Text and photos by Ian Hall
Trogon photos by John & Jemi Holmes

Not every day is a trogon day but sometimes when you head into the forest there is a feeling of expectation that you’ll see a trogon. Of course in those circumstances you never see one and it’s when you least expect it that they put in an appearance.

This trogon day started out like any other. I packed up my laptop at 4pm as usual and got ready for a walk in the forest. There is usually a little motivational inertia to overcome before going out, but today the light was good and it didn’t take me long to get my shoes on and tuck trousers into leech proof socks. Equipped with camera and binoculars I ducked through the fronds of fern and ginger into the cooler light under the canopy.

I paused to watch a flycatcher that was making looping forays over the water from the handrail of the footbridge. I’ve seen him many times before so I stepped onto the bridge and frightened him away.

The first Trogon was sitting in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his bright red breast feathers seemed to shine. He didn’t seem concerned by my presence and continued to make a curious trilling call. Every time he did so he would shuggle his white edged tail feathers. Shows like that don’t last long and he was soon gone. Amazing how easily something so bright and red can disappear.

I wasn’t much further along when I was arrested by an indignant squawk. I didn’t see him at first, surprising considering how bright and red he was. This was a different species but another male again. Off he went upriver and I started to move on. I hadn’t made two steps before I heard the squawk again. So it wasn’t the daddy who’d made the noise. She gave her position away by flying into another tree across the river. Females are more of a ginger colour and just as attractive for it – I won’t be accused of being ginger-ist! We checked each other out for a couple of minutes before she got bored and chased off upriver after her partner.

The sun was still catching the trees on the ridge above me so I pushed on up the now indistinct trail. There was not too much chance of getting lost because I still had the river as a guide. Nonetheless I started to take note of landmarks as I went; the tree with tentacle roots, the tree with stilt roots, the large Agathis tree with the bulge and the tree stump the shape of the Eiffel Tower. I paused by a tributary stream to photograph a wild ginger flower. Whilst doing so a babber started scolding me from the undergrowth. Most babblers fall into the category of ‘small brown bird’ and are usually unidentifiable unless you see them in good light and happen to catch them singing at the same time. There was no chance of this fella singing for me and the light on the valley floor was gloomy.

I now had a choice, either to follow the river closely into what might become a gorge, or to try to avoid the gorge by climbing higher up the side of the valley. The trees were more open there so I opted for the climb. There was no path so I followed the way of least resistance. The under storey of primary forest is surprisingly open but there are still plenty of things to avoid, in particular the barbed fronds of rattan that the rangers call duri. Caution is also needed in reaching for small tree trunks or vines with which to steady yourself, many of them are covered in spines.

At the point where I rejoined the river my watch said 5.30 and I knew I had to turn round if I was to get back to the camp before dark. I began to tick off the landmarks as a challenge to try to remember which one was next. The only problem was that there was no next landmark where I expected it to be. I had re-climbed the hill above the gorge and successfully started the descent but I was now on a flat area which I didn’t remember.

I know how easy it is to descend from a hill in the wrong direction. In this case the hill was still in the right place in relation to the river so I decided to continue. A landmark would really be good though. My pace quickened. The gloom settled thicker around me and the six o’clock cicada was singing in full force.

The danger of quickening your pace is that you are more likely to trip on a tree root or get hooked by some duri. I forced myself to slow down. As long as the six o’clock cicada was still going I was doing fine. They stop when it becomes night.

I patiently rearranged some duri fronds so that I could step through the gap and over a log that I recognised. I put the binoculars away; there would be no further use for them. The undergrowth opened up intermittently into a trail and I stepped up the pace.

Once back on the trail I started practising ‘walking without looking where you’re going’. This is a technique which the rangers evidently use because how else would they be able to spot all the plants and wildlife whilst on the move? When I’m trekking I see nothing except where I’m going to place my foot next. I’m determined that this will change. At a glance I memorised the trail for the next 10 metres and lifted my chin up high.

I know that you’re thinking that I would fall flat on my face and I too was surprised not too.

At the faster walking pace the cooler evening air lifted the sweat from my neck. The space between the trees opened up in front of me and I felt the sounds and the presence of the forest closing in just as tightly behind me.

I glanced at the next section of trail and lifted my head again. I moved faster still, feeling the forest tingling at the back of my head as I passed.

I was at the bridge. Careful it’s always slippery! I slipped along the last two boards without breaking rhythm. The tree trunks were now barely more solid than the darkness between them. The strangler fig on the big old dipterocarp still had some definition. It took three paces to pass and then I was walking between the gingers where the wild pigs had been digging. In the Camp clearing the trees were seen only in silhouette and the six o’clock cicada was silent.

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