One other noise occasionally broke the tree frogs’ chorus; a loud caterwauling, indeed like a cat having an argument with a neighbour. Scriber pointed a finger skyward “the mountain chicken”. He had a slot on his field datasheet to record this, positive contact but without a sighting. Although we could get some idea of the direction of the call – the terrain and the complexity of the forest meant we could not find the actual callers themselves.
We heard several mountain chicken calling across the valley to each other, but we did not see any amphibians save these tree frogs. I was rather disappointed. My time on Montserrat was limited and there was no chance of another evening transect while I was on island. Scriber was also disappointed for me and said “We’ll go over to another transect where I know we shall find one”. We carefully picked out return route to the vehicle and headed along the main road past the top of Brades and the airport and over to the east coast. Although the road zigzags in much the same fashion as on the leeward side of the island, there is little habitation. The road used to head all the way down to Plymouth past several villages and the old airport, but this northern section, being on the more exposed windward side of the island, had barely been developed save for the odd quarry. We parked up and headed up into the Centre Hills for the second time that evening.
Not a Mountain Chicken – but what is it?
While I was walking I asked Scriber how he got his name. It turned out that he had a second job. He was a poet and a writer as well as a conservation officer and tour guide. He’d been told at school that he seemed to have a talent for making complicated things simple and he was a “Describer” which became in this modified form, his nickname. He’d got into the habit of writing some of his descriptions down and was quite a legend amongst the local community. Over the course of the time I was in Montserrat he told me a few about the turtles and the national bird, the Oriole. But it was still mountain chickens I was hunting here.
To this end the Conservation Department had a monitoring programme which I was there to support. I talked extensively to the guys who did the work. They could point to the areas they surveyed around the Centre Hills but had never mapped them. In fact they were not points, they were transects, walks they did generally up one of the many ghut valleys and when they spotted a chicken they would take its measurements and check its health. I’d worked on a database that allowed them to log sightings of individual mountain chickens along these transects and with the help of Matt, had worked out various ways to number crunch the information to make graphs showing both spatial comparisons between different valleys and trends in observations – whether the numbers spotted were increasing or decreasing.
With these kinds of databases, it is all very well coming up with complex ways to log and analyse the information; the reality of field data collection is it is often hard work, difficult to be consistent and often a long time spent for relatively few results. I thought it would be a useful exercise for me to join the field workers on one of their expeditions into a ghut.
As with most amphibians in the tropics, the mountain chicken is most active at night. So it was about 9 pm when the guys from conservation popped over to our villa and picked me up. We didn’t go very far; they were looking at one of the western ghuts that night. We parked the vehicle near some houses in a small road off the main route from north to south. One of the guys, called Scriber, carefully extracted a sheet from envelope and fixed it securely to a clipboard. he hauled a small backpack onto his shoulders and then said to me – ” you ready”. I was wearing a head torch; the field guys were carrying large torches in their hands, but we kept them off until we started walking on the transect itself.
I was ready – I had been fiddling with a GPS to establish our location exactly but now walked behind the guys recording our track out into the field. The transect itself was marked by a ghut – a dry stream bed which only fills up after rain. Many Caribbean islands are so volcanic that their rocks are porous and the slopes so steep that rain either soaks away into the soil immediately or rushes off to the sea very fast. Few of the smaller islands have any permanent streams, but these channels are well marked and often the best way to make progress through the otherwise densely packed forest. As we walked up the steep gradient, the forest was alive with noise – the chirruping of so many tree frogs. I had visions of these being like the central American treefrogs – about 30cm long and brightly coloured. Scriber kept flashing his light over a tree and saying – see all those tree frogs. I could see nothing. Eventually I had to ask him to show me one up close. He went over to a tree and pulled down on a small branch, exposing the top part of a large floppy green leaf. Nestled in the central rib was the tiniest frog I had ever seen – less than a centimetre across. But it was perfectly formed with a pointed nose and a prominent backbone that held tight skin in place over its fleshy flanks and, for its size, powerful legs. To imagine so much of the chirruping that I could hear was made from these miniscule bodies was beyond belief. And although there were potentially many in the forest, it still did not seem to account for all the noise.