A Year with the Birds / Third Edition, Enlarged

by W. Warde Fowler

I now proposed that we should mount to the top of the pass, in order to observe whether the birds we had noticed in flocks lower down were still making way upwards. The result of this movement was that we found the Pipits—all Alpine-pipits (see [p. 93]), as far as I could ascertain—in a sunny hollow just above the glacier; they were there in great numbers, but did not mount further so long as we remained. The Redstarts too we found still slowly working upwards on the same side of the valley on which we had seen them in the morning; they were now just opposite to the glacier. But on the top of the pass, where it was too cold to stay long, we saw no signs of migrants; it was occupied only by a few Alpine Accentors, while high above, at a height of full 9000 feet above the sea, the Alpine Choughs were enjoying the sunshine. As we were descending, I caught sight of a tiny little tarn on the opposite side of the glacier, on the rocky alp high up above the inn, which struck me as a likely place for birds, especially as it was sheltered by a little crest of stunted trees of some kind. Here, after the mid-day meal, we made our way, and finding nothing at all, lay down on the grass to enjoy a splendid view of the craggy defile below us. But we had not been lying long before a twittering was heard, and the little flock which had puzzled us in the morning came dancing overhead, and settled so deep in the stunted pines I had noticed from the top of the pass, that though we could see the movements of the branches, we could not once get a clear sight of a single individual. This was too provoking, and I at once proceeded to crawl slowly towards the bushes, getting round to the flank of the birds on a rising bit of ground, until I was within a few yards of them. All that I saw were Redpolls,[47] and all of the ‘Mealy’ form known to ornithologists; the autumn moult had left them very white on breast and belly, and very mealy on wings and back. They were, as far as I could judge, a little larger than our British Lesser Redpoll. Were they too migrating, or were they going to spend the winter in the Gadmenthal? I suspect that they stay all their lives in the Alps, and instead of moving southward to a warmer climate when under stress of weather, have but to make a short journey to a lower station in the valley, to find at once a warmer temperature and abundance of the food they seek.

The next day, September 20, we packed up our baggage, and left this health-giving spot with its iced air and scented breezes, and again climbed the pass on our way to Wasen, being anxious to get to the head of the St. Gotthard before the fine weather should desert us. I was not unwilling to see my fellow-creatures again, as I had been quite alone on the Stein-alp, except for a single hour which an Englishman of education and intelligence had made very enjoyable as he took his ‘Mittagessen’ and smoked his cigarette with me. As it happened, we left just in time to enable us, as the reader will learn shortly, to see things worth recording at Hospenthal the following day.

On going up the ascent from the inn, I noticed that the Pipits were now in great numbers at a lower level than yesterday, and this suggested the conclusion that a fresh instalment had arrived from below, while those of yesterday had gone still higher or descended on the other side. This idea was fully confirmed by what I saw afterwards; for a good many more were at or about the top, and as we sat there for a few minutes, one flew right over us and disappeared in the depths of the valley in the direction of Wasen. All the way down too on the other side little parties were making their way in the same direction; and thus it became clear that these birds at least do not take flight all at once, but move in a continuous stream of parties smaller or greater, much as the late Mr. A. E. Knox described the migration of the Pied Wagtails from west to east in the south coast of England, in his admirable Ornithological Rambles in Sussex.[48] But we may well ask the question, Do they arrive in the same manner? The Susten Pass is 7000 feet above the sea, and is covered with snow from October to June. I myself once crossed it on June 29, when its deep snow bore no trace of human footsteps, and it was possible to make glissades over slopes where now not a vestige of snow was to be seen. Are we to suppose that the Pipits and their friends pass it in spring in spite of the snow, and travel in the same gradual manner? I cannot yet answer this question, nor is it likely that I shall ever be able to witness the arrival of the Susten Pipits as I witnessed their departure; but I contrived in the course of a week in these regions to set a few intelligent natives in an inquiring mood with regard to these matters, and it is possible that next spring may bring me some scraps of useful information. At present I am content to remember that Mr. Knox, in the passage just now referred to, was the first to discover that the arrival and departure of our English species are not performed in exactly the same manner.

We saw nothing of special ornithological interest in the melancholy Meienthal, which leads down from the Susten to the St. Gotthard railway at Wasen; but I was reminded of a passage in my third chapter ([p. 83]) when we arrived at the first considerable pasture, and found a whole community of men, women, children, cows, and goats, on the very point of migrating from their cool and healthy summer home. The cows were all gathered in front of the ‘Sennhütten,’ and when doors and windows had been made fast for the winter, all the human migrants stood for a few minutes in prayer, doubtless thanking God for the provision He had made for them and their cattle, and asking for a blessing on the pasture for the summers yet to come. Then all these Catholics of Uri streamed downwards with their cows in long procession, the head ‘Senner’ walking in front followed by one fine animal; and to-day the pasture is as still and desolate as it will be all the coming winter. Even the very stream that washes it will be less voiceful, when the first frosts have bound once more the snow that feeds and fills it through all the warm season. It was indeed most curious and interesting to find man, beast, and bird all leaving it on the same day.

On arriving at Wasen, being still alarmed lest I should be too late to see much on this side of the great double barrier—for it now became evident that the birds were taking advantage of the last fine weather—I had half a mind to go through the tunnel to Airolo, and catch them on the southern side. My second thoughts, however, were in this expedition unusually lucky, and I fortunately decided to stay for a night or two at Hospenthal, which lies just at the northern mouth of the St. Gotthard Pass proper, in that curious elevated valley mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, which lies just between the two halves of the great trench formed by the valleys of the Rhine and Rhone. Any birds crossing the St. Gotthard into Italy must necessarily pass Hospenthal, and I had heard enough already of migration in this district to make me pretty confident of getting information here, even if I were not lucky enough to see anything myself.

When we issued from the ‘Urner-loch’ into this broad and grassy valley, it was just beginning to grow dark; but we could see great numbers of swallows and martins on the church steeples both of Andermatt and Hospenthal, which are about a mile apart. As I came down the next morning at 7 a.m., I was met by Anderegg, who informed me that the gathering on the Hospenthal steeple had left their station in a body at 6 a.m., had circled high into the air for a few minutes, and then taken a directly southward course, not by the St. Gotthard road, but over the shoulder of the mountain which separates that road from a parallel valley to the east of it. That this account was true I was able to prove to my own satisfaction, for on the morning of the next day I was up in time to see a new party depart in precisely the same manner and the same direction. Like the Pipits, these Swallows and Martins migrate in considerable flocks coming one behind the other; and so far as we could ascertain from walks taken during the day, these flocks occupy successively the steeples of Andermatt and Hospenthal, coming up from the lower valley and settling first on the former, then leaving it when the other is free, and so eventually leaving that also to rise for their last flight over the great barrier. How long this process goes on I could not very clearly ascertain. But there were still young martins in the nests at Hospenthal, which would hardly be ready to fly for some days, and as we subsequently found a certain number of martins (though very few swallows) when we returned to the Haslithal, I am inclined to think that it occupies a considerable time, and differs in length according to the weather. On the occasion of my visit, though it was fine and warm, the barometer was falling, and the very next day a continuous rain and snow-fall set in, lasting nearly three days; so that it seemed as if the birds were making haste to escape from a climate which might very well be dangerous to them. In Meiringen I was told that great numbers of them were caught and killed by severe weather in September last year. And the waiter in the hotel at Hospenthal, who most fortunately has some interest in these matters, and keeps his eyes open in his idle autumn hours, declared that he had seen the martins so eager to induce their young to leave the nest before it was too late, that at last they pulled them out by main force and compelled them to join the general assembly on the steeple.

This same man had also noticed a migration of another kind, which it may be worth while to record here. Sitting in front of the hotel, with nothing to do, he had observed a constant stream of dragon-flies making their way up the valley; and during my walks that day I was able fully to verify his statement. All the way from Hospenthal to Andermatt these creatures were to be seen coming up against the wind, which was now blowing from the west. Doubtless I should never have noticed them, if my attention had not been drawn to them by this most fortunately situated observer. There was no mistake about it; countless numbers were steadily passing up the valley, but whither they were going it was hopeless to ascertain; they did not seem to turn up the St. Gotthard road, for I remarked them the whole way up the valley to the foot of the Furka Pass westwards. Frau Meyer, landlady of the hotel, told me that she had once witnessed an extraordinary flight of countless butterflies at Hospenthal; but could not tell me the species. I had myself previously noticed the tendency of the Apollo butterfly at the Stein-alp to fly up the pass—every individual I saw being apparently on his way upwards. And this was against an east wind, close to a glacier, and on the 19th of September!

The migrating birds, however, did not seem to get any further up the valley than Hospenthal; and indeed at no point further up would they have found a route into Italy so comparatively free from difficulty. We took a walk in the afternoon in order to ascertain whether this were so, and the result was interesting. Let it be understood that at Hospenthal the St. Gotthard road turns sharp to the south up a narrow valley, while the elevated valley or plain in which Hospenthal lies extends for several miles further to the foot of the Furka Pass, which leads, not into Italy, but into the Rhone valley westwards. Exactly as the human traveller into Italy follows the road up the narrow defile, leaving the broad plain behind him, so do the birds change their direction at this point, and prepare to leave food and comfort until they are on the southern side of the barrier. All day long a little tract of broken ground lying between the hotel and the river had been alive with Pipits; but when we walked further up the main valley westwards not a bird was to be seen, except here and there a lingering Redstart. The desolation was complete; yet no sooner had we returned to Hospenthal, than we were greeted again by Pipits, Wagtails, Martins, and even by a solitary Wheatear, who seemed left behind by his relations. This was the only bird of its kind which I saw during my stay in the Alps. The Wheatears are, as in England, the first migrants which arrive in the spring, and doubtless they are also among the first to depart. The only other bird which was common here at this time was the Kestrel—the Thurmfalk (tower-falcon) as he is here called; they nest in the Alps in old towers or rocks, and several were always to be seen about the old Lombard tower which overlooks the village, and once overawed its inhabitants.

The next day I resolved to try whether the Grimsel Pass, the second principal opening from the north through the great barrier, would show us anything new; but in this project I was disappointed, for rain and intense cold came on, which drove me down to Meiringen and deprived me of any opportunity of further observation. And here, as I write, the sun has once more broken through the clouds, a bracing north wind blows, the mountains above us are covered with fresh snow, the trees are beginning to lose their summer green, the cow-bells are ringing in the valley instead of upon the alps, and alpine autumn is here in all its health and beauty. The hotel is empty, and my only companions are the faithful Anderegg and my host, Herr Willi, now Cabinet Minister of his Canton, who entertains me with discourse of the history of the Haslithal, the antiquities of which he has been the first to explore. Some summer birds are still here; the Chiff-chaff for a single moment uttered its voice outside the window by which I write. The Robins are in fair abundance, and a few will stay in the valley, where the cold is not greater than in our own climate, throughout the winter. A walk this morning showed us the House-martin, the Crag-martin, and a single individual of the numerous Alpine Swifts, which in the summer haunt the gigantic precipices that frown upon the valley.

We have seen how the Swallow-tribe departs from the Alps, and have also learnt something of the movements and migration of other birds; but I have still to discover in which direction the tenderer birds, the various members of the tribe of warblers, find a way to their southern winter home. I can hardly believe that they can traverse the wild and shelterless mountain passes with their short wings and fragile bodies; yet in the long sea voyages which they make they are no less at the mercy of the elements than they would be when in the jaws of the most savage defile of the St. Gotthard.