Swish swish swish. My waterproof trousers protest as I try to keep up with the small, strange and mighty army that is scattered through the woods.Iam surrounded by mainly over 40 year olds, clad in just t-shirts and a tatty-strapped pair of bins’ as if to say “I could do this with my eyes closed”. Meanwhile, I am shuffling behind, my 5ft 3” stature struggling to wade through thigh-high heather.
For goodness sake. I’m never going to see one like this! Why did I come on this thing in the first place? Sweat beads on my forehead as I realise I’ve lost all sight of the others, and cannot hear the bells clipped to the dogs’ collars. “Make sure you can always hear or see someone, but stay far enough spread out that we have the best chance of getting some”, they had said.
Sugar. (my thoughts at this point were slightly more colourful than this, but I’ll keep this clean). I’m in the middle of a Scottish forest, with no map, no radio, no phone signal and have no idea how to get home (as we had been driven there and I’d paid more attention to passing squirrels). And now, I’m LOST. Like all those frantic memories of our 6-year-old-selves, running around Tesco’s thinking our mother must’ve finally got sick of us and abandoned us for good, only to find her stood peering into the freezers 5 minutes later, I panicked. I walk faster, but we are heading uphill through extremely thick bracken and heather now, and my wellies (a defence against tics), are not helping.
Smack. I find myself sprawled on the floor underneath a bed of bracken that is higher than myself – I’d tripped walking uphill, and my binoculars had swung straight up and hit me in the mouth. Ouch. Hauling myself up, I give a quick tic-inspection and hurry on, feeling as though the wise old Caledonian forest was laughing at me as I went.
Eventually, I begin to see a few of the team, and the walking gets a little easier. Suddenly, everything becomes worthwhile. “Look, there! Polt – to the right!”. My eyes shoot to the right and I spot the young Capercaillie, flushed from the heather, like some clumsy-winged angel to my eyes. Wow. Half an hour later or so, I get a view of a female, which is even more beautiful with her cryptic plumage, as if a slice of the forest undergrowth had peeled itself away from the ground and took to wing.
It was a curious thing, talking to the men I was surveying the birds with, with a cup of tea back at the accommodation kitchen. Some of them, some 20 years ago, had been shooting Capercaillie. “It was just what people did, it was acceptable then”. Now I watch his eyes dance with joy as he glances over the numbers for the day’s counting. Some of them, however, just seemed keen to get outdoors and keep fit (as it sure did that!). As one of the men plops 3 loaded spoons of sugar into his tea, he exclaims “Otherwise, I’ll waste away!”. For the next few minutes, I listen to a few men bicker over whether taking bottled water is necessary or whether just drinking from natural streams is the way to go. I marvel over how so many different people can be brought together over one habitat, one beautiful bird, and one aim: to keep this bird alive and to let it keep breathing life into Caledonia.
Experiences like this are really what have shown me I definitely want a career in conservation. This is just a snapshot of one of my days spent volunteering at RSPB Abernethy reserve in Scotland, last summer, for 10 days, where I spent most of my time surveying Capercaillie in the surrounding area.
Amy S, Age 17