Refuge Paz de los Aves - August 2, 2010

Monday was a special day, for it was Refuge Paz de los Aves day. Leaving before dawn without breakfast, we headed up elevation through a typically rutted stream-fording road until we reached a turnoff taken up mostly by a bus full of old white people in clean clothes. We had arrived. There were about 12 elderly birders (three of whom bizarrely were Boalties it turned out later) and a few other groups waiting. Soon a stocky and nimble Ecuadorian man wearing track pants and a ski cap appeared out of the darkness; Angel Paz himself had arrived, and we were off. The trail was steep, and the old people were slow. But the forest was deeply beautiful.


It was raining gently and every leaf was glistening green, every surface festooned with plants of infinite variety. The soft tapping sounds of a probing strong-billed woodcreeper could be heard nearby. As the sun rose thin shafts penetrated the canopy and revealed the sparkling lines of spider webs covered with dew.

Our first stop was a cock-of-the-rock lek, where thirty yards or so down a steep drop-off a troop of manic birds, with glowing orange and burgundy plumage, whirled and clucked and pranced and posed amidst a shrieking tangle of vines and ferns. Our view was largely obstructed by the old people, who, as clients of one Jorge of the “Magic Birding Circuit,” seemed to take their clues from their notoriously surly and narcissistic birding guide and hogged all of the spots with good views.

Briskly at dawn the lekking birds quieted, and we headed onwards deeper into the canyon. We reached the bottom of a ravine, where a small creek slipped through a fern covered bed of small stones. Unknown bird songs floated through the air. We gathered around and waited.

“Maria!” falsettoed Angel Paz. “Maria! Venga, venga venga!” Silence. We waited some more. “Willypena, venga!” More silence. Angel disappeared down the trail along the river. We could hear him whistling, pleading.

Then, with a great bounding strides out of the dark understory, she appeared, ricochetting off the mossy rocks along the river like a tiny kangaroo, like a miraculous long-legged potato. Angel put out some worms and Maria, the world’s most famous giant antpitta, flew across the stream, stuffed her face, and stood there stoic, beautiful, inscrutable. Angel Paz took a photograph of her with my camera - apologies for the old people hogging the cock-of-the-rock lek perhaps?

Maria, here photographed by Angel Paz

 After Maria left, it was Willypena’s turn. Willypena--formerly Willy until Angel Paz noticed her on a nest--sprang out from the undergrowth, posing for all to admire her yellow breast and tawny brown back. Then the show continued. We moved back upslope to the fruit-feeders. The regulars refused to show, but we saw a sickle-winged guan and a resplendently colored toucan barbet nonetheless. We waited a while and the tour group finally left us in peace.

a distant toucan barbet

Moving along the trail Angel’s brother called forth our last antpitta of the day, a beautiful moustached antpitta named Susan. Nearby we summoned a darting and bobbing rufous-breasted antthrush, who gathered up an enormous quantity of worms to take back to her brood. Nearing the top of the ridge, we admired violet-tailed sylphs, empress brilliants, velvet-purple coronets and booted rackettails at the refuge’s hummingbird feeders. And then, to top it off, we stuffed our own faces with ravishing homemade bolones and empanadas. Filled with birds and breakfast, we left Refuge Paz in a state of birding bliss.

orange-breasted fruiteater

Our next stop for the day was a nearby pasture, where we tracked down a crimson-rumped toucanet and the elusive Choco endemic orange-breasted fruiteater. Then it was back to Mindo for a siesta. Emily napped while I tried to find a sunbittern to no avail (but was rewarded for the effort nonetheless by a beautifully camouflaged common potoo). After a few hours hammocking, interneting and dining, we were ready for one more expedition.

can you spot the potoo?

common potoo

We headed back out at 6:30, joined by two Danes who had just arrived at the hostal (a father and son pair). First we went to a spot near Mindo where in the shine of our flashights we ogled the spectacular spectral dance of the lyre-tailed nightjar. In the darkness of twilight all one could make out was the glowing eyes of the birds reflected in the flashlight, and then with a woosh the nightjar would take off into the sky, and its extravagantly long tail could be made out against the starry sky as it fluttered and curled about like a flamenco dancer reincarnated as a tiny dragon.

Next we headed to Satchamia Lodge, where for a small fee the guide for the lodge showed us a beautiful black-and-white owl, perched next to a bright moth covered light illuminating the parking lot. Finally, back at the hostal we tucked ourselves in for a short but deep sleep. The next day would be another early start, and our last day in Mindo.