Scanning the shoreline 15 metres away, I almost mistake the tiny creatures for rocks at first. They dip and run along the water’s edge, barely leaving footprints as they poke at the sand with their tiny black beaks in search of morsels. Their plump, grey and white bodies aren’t tinged a rusty red at this time of year, but they’re unmistakably red-necked stints. I resist the urge to move closer — it might disturb the birds, and they need all the feeding time they can get. These migratory shorebirds weigh just 30 grams, yet they flew over 12,000 kilometres from their breeding grounds in Siberia and west Alaska to make it here.
I’m at Thompson Beach, which is part of the Adelaide International Bird Sanctuary (AIBS). The sanctuary covers 60 kilometres of coastline north of Adelaide and is at the southern end of the East Asian-Australasian Flyway — a migratory path used by upwards of 5 million birds. The red-necked stints in front of me are among over 20,000 migratory shorebirds that stay at AIBS each year to feed and roost during their non-breeding season. Despite these staggering numbers, Thompson Beach is better known by tourists as a crabbing destination — something volunteer group, Friends of Adelaide International Bird Sanctuary (FAIBS), wants to change. I’ve joined a group of volunteers today to survey the migratory shorebirds in action.
My experience at AIBS begins about a week earlier, on World Migratory Bird Day (October 12). The day aims to raise awareness about the need to conserve migratory birds and their habitats, and FAIBS are hosting an event at Thompson Beach. Driving down the rocky esplanade just after 8am, I nearly miss the meeting spot, which is indicated by a lone blue banner.
It’s a sunny yet crisp, windy morning — I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I hop out the car and make my way down the path toward the beach. On the seaweed-covered sand, volunteers are mounting their spotting scopes onto tripods as guests look out at the distant tide. I follow their gaze and see a spread of green shrubbery 30 odd metres away, with little spots that must be birds dotting the coastline. I make my way over to the spotting scopes, feeling a little disappointed I can’t see the birds up close.
A red-necked stint in non-breeding plumage. (Image: Paul Taylor)
Shortly later, FAIBS president Mary-Ann Van Trigt welcomes the guests to the sanctuary. “We’re at Adelaide International Bird Sanctuary on the Gulf of St Vincent,” she says. “Or Winaityinaityi Pangkara, which means country of the birds and the land that surrounds these birds.” She acknowledges that we are on the traditional land of the Kaurna people, who have had a deep, spiritual connection with the sanctuary for thousands of years.
“The theme today is awe, and I’m hoping by the end of the day, you are in awe of these migratory shorebirds and the feats they undertake on their migratory journey,” Van Trigt continues. She gestures to the low tide, which makes for difficult viewing. “Every day, when we come out in nature, things are going to be a little bit different,” she says. “And I think, you know, whilst it’s disappointing at times, it can be a good thing, because it keeps us coming back. It keeps us enthralled and learning about nature.” As if in response, a group of red-necked stints and curlew sandpipers take flight overhead. Our group lets out a quiet chorus of “Oh’s” and “wow’s” as the shorebirds fly across the beach towards the water.
After Van Trigt finishes talking, I approach a spotting scope operated by Kate Buckley, a FAIBS volunteer. She is viewing an eastern curlew — the sanctuary’s largest migratory shorebird, weighing in at up to a kilogram. “You can take a look,” she says. “Just hold the scope up like this, it’s very sensitive.” Through the lens, I see an elegant, long-legged bird with grey feathers and a black, down-curved bill that is almost as long as its body. Unfortunately, these birds are critically endangered due to habitat destruction — something Buckley is very passionate about combatting here at AIBS. She invites me to join her when she conducts her next bird survey on October 21, so I can learn more.
AIBS has a complex relationship with tourism. While Van Trigt wants to raise awareness about the sanctuary, she says there is often a fine line between tourism and habitat destruction. “If people come for other activities, they need to be mindful that they stick to their bag limits, because it’s a food source for these birds, and taking the food resources reduces birds’ opportunities,” she says.
Rather than focusing on what they can take from the sanctuary, Van Trigt encourages visitors to consider what they can give — an act called regenerative tourism. “We have at least one activity day on a Sunday every month … which are habitat restoration activities like controlling weeds, putting in new plants and general cleanup,” she says. Visitors can follow FAIBS’ Facebook page to see the dates of upcoming events, including shorebird viewings. Before I leave, I decide to take Buckley up on her offer and try regenerative tourism for myself.
On October 21, I take the hour-long drive up to the northern end of Thompson Beach, where Buckley is waiting for me. It’s 7:15am and I stifle a yawn as I get out my car, not used to rising so early. “Morning, Alana,” Buckley calls cheerily, armed with a spotting scope and binoculars. She leads me down a trail through the tidal mud flats, which are dotted with coastal shrubs. “You have to get here at a given time before the tide moves,” Buckley explains. Nature won’t wait for us to have our sleep in — the shorebirds here will move on as the morning lengthens, and we need to survey them before they do.
“I’ve got the date, the time I started, the weather, and then I write down the number of each species,” Buckley says, pointing a pencil at her surveying sheet. Her spotting scope overlooks a stretch of sky-blue water, dotted with shorebirds enjoying the higher tide. “I’ll give you these, and you count the pelicans,” Buckley says, handing me her binoculars. Lifting the binoculars to my eyes, I squint ahead at a densely packed group of the birds. Their white and black bodies melt into each other, and in the time it takes me to get a rough estimate of 63 pelicans, Buckley has counted several species.
Surveying birds has become second nature to Buckley, including noting their vulnerabilities. “The migratory birds don’t breed here,” she says. “But for the water birds, like the little red-capped plover, they just scrape the sand and put an egg on it. I’ve nearly stepped on eggs more times than I can count.” Buckley is frustrated that uninformed visitors drive their cars onto Thompson Beach.
Not only do drivers risk squashing eggs, but their vehicles compact the mud. “For the migratory waders, that makes it difficult for feeding,” Buckley says. Difficulty feeding means difficulty surviving their next treacherous journey, and while this appears to be a localised issue at first, it is a symptom of a far larger problem.
BirdLife International reports that global populations of some shorebird species have dropped by more than a third in recent decades due to habitat destruction at stopover sites like AIBS. As these birds become increasingly threatened, so too do the food chains they maintain and the human communities who rely on coastal habitats. That’s why surveying, paired with regenerative tourism, is so important at AIBS. “I write down the numbers and put them into BirdLife,” Buckley says. “And they go to Birdata, which is an Australia-wide bird life database. It’s from that database that they draw the statistics they use for political purposes like environmental negotiation [with other countries along the East Asian-Australasian Flyway] … and raising awareness.”
Just after 8am, we move onto the beachfront to get a better view of the birds feeding on the shore. Buckley positions her scope north, where a large group of birds gather beyond a cluster of shrubs. “There’s ruddy turnstones,” Buckley murmurs. “That’s made my day, because they haven’t been at this beach, and I don’t know why. Something happened that upset them.” She counts nine of them: a blessing.
Through the scope, we see tinier creatures along the shoreline too, darting amongst the seaweed and rocks. “Red-necked stints,” Buckley says. “One of them’s still got a bit of a wash of red.” She invites me to sneak up to the cluster of shrubs so I can see how small the stints are without disturbing them. “You disturb them, and they stop feeding,” she says. “They’ve got to increase their body weight by 70 per cent.” I tiptoe across the sand to the cover of the shrubs, peering out at the tide. “Oh wow,” I whisper. They are so tiny I could fit them in the palm of my hand, but I keep my distance. Some things, I’m learning, are better left untouched.
After the survey is complete, we meet up with another group of volunteers at a picnic table for morning tea. The sun beats down on us now and flies gather in swarms on our backs, but there’s a sense of satisfaction among us as we sip the hot tea. One of the volunteers tells me she travels all the way from Happy Valley to get here for surveying — an hour and a half’s drive. “This is the dedication — the distance our volunteers go,” Buckley pitches in. As we chat, a car pulls into the carpark next to us. A couple hop out and begin unloading their crabbing gear.
“This wasn’t a sanctuary when we first started surveying in the 1970s,” Buckley tells me. AIBS didn’t obtain sanctuary status until 2016. “But then there were far fewer people — far fewer interruptions to the birds feeding.” She tells me Australian tourism promoters advertise AIBS’ beaches as top crabbing spots, which has drastically increased foot traffic through the sanctuary. “People don’t follow the rules about what they’re allowed to take,” Buckley says, as I watch the couple carry their gear down to the sand. “They rake the whole beach … they take undersized crabs.” She notes raking has decreased recently because there’s very little left — and very little left for the birds.
As I drive away from Thompson Beach, the rust-coloured plains remind me of those red-necked stints by the water, endlessly searching for food. If more tourists knew the significance of these awe-inspiring birds, maybe they would leave the sanctuary untouched too. Maybe they would give something
