Fragments of Corvo
October 2024
A beginning is always difficult. How do you start writing about a microcosm that has so much to tell over so many years, and where each of us ultimately becomes a drop of water flowing into the all-encompassing ocean that surrounds everything? The Fragments of Corvo are episodes I experienced on the island — flashes of a much larger reality that unfolds there every year between September and October.
Corvo is the smallest island of the Azores but, when it comes to birdwatching, it is clearly the most sought after. Every year, a few dozen birders from all over Europe travel there in autumn, hoping to add American birds to their already extensive lists. Portuguese birders have gradually joined in, and nowadays there are around ten of us who go there annually with the same goal.
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| American Goshawk (Astur atricapillus) |
In 2024 it was my third stay. I was already getting used to how everything works in that small world and to enduring the physical effort which, to me, feels like military training. Every bird is hard-won, physically demanding, and one does not get any younger. That October, I stayed for ten days.
On the 17th — the seventh day, a Thursday — we decided to go down into the caldera to try our luck with the elusive Lapland longspur. The elusive part, apparently, only applies to me, since everyone else but me always manages to see them down there. Tradition held firm, and once again there were no longspurs. An American rough-legged buzzard flying overhead tried, without success, to save the day.
The caldera is truly breathtaking, especially on the climbing back up part, but I hadn’t gone there to admire Nature. We conceded defeat and headed back. Without longspurs, the ascent naturally felt much harder.
Reaching the parking area and catching our breath, we still had another hundred metres to walk to call the taxi. The wind was so strong it nearly knocked me over onto the asphalt. With some effort, I made it to the top and sent the message. Miraculously, the phone wasn’t torn from my hands by the wind. Half an hour passed — no taxi. Sandra went up to check for a reply. Nothing.
Sheltering besides the roadside sign, we began reflecting on life. It was still several kilometres to the main road, and a bit further to the village. Do we walk or do we wait? It felt like being on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
At some point, above the roar of the wind, I thought I heard an engine in the distance. I didn't say anything — these are the moments when your mind likes to play tricks on you. But no, it wasn’t just my imagination. The sound grew louder, it was clearly a car. Was it the taxi?
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Rough-legged buzzard (dark morph) The highlight of the descent into the Caldeira. |
When it finally appeared, we saw a large black jeep pass by. To my amazement, the driver immediately began waving goodbye. It was Pedro Silva, whom I had briefly met in Pico island back in 2021. It felt like a mirage. Cars on the island are few, and there, at that precise moment, one appeared driven by someone I knew. How was that even possible?
“Hi Fred. I’m Pedro. Remember me?”
Conversation flowed naturally. He had arrived on that day with a journalist to do a report on Corvo and the birders who visit the island in October.
“Would you mind doing an interview right now?”
How could I possibly refuse such an offer, with a free ride included?
We headed down together. The journalist introduced herself:
"Hi. I'm Patrícia, from Fugas, the travel supplement of the newspaper Público."
I answered all her questions — how I got started, why I was on Corvo, and a few other things. That was how a partnership began, one that would prove remarkably fruitful for all, over the following three days.
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| Norther harrier (Circus hudsonius) in the reservoir |
The rest of the day was spent showing Pedro the birds that were still around and that he hadn’t yet seen. The great surprise came when we found an American northern harrier near the reservoir. Still, that day I didn’t add any new species to my own list. That’s just how it goes — birds appear when they choose to, and most of the time effort alone doesn’t make the difference.
The next day, Friday, I woke up feeling low. I had seen some interesting birds that year, but missing the longspurs the day before had probably taken its toll. News came from Lighthouse Valley that a Blackpoll Warbler had been seen there the previous day — a lovely bird. Ruben had already asked me if I planned to go look for it, but for someone with unreliable knees, Lighthouse Valley feels almost like a trip to the moon. So, I decided to stay closer to the village, wandering through the fields.
Mid-morning brought fresh news: a black-and-white warbler had been spotted near the campsite. That's a symbolic and special bird for so I rushed over, only to find the bird gone. Typical!
The familiar scene awaited me — half a dozen people staring at half a dozen willows. Talking with the finder, Lucas, from Austria, sounded equally familiar “Yes, it was here, then it went there, and now we don’t see it.” We waited a good half hour, but the warbler never reappeared. Eventually people drifted away, and I decided to walk around the nearby area.
A few minutes later, almost back at initial spot, I thought I heard voices and excitement behind the willows. In a split second, I see Lucas beside me saying “black-and-white warbler,” and the bird flew right across the road, barely a metre from us. It lasted only one or two seconds, but it made hours worthwhile. I was genuinely moved. I hugged him and thanked him. The tide seemed to be turning...
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| Black-and-white Warbler |
The Corvo carousel began to spin. Around lunchtime came news of another warbler — a northern parula — near the same spot. After coffee, decisions had to be made. The options were two: stay down, in the lower fields, to look for the parula, or head up to Lighthouse Valley to try the Blackpoll Warbler. My companions — Sandra, Pedro, Patrícia, and Nuno Gonçalves — leaned towards going up. Besides the Blackpoll Warbler, there was also an America Redstart there, also missing in their lists. In the end, the decision was easy: After all, I had a ride, and Nuno promised to show me an easier route.
And so, I found myself in Lighthouse Valley — a place of dread for weak knees. The trail turned out to be gentler than I remembered and, within fifteen minutes, I was scanning the junipers where, in theory, the birds should be. The first bird appeared almost immediately, but unfortunately it wasn’t the one I needed. Nuno had warned me that the other bird, the blackpoll warbler, was more elusive and only showed sporadically. After twenty minutes, we still did'nt have white smoke. We kept changing positions. Still nothing. Meanwhile, the other warbler - American redstart - kept flying right in front of us. It’s always like that — when you don’t need it, it’s much easier. Two years earlier, one of those had caused me real trouble at that very same spot.
Anyway, that's water under the bridge. Suddenly, split of a second, I spotted another bird — more yellow, with two wing bars. It vanished again, not even allowing an out-of-focus picture. Another few minutes, it reappeared triumphantly, and I finally managed field-guide-worthy shots. The junipers and the blue sky completed the scene. When I checked the photos on my camera, I could hardly believe them.
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| Blackpoll Warbler |
I was getting ready to take a deep breath and savour the achievement but, on Corvo there are days when not even that is possible. Suddenly I hear Pedro’s voice behind me: "Raptor! Raptor! Raptor!"
There are no resident raptors on Corvo — any appearance is significant and demands full attention. Eyes to the sky, we clearly saw a medium-sized bird of prey amid panicked flocks of starlings. It reminded me of a goshawk back home, but it didn’t fully match anything familiar. On one hand it felt known; on the other, not quite. Maybe it was the colour — these things are hard to explain. The bird showed no hesitation and, before heading north, even circled the valley two or three times. Those with cameras fired away as fast as they could. The cameras were boiling.
In an adrenaline rush, we tried to make sense of what we’d seen. I checked the bird apps on my phone but found nothing that fit perfectly. We were discussing what to do next when we heard the radio crackle. We couldn’t make out a word. We asked for it to be repeated, with the same result. Apparently, whoever it was could hear us just fine; the other way around was more complicated. We only learned later that it was the Swede, Olof, calling to say he was seeing ‘our’ raptor.”
We had to act quickly. There was no mobile signal, and even the radio was unreliable. The sighting had to be shared. Nuno, a mountain guide from Pico and by far the strongest climber among us, offered to run uphill in search of reception. “We need to get the news out. Identification can come later.”, he said. We hugged colectivelly, and he took off at full speed, carrying a few back-of-camera photos. Even poor images would help solve the puzzle.
When we saw him again, up on the road, more than half an hour later, we began to grasp the magnitude of the situation. There was a strong suspicion that the bird was something unprecedented — an American goshawk (Accipiter atricapillus). If confirmed, it would be a first for the Azores and for the entire Western Palearctic. Meanwhile, Olof’s message had reached the wider birding community, and people were frantically trying to arrange transport up to our location. The regular taxi was unavailable, and panic set in.
A brief parenthesis is needed here: two days earlier, Vincent — one of Corvo’s most frequent visitors — had photographed two distant raptors against a white sky. No one made much of it, as "mosquito" raptor photos can be deceptive. I remember looking at the image and casually saying “accipiter,” based on the shape. "Accipiter, Vincent, accipiter" — I had no idea then what that offhand comment might imply. The problem was simple: no goshawk of any species had ever been recorded in the Azores (see also the translation note below). I remember that afterwards we talked about what might be moving around the island, and he mentioned, "what’s still missing is figuring out what that raptor in the photo is — it hasn’t shown up yet."
And it ended up appearing right above us, in one of the island’s most remote valleys. Sometimes you don’t need a scriptwriter. The story writes itself.
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| American Goshawk and the panic of the starlings |
The caos was installed for a few dozens of minutes but eventually everybody managed to come up. On the other hand, the bird cooperated briefly, and all present were able to see it. Once or twice it appeared near the cliffs below, surrounded by starlings fighting for survival. Distant, yes — but enough. Gradually, collective tension eased.
That late afternoon we returned triumphantly to the village, certain we had witnessed something truly special. The car felt like a golden museum carriage. People even waved as we passed — perhaps because we were riding in the Mayor’s vehicle.
After dinner, despite our confidence that the bird belonged to the Accipiter family, a definitive species identification was still needed. Pierre, another regular visitor, took charge of the investigation and contacted the experts. It was already after 10pm when I finally managed to send photos clearly showing the underside of the tail — enough to clinch the ID.
A few dozen minutes later, confirmation arrived from the experts:
“Congrats, it’s a Yankee!”
It was, indeed, an American goshawk (Accipiter atricapillus). The first confirmed in the Azores and the Wetern Paleartic.
And that is Corvo. On a Friday that began without great promise, five Portuguese birders shared a moment for life — a day like no other on a remote rock in the middle of the Atlantic.
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