don't care. Kudos and congratulations are shared as the context is processed. That's them, right there. We've come all this way, gone so far, and there they are. The rarest bird in Hawai'i, and we're seeing them with our own eyes.

The birds shuffle trees, and soon become obscured deeper into the forest, towards the very place we had observed Puaiohi earlier. And as we go to venture that way, we stop immediately. A silhouette of a bird rummages silently in the 'Ohi'a tree above our viewing location. "There's something up there," my company remarks. Sure. There's been several birds solitary in the tree canopy this morning, representing each of the common endemics, as well as a handful of introduced species like cardinals and Warbling White-eyes. Because insects and nectar sources are concentrated on the outer canopy, many birds end up in that part of the tree. It's not much cause for concern, and I don't even raise my camera.

"Hmm, is the tail forked?" he says.

My camera is now raised. There's no way, no chance, absolutely zero...

"I think it's an 'Akeke'e."

All hell breaks lose. I kept my cool with Puaiohi, I kept my cool with 'Akikiki, somehow. But this was a waking dream, there's no chance. There's already the warm shiver of adrenaline from seeing 'Akikiki, and it hasn't even been 2 minutes since we saw them for the first time. I nearly trip over a fern repositioning myself to look up at this bird in the tree. I see the forked tail he mentioned, but the bird is entirely in silhouette against the leaves and sky. Until it wasn't. A golden flourish of feathers, as the bird drops to a branch just below the canopy. It perks its head, seemingly only now realizing it had company. And as it does, the bill flashes a light blue, finch-like structure. It's an 'Akeke'e (ah-kay-kah-ey), I can't believe it.

'Akeke'e, like many other Hawaiian birds, once had a much larger population, said to have numbered in 10s of thousands in the past 50 years. It is generally considered to have one of the sharpest declines of the Kaua'i "rare" species, with recent estimates placing this bird closer to a few hundred. Today, 'Akeke'e is rarely reported. And of those rare reports, the majority are heard-only or brief glimpses of a shadow in the canopy before it departs. While it is not as rare as 'Akikiki, the more erratic and secretive nature of 'Akeke'e is troublesome. While 'Akikiki stay in one place and move from tree to tree, the reputation of 'Akeke'e indicates how often it tends to appear as a phantom of a bird for a moment, before flying far and wide across the forest to its next foraging location. As I consider this great miracle, I look up. The bird is still there. It's not gone, it hasn't appeared for a second and vanished forever. It's still there. The 'Akikiki return to view across the valley, and to top it all off, a single Puaiohi calls below us down the gully. Never mind that we've just accomplished the impossible, and seen not 1, not 2, but all of the K-3 species in the span of a minute.

The adrenaline finally wears off in time, watching the 'Akeke'e before it finally departs, cresting the canopy until it's but a speck in the distance. With time still left to burn, we orbit the forest plateau and trail the 'Akikiki, only fair considering it is the poster bird for this trip, and one whose playful antics may be absent from this forest only a month or 2 from now. We trail the 2 birds for the next hour, just in time for another 2 to join the travelling group. Both adults and juveniles, birds both banded and unbanded, all on show. Views are tough through the dark shade of the trees, but it can't sour one of the most memorable days of birding in my life. The grey flurry of wings rises and sinks into the trees down the hillside again, for the last time that day. And for the next hour, the forest is silent.

And so is the long hike back. In part from the exertion and careful attention to footing required to descend safely. In part from a long day, 12 hours out in the field, leaving us all tired and worn out from sheer focus and attention to every shadow of a bird that we could glimpse in the Alaka'i forests. In part from the sheer disbelief of just how much we had seen, defying all odds of what we should and shouldn't have seen. And all I could think about was getting back home to view the photos.

 

[Tiraya]

Day 3 - The Recovery
Part of me was certain that, after what was no doubt the worst hike I'd ever done, that my legs would suffer for it the following day. Fortunately it was only a bout of soreness to deal with, but after having seen all the endemic birds in less than 24 hours, it certainly left the option of "what now" onto the table. The rare bird alert answered this for us, and so we headed towards the southwest side of Kaua'i, to a place called the Kawai'ele Waterbird Sanctuary. This wetland reserve consists of a few large ponds, and held a good sampling of birds fond of such conditions. Hawaiian Coot and Gallinules were not very abundant, but present, and the most common endemic taxon was certainly Hawaiian Stilt. Sanderling and Ruddy Turnstones were the remaining shorebirds, and neither were particularly numerous either. But the calling card here was a bird I first spotted from afar, before it eventually moved to a closer pond for better views. This small wader with its chestnut crown represented a rare species in the US, the Sharp-tailed Sandpiper. It was not a lifer for me, having seen them in Australia a few years ago, but it was a welcome bonus to finish a fantastic trip. Black Francolins taunted from somewhere that sounded so close, but never was. For the second time in a row, I could not find Hawaiian Ducks here. Hmm, maybe the water is just too brackish for their tastes, I'm really not sure.

With flights in the afternoon, we took the rest of the morning easy and visited some of the scenic viewpoints in Waimea Canyon and Koke'e State Park that we missed the day before. Unfortunately fog interfered with many of those views, but it was hard to complain. Turns out, even at the edge of existence, a full house trip to Kauai is still possible...!

 

[foresttwitcher]

Great report - with that luck I hope you bought a lottery ticket!

 

[Jon Turner]

Brilliant, well done: I remember my day on Kaua'i in 2014 with great affection. Needless to say I didn't get to the lowland swamp, but saw lots and thought it was all stunning!

 

[Tiraya]

Kaua'i 'Elepaio.

Puaiohi.

'Akeke'e.

'Akikiki.

Laysan Albatross.

 

[Hamhed]

Wonderful photos, Tiraya!

Steve

 

[Owene]

Great write up and pics. Thank you