Adam Watson

At the end of January, a great friend died, Adam Watson. I'll miss him, of course I will. We did so much together and shared so many experiences, although most of our times in the hills and studying the wildlife there were spent separately. Our closeness was in our love for the hills.

Adam with three of his loves; sitting high in the hills watching a hen ptarmigan on her nest, as he introduces a young pointer pup to the scent and behaviour of the bird. The affection illustrated here reflects what Adam held for all natural aspects of the hills; the geology, weather, soils, vegetation and animals.

A hen ptarmigan walks over a slab of Cairngorm granite. Adam studied ptarmigan for his PhD in the 1950s, I studied ptarmigan for my PhD in the 1990s, with Adam as one of my supervisors. For anyone like Adam who spent so many days, and nights, on the hill and mostly alone, ptarmigan are admirable companions on the high rocky ground. They, as Adam supported, are true mountain birds, living through rain, snow, sunshine and storm with apparent ease, due to their wonderful adaptations to mountain life. He, like the rest of us humans, was only ever a visitor to the hills, no matter how long he spent up there, which was rather a lot.

A cock ptarmigan sits watching over his hen as she feeds on blaeberry in a gully below. Adam developed a technique for counting ptarmigan in the high hills. He would organise a team of enthusiasts, all on their own time, to go up into the hills at dusk, as the last hillwalkers had come down. We each took a post, strategically placed to hear any cock ptarmigan call as the sun went down, and we recorded the time and direction of any calls. We rarely saw the calling birds in the gloaming. This was all in mid-summer, so darkness did not last long, a couple of hours perhaps, and the time would pass quickly as I watched the pink line trace along the northern hilltops. Then the ptarmigan would call again, immediately before sunrise. Once it was fully light, we would walk back down and compare notes to work out how many birds had called and where.

I recall one such morning that promised a glorious day, so, as soon as I dropped off my notes from a count on the eastern slopes of Cairngorm, above Loch Avon, I went for a walk over Braeriach and Cairn Toul. It is days like that with Adam I shall always remember. For although we were never together except from handing over notes, he knew where I had been sitting, to the exact rock and I knew where he had been, to the exact rock, for we knew what the other knew and was likely to be doing. And I know Adam could have traced my steps over Braeriach and Cairn Toul in his mind, because he knew the route well and what I would likely see where. It's good to share but we didn't need to be together to share.

One of our first meetings was on the high tops of the Cairngorm-Ben Macdui plateau in the 1970s. The hills were less frequented by people then, much quieter, and if we saw someone on the high plateau watching birds, the chances were that we would know them by name if not directly. I remember I was watching a pair of snow buntings feeding on the dead insects lying on the long-lying snow patches, an important strategy for their survival in the Cairngorms. Then I recognised a bearded figure approaching, and he knew me vaguely from the Aberdeen bird network. We shared our observations of the day so far and discussed the birds' behaviour. Like so many times after, if I noticed a piece of behaviour or a feature of the hills, and mentioned it to Adam, he would likely have seen it himself and already thought of a reason for such. Yet, I don't think I ever heard him say to me or anyone, yes he already knew that, in a dismissive way. Rather he would nurture such comment and discuss it in a wider context.

In the 1980s, I worked on a project studying Dotterel, another specialist bird of the high tops. Adam was a valued authority for his experience of the bird, because until then there had been no thorough assessment of the national population. Dotterel breed on the broad plateaux which abound with insect life for the brief summer period. They only just have time to rear their young between the snowfields melting and the vegetation turning to autumn gold. Adam and I paired up one day for a walk over a plateau in the eastern Highlands spreading over four mountain tops. The first dotterel had only arrived in Scotland from their north African wintering grounds a few days before, and we thought we might see a few displaying and some courtship behaviour. Well, it wasn't long before I was flipping the pages of my notebook as we counted pair after pair of dotterel, groups of several pairs and flocks of birds, almost all already in pairs. The sexes being readily discerned by their plumages and sizes. We counted 288 dotterel that day, but they did not all stay there to breed, many moved on to other hills, or probably even over to the Norwegian mountains, for our study showed how the two country's dotterel populations are shared.

The long-term study of golden eagles in north-east Scotland (1943 - ongoing) was another of Adam's achievements. Adam was the link-pin for the North-East Scotland Raptor Study group in the late 1970s, the first such group in Scotland and still going strong. Eagles and other raptors were at the time, and still are in places, suffering from illegal killing, mostly on areas managed for driven grouse shooting. And nationwide, their numbers were just coming back after the effects of DDT poisoning. Those were interesting times and the group has over the years compiled much information on the breeding ecology of these birds.

Adam looking south-west from the high ridge of Foinaven in north-west Sutherland. He also studied golden eagles in Sutherland and Wester-Ross. Years later, I was fortunate to be employed in a study of eagles in those areas. We monitored the same golden eagle territories in Sutherland and Wester-Ross, twenty years apart, Adam in the late 1950s and early 1960s, me in the 1980s. We must have trod the same paths, climbed the same cliffs and seen the same views, and endured some of the same terrible weather as well as experiencing some fantastic clear days. I know this scene well.

In the 1990s, Adam identified the last remaining corn bunting breeding sites in the north-east of Scotland and we monitored their decline as agricultural practices intensified and fewer fields contained enough food for the buntings. That was mostly due to weed-control as we found more buntings in weedier crops and the increasing switch from hay to silage also reduced habitat for the birds. A small population has continued to live on in the north-east, their conservation aided by Adam's research and advice.

But the Cairngorms were Adam's true deep passion. This view of distant Braeriach from the cliffs of Cairn Lochan in a clear high summer day is one that he must have seen many a time, and it illustrates why the Cairngorms have such an appeal. They have deep cliff-lined corries with scores of rock- and winter-climbing routes. Adam wrote a comprehensive guide to these, climbing most of the routes in the 1950s and 60s in order to do so. And the plateau, those miles of gently undulating ground, set high above the glens below, make great walking ground and grand terrain for cross-country skiing, yet another mountain skill at which Adam excelled.

Also in the above photograph, are four snow patches. Adam recorded the late-lying snow patches every year, and he knew every patch. If I was passing a gully before late autumn, and the first lying snow of the next winter, I would pass on a note of its size and location to Adam. It was thanks to him that we know all the snow in Scotland has only been recorded to have completely melted six times, in; 1933, 1959, 1996, 2003, 2006 and 2017. 

This pair of photographs were taken in the late 1990s when Adam was in his late sixties. They show how some people had piled boulders to form a windbreak around an outcrop of rock on the Cairngorm-Macdui plateau. Then they had left them there. In doing so they had exposed bare gravel where they had lifted the stones from, and killed the grasses and sedges they laid the stone onto. They also killed lichens on the stones by turning them upside down, lichens which take many many years to grow in the mountain environment. And the whole shelter was an incongruous eyesore to all who came in their wake. So we, without discussion, our minds were both triggered at once, set about dismantling the structure and removing all traces of our fellow man as best we could.

So if an old man can tidy up a few boulders and put them back in the places of exposed ground where they belonged, why can't all those self-proclaiming hill-lovers who leave mess behind them do likewise. When I first met Adam in the hills, and on almost every other day we spent on the hill together, he would pick up other people's litter. He spent eighty years in the hills and hasn't left anything behind other than a wealth of information on how to look after them.

SR and AW on the Cairn Lochan plateau on a brighter day (1998, Peter Moore). I will always remember and treasure what I learned from Adam, and how we shared so much with one another.

Adam Watson 

14 April 1930  -  24 January 2019

Orchard Swallowtail Papilio aegeus

And now a garden butterfly.

There is no need to go bush in the heat to see butterflies as in the previous two posts. I was sitting on the verandah having a coffee when I saw this lady fly in over the shrubs and begin circling the lemon trees.

She was obviously looking for somewhere to lay her eggs as she was dipping into the foliage, landing here and there searching for the perfect spot. Then she took a break and caught some sun on her back for a few minutes. That was when I saw how ragged her wings were.

Especially her left hind wing. She was an old lady, probably laying the last of her eggs.

She concentrated her attention on the very tips of the youngest leaves, bending her abdomen as she clung to the leaf edges.

And that was where she left her eggs, precariously perched right on the edges. Out of reach of most predators, I expect.

This spot had been used before by someone else. She was busy on a leaf while an egg previously laid by another butterfly lay out of her sight - the tiny black speck. I think this was an egg laid by a butterfly I watched laying eggs on the same tree a few days ago - a Dainty Swallowtail Papilio anactus. The egg is dark because the larva inside is well developed and likely to hatch imminently. Both species of swallowtail are common throughout the east of Australia and we have them in the garden every year.

Meanwhile over on another leaf, once I began looking carefully for more eggs, I found this teeny weeny caterpillar, c3 mm long, a first instar of a Dainty Swallowtail, I think. It is so small I can hardly make out any characteristics. Although the colouring, like a bird dropping, fits that of a young larva of the swallowtail species. This one had probably only hatched that day, eaten its eggshell and was now on the prowl for fresh greenery to eat. Hence the adults selecting the freshest leaves to lay their eggs on.

After a while the old lady flew over to the shady trees and landed on the foliage, taking a rest after her hard work? I'll watch over her offspring for her.

More hot - more butterflies

It's still hot in Canberra, so over the weekend I was down at the coast where it was a little cooler, less hot. Snorkeling was good, nice and really cool, it's cool to hang out with fish. Otherwise, up on the land I went for a walk through the coastal heathland and found lots of butterflies. So, I have added here some photographs of the few I managed to photograph with the pocket camera, to complement the previous post. With thanks to Suzi Bond for identifying these for me. 

This Brown Ringlet Hypocysta metirius, like several others I saw, was basking on the path through the heath, always on a leaf which they so closely resembled. 

This is one of many Blotched Dusky-blues Candalides acasta that were sunning themselves in the herbage at the edge of the path, landing on sunlit spots, mostly on sedges or occasionally, like this one, on a dead casuarina twig. 

Her grey underwings fitted in well with the grey dead sticks and seadheads.

The best find of the day for me was out on the sunnier, shorter, and more luxuriant heath. That's where I saw a string of Eastern Iris-skippers Mesdina halyzia along the path. Each seemed to have a territory and would fly out whenever a neighbouring butterfly encroached on its stretch of the path. The open ground or more importantly, the open airspace above, seemed to be prime property. They behaved as if they had sorted themselves out though, as once I had passed they all settled back in their own stretch of the street.

I like the way skippers hold their wings in that ready-for-action pose.

Hot sunny weather - butterfly weather

Eye-spots on a Meadow Argus' Junonia villida wings

It has been hot in Canberra for the past month and much of the wildlife has been lying low to keep cool. But it has been good for butterflies and I have met hundreds, thousands, of them on walks in various parts of the bush around the city.

The mornings have been especially good to see them close up and still, before they warm up and fly about too quickly to identify. And footpaths make ideal sunny spots for them to spread their wings and bask in the sun. I was walking through clouds of butterflies in places.

The season is well on and some were a bit tattered with broken edges to their wings.

Once they had warmed up, I found it easier to sit still near a bush or herb that was in flower and wait for the butterflies to settle and feed. I am always amazed at how they can guide their long thing probosces into the narrow tubes of flowers to reach the nectar. Precision feeding.

A Chequered Copper Lucia limberia basks on a path. A male, as he has single spots on his upper-forewings. The females have two spots on each wing. These seem to have been especially abundant in Canberra this year.

The undersides of the Chequered Coppers' wings are similar to various species of blue butterflies, but the flash of orange on the forewings identifies them.

A Stencilled Hairstreak Jalmenus ictinus hangs from a grass flower-head, giving a clear view of the tails on its hind wings.

The tails are less obvious, and even the whole insect is hidden, when they perch in a cluster of flowers. This one had warmed up, so do go early for good clear views of butterflies when they are still either on the ground or plants.

Fantastic Phasmid

This Titan Stick Insect Acrophylla titan was in our garden yesterday, he probably still is, but I can't see him. His two long antennae are tucked in between the front legs, which have a ragged, leaf-like form.

The thorax and legs had thorn-like spines which also made him resemble a true twig.

Acrophylla stick insects are well named as they favour the highest foliage of eucalyptus trees to feed on, acro being Greek for highest or topmost. So I don't know why this one was down in at our lowly level. The tall yellow box in the front garden, which spreads over where he was hiding, is about 20 m tall. He was about 20 cm long.

His eyes had cryptic colour bands around them, and there was a tiny mite clambering around them.

Seen from below, his head was just as spectacular, with an intriguing array of mouth parts. Why does a vegetarian need such a complicated eating system, I wonder. They only eat leaves.

His wings are on the last section of the thorax, but extended over the fore part of the abdomen. The vestigial wings on a female only extend as far back as the last pair of legs. Although his wings are small for his size, the males can fly. The females cannot. I think this one must have flown away as I left him in one small tree and after dusk he had gone, not in the tree. And yes I am sure he wasn't there. They are nocturnal feeders.

And look at those fantastic feet. He has two hooks and a gripping pad on each one, so over six legs, that's a lot of sticking ability. No wonder they are such good climbers and like to be high.