Birding in Hawaii: Where the Nene roam

Editor’s note: First in a two-part series on the outdoors experiences from Kaua’i.

Without my binoculars, I was limited in seeing clearly the far off birds. Those birds existed in a dreamy place of uncertainty in my mind, fitting since my body existed in a literal dreamy place.

The sea birds soared and dove along the cliffs, in a pattern as old as time. They had the mysteries of the unknown though I was pretty certain which was which. Those were red-footed boobies “Ā”, that was a great frigatebird “Iwa”.

Binos or note, it was hard to have a better place to watch birds. The sun, the surf and the historic lighthouse made Kīlauea Point National Wildlife Refuge magical. If it sounds like an ideal place to be a birder you’re wrong, because you are so limited as a guest. The site required a competitive reservation for a specific time and then the expectation your stay will be under an hour. On Kaua’i, Hawaii, the limits of all things was omnipresent.

If the average county size in Iowa is about 600 square miles, then Kaua’i is probably smaller than you imagined. Linn County is 725 square miles and Jones County is 577 for example. Kaua’i rests in the tropical waters at 553 square miles. Of course, that’s only the exposed part of the extinct volcano that lives above the salt.

Islands are dichotomies. They live so large in our hearts and minds, but they are small, literally isolated. To live on an island is to live with pronounced limitations. The reality of limits touches something tender in a broader society of abject abundance.

Our family vacation to Hawaii was 10 years in the making, actually closer to 18. The Garden Island was the oldest of the 50th state’s islands. Kaua’i claimed to be the least developed among the tourist islands of Maui, O’ahu, and Hawaii Island. Kaua’i loomed large as a holiday destination as well as movie backdrop.

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Island cultures developed abiding practices of reciprocity, whether an actual island or just some isolated continental community. In places with limited choices and regular scarcity, giving all you had to visitors was the rule. It wasn’t that long ago tribal bands or settler hamlets lived such profoundly isolated lives. Among themselves sharing was the modus operandi as was making do without, the latter’s dominance manifesting the former.

The interstate highways, rail and air transport put most any community in Iowa close to material wants. The internet satisfies non-material urges. On Kuau’i, I easily read The Gazette and checked my email, but isolation made goods extra expensive. Sans the weather and sandy beaches abutting clear water, goods in Iowa were understandably cheaper.

Moa — think skinny wild chickens — were everywhere. They crossed the roads, the golf courses and yards. The roosters crowed with enthusiasm all day and most of the dark hours. If Kaua’i had a soundtrack, then they would be the featured sound.

The gregarious fowl seemed like an easy solution to the high cost of groceries, but as descendants of the original Polynisian fowl, “Moa,” they enjoyed protected status. And they seem to really enjoy that status.

I bought the book “The Birds of Kaua’i” in preparation. It was helpful in discerning what I was seeing. I remembered best the pages on extinct birds, industrialization took more from the island than sugar. The limitations of island life necessitated great attention to reciprocity in traditional society. Taking too much had consequences of a speed and depth not matched in networked continental culture.

Polynesians brought proto chickens. Industrialists and do-gooders introduced other species. The red-crested cardinal was an import from South America. The males wear more formal attire than their cousins we find in Iowa. Myna birds from India abounded, as did scores of others. In truth, each newcomer represented a potential competitor for the native fliers, a version of subtraction by addition. I noticed no introduced birds had Hawaiian names.

They probably weren’t all bad. The chestnut munia was a favorite to watch as they swarmed to and fro. They hailed from Southeast Asia and the Philippeans.

The big-man-on-campus for the birds of Kaua’i was the Nēnē, a unique goose that resembled a Canada honker but with a build to do more walking than flying. In the lush north of the island the Nēnē seemed as abundant as the Moa. But where a Moa crossed the caution with attention, the Nēnē lazed wherever they wished. Brake for the Nēnē!

The overlook for the Hanalei National Wildlife Refuge was the best place to see flocks of Nēnē fly. The valley floor was a mostly off-limits place where my imagination was free to see the beds for taro cultivation as backdrops for their timeless flights. It was a glimpse into the purely Polynesian past.

Because of reciprocity, it was necessary to keep people out of the valley. Modernity has taken so much from the island’s wildlife that the “look but don’t touch” ethic was a small act in return.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, in her celebrated book “Braiding Sweetgrass”, shared lessons from traditional tribal life about reciprocity among people but especially with nature. In tribal life, nature was as alive and recognizable as a human life. Accordingly, they deserved reciprocity in equal measure.

Regardless of your present status, you can trace your kin back to the Teutonic tribes of the Baltic Plain, the clans of East Asia or the first groups to leave the African Rift Valley. Kimmerer’s words resonated with my time on the island. Was I taking too much from the island? What was I offering in return? What did I offer first as a gift?

It seemed that for many of the common birds they received the detritus of all the visitors, a rather backhanded gift.

A bird notable in its absence were gulls. I found it refreshing to be seaside without their harassing squawks and begging. When fishing in the ocean I expected a cloud of gulls to follow like I’d seen on so many shows. Not so. Birding off the coast meant watching the boobies dive-bomb for fish or frigatebirds cruise just about the waves.

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board, and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America