The final push from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok wasn’t easy. Fatigue sets in at the end of a field season, when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel but you still have a lot of work to do before you can get there. Even though you really want to just be done and sleeping in a real bed (preferably past 6am), you need to keep focus and stay motivated to finish data collection. When we left Khabarovsk, we had only six days before we needed to be in Vladivostok, but nearly 800 km to cover and a lot more birds to catch. Slacking off was not an option.
Fortified by a night of good pizza (Khabarovsk is apparently famous in Russia for pizza- who knew?) and a morning of internet and good coffee, we headed into the Russian Far East, leaving Siberia proper in our rearview. Our plan for the remaining six days was simple: try and catch 15-20 birds at three sites between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. It felt doable.
Unfortunately, the weather was dicey as we left Khabarovsk, and it stayed that way for the next six days. Unlike the continental climate of Siberia, with its extreme hot and cold swings, the Pacific-influenced Far East is milder and much, much wetter, especially during the summer typhoon season. The good news about that wet weather is that there are TONS of barn swallows. We’d spent the days leading up to Khabarovsk in a virtual barn swallow desert- past Chita, the dry climate, dense forests, and little agriculture meant there weren’t many places for swallows to nest and probably not many insects for them to eat. When we did find them, they were industrial garages and mechanic shops rather than barns. But as soon as we crossed the Zeya river, a bit before reaching Khabarovsk, everything changed: the forest transitioned from birch and pine into broad-leaved Siberian oaks, the sky became gray and misty, bright green agricultural fields stretched out for miles along the highway, and around each of the many, many bridges was a swarm of barn swallows. If the rain would hold off for long enough to catch them, we’d be golden.
And for the most part it did. Half an hour outside of Khabarovsk we found ourselves on familiar territory: a huge dairy farm with dozens of swallow nests. After a week of stumbling around trying to chase birds out of garages with 40-foot-high roofs, it was a relief to be back on a low-ceilinged, small-windowed farm, piles of cow shit and all. We quickly caught 20 birds, finishing up just as the rain began to pour. We got lucky again, finding a café with good pelmeni and a hotel with good beer a short way down the road. One site down, two to go.
Unfortunately, the weather was dicey as we left Khabarovsk, and it stayed that way for the next six days. Unlike the continental climate of Siberia, with its extreme hot and cold swings, the Pacific-influenced Far East is milder and much, much wetter, especially during the summer typhoon season. The good news about that wet weather is that there are TONS of barn swallows. We’d spent the days leading up to Khabarovsk in a virtual barn swallow desert- past Chita, the dry climate, dense forests, and little agriculture meant there weren’t many places for swallows to nest and probably not many insects for them to eat. When we did find them, they were industrial garages and mechanic shops rather than barns. But as soon as we crossed the Zeya river, a bit before reaching Khabarovsk, everything changed: the forest transitioned from birch and pine into broad-leaved Siberian oaks, the sky became gray and misty, bright green agricultural fields stretched out for miles along the highway, and around each of the many, many bridges was a swarm of barn swallows. If the rain would hold off for long enough to catch them, we’d be golden.
And for the most part it did. Half an hour outside of Khabarovsk we found ourselves on familiar territory: a huge dairy farm with dozens of swallow nests. After a week of stumbling around trying to chase birds out of garages with 40-foot-high roofs, it was a relief to be back on a low-ceilinged, small-windowed farm, piles of cow shit and all. We quickly caught 20 birds, finishing up just as the rain began to pour. We got lucky again, finding a café with good pelmeni and a hotel with good beer a short way down the road. One site down, two to go.
350 km, and several stretches of bad road south of Khabarovsk, we began searching for the second of our final three sites. By this point, the dairy farms had vanished and the towns along the highway were bigger, and we had to stop in a dozen shops and gas stations to ask if there were farms nearby. Finally, we were directed down a long road off the highway bordered by a string of villages. After an hour or two of chasing down leads, including being directed down overgrown dirt roads to a farm that had been abandoned for at least 20 years, we backtracked to a farm the nearby villagers assured us had cows. At last, we found it- abandoned and with no cows, naturally, but abandoned recently enough to have intact buildings and lots of barn swallows. We looked around- there was no one there watching the site, no guard dogs. We hadn’t seen any people on the road. We had no idea who owned the farm. It was getting late in the afternoon. “Ok,” Georgy said. “Let’s just grab 10 birds and go as fast as we can.” Hoping desperately that no one would catch us trespassing, we dashed inside, strung up nets, and caught 10 birds in about 20 minutes. Then, bags of birds in hand, we jumped in the car, drove a mile down the road, and set up our banding table at a pull-off. We spent the next hour processing birds on the side of the road, and only one driver pulled over to ask what we were selling. When the last bird flew away, we stopped at a shop for ice creams- a reward for finishing what had been the most stressful site of the season. Until the next one.
Our final site, 70 km north of Vladivostok, was a small pig farm far on the outskirts of a big town. We had camped in an amazingly bug-free oak forest the night before, and seen several promising looking buildings in the area. As we ate our final meal of ramen noodles that night, we realized that if we caught 15 birds the next day, we could make it to Vladivostok a day early, giving us a day to sightsee before Matt had to fly home. We all really wanted a chance to dip our feet in the Pacific ocean, 5,600 miles from where we had started in Moscow two and a half months earlier.
Of course, none of those promising-looking buildings panned out the next day, and it was 3 hours and one accidental visit to a horror-movie-ready psychiatric hospital before we found a suitable site. The pig farm was a small, private affair, and the owner and his wife checked our documents before letting us into their barn. Fortunately, the place was stuffed to the gills with barn swallows. Matt set up his parabolic microphone and recorder and went off to record songs, while Georgy and I dodged piglets, chickens, and pig slop to set up nets in the barn. Soon we had 17 birds- all we needed!- and started cranking away on processing. As we measured birds and took blood samples, we noticed a military helicopter flying nearby, apparently doing flight exercises of some sort. “Oh yeah,” I thought to myself. “I think there are lots of military installations around Vladivostok.” In fact, as Russia’s most easterly city, Vladivostok is the home of Russia’s Pacific Fleet and has only been open to foreigners since 1992. I did not know these details as we watched the helicopter from the pig farm.
Of course, none of those promising-looking buildings panned out the next day, and it was 3 hours and one accidental visit to a horror-movie-ready psychiatric hospital before we found a suitable site. The pig farm was a small, private affair, and the owner and his wife checked our documents before letting us into their barn. Fortunately, the place was stuffed to the gills with barn swallows. Matt set up his parabolic microphone and recorder and went off to record songs, while Georgy and I dodged piglets, chickens, and pig slop to set up nets in the barn. Soon we had 17 birds- all we needed!- and started cranking away on processing. As we measured birds and took blood samples, we noticed a military helicopter flying nearby, apparently doing flight exercises of some sort. “Oh yeah,” I thought to myself. “I think there are lots of military installations around Vladivostok.” In fact, as Russia’s most easterly city, Vladivostok is the home of Russia’s Pacific Fleet and has only been open to foreigners since 1992. I did not know these details as we watched the helicopter from the pig farm.
About 30 minutes later, we heard vehicles rumbling up the road behind us, and suddenly Georgy’s eyes got big. “Um, we might have problems,” he said. As I turned around, two military trucks pulled up next to us and uniformed men got out. Oh shit. I carefully put the bird I was holding back in a bag and stood up, a big, and I hoped innocent-looking smile frozen on my face. The uniformed men began talking rapidly to Georgy, while Matt and I stood by trying not to fidget or look terrified. Georgy turned to us and said “passports.”
Now, it’s important to note here that we were not doing anything illegal. We had the necessary permits to catch birds and collect blood, Georgy is employed by a large research institute in Novosibirsk, and we’d been given permission by the owners to work on this farm. Still, Russia’s attitude towards foreigners is cool and inconsistent on the best day, and aggressive, paranoid, and intolerant on the worst. In the months leading up to our visit, a controversial law had been passed branding NGOs engaged in political activity and receiving foreign funding as “foreign agents”- i.e., spies. We weren’t engaged in political activity, of course, but the climate towards foreigners was not particularly welcoming. Plus, the Russian police aren’t exactly known for their scrupulous morals. As one of the officers started copying down our passport information into a big ledger, all I could think was “please don’t take our samples. We’re almost done, please don’t take our samples…”
Now, it’s important to note here that we were not doing anything illegal. We had the necessary permits to catch birds and collect blood, Georgy is employed by a large research institute in Novosibirsk, and we’d been given permission by the owners to work on this farm. Still, Russia’s attitude towards foreigners is cool and inconsistent on the best day, and aggressive, paranoid, and intolerant on the worst. In the months leading up to our visit, a controversial law had been passed branding NGOs engaged in political activity and receiving foreign funding as “foreign agents”- i.e., spies. We weren’t engaged in political activity, of course, but the climate towards foreigners was not particularly welcoming. Plus, the Russian police aren’t exactly known for their scrupulous morals. As one of the officers started copying down our passport information into a big ledger, all I could think was “please don’t take our samples. We’re almost done, please don’t take our samples…”
Georgy was talking rapidly to the officer who appeared to be in charge. I can understand enough Russian to have gotten the gist of what he was saying, and it was basically the entire history of barn swallows- genetics, evolution, the number of subspecies, what the birds in Moscow looked like, what the birds in America looked like, where the hybrid zones were. He was very convincing as a bird biologist. The officer stood there looking bemused for several minutes while Georgy rambled on. Finally, he pointed at Matt and I. “So, they’re Americans. Studying birds.” Georgy nodded. “And those,” pointing to the bags on our banding table, “those bags are full of birds?” Georgy nodded again and lit a cigarette. The officers spoke to each other then, and to Georgy, and all I could understand was Georgy saying “No! No! We don’t want to!” I started to get nervous. Then they stood up, shook our hands, and drove off.
“What did they say to you?” we asked once they were gone. Georgy was shaking a little bit. “Oh,” he said. “They told me that we were clearly not doing anything illegal. Then they asked if you guys wanted to come to the base and take photos of their helicopter fueling stations. They were joking, but I said we definitely did not want to.” He paused. “That was the commander of the entire military base. I really thought they were going to put us in jail while they sorted all this stuff out.” “I think I need some new pants,” said Matt.
“What did they say to you?” we asked once they were gone. Georgy was shaking a little bit. “Oh,” he said. “They told me that we were clearly not doing anything illegal. Then they asked if you guys wanted to come to the base and take photos of their helicopter fueling stations. They were joking, but I said we definitely did not want to.” He paused. “That was the commander of the entire military base. I really thought they were going to put us in jail while they sorted all this stuff out.” “I think I need some new pants,” said Matt.
Shortly after the soldiers left, the farmer’s wife came out holding a big jar of fresh milk. “What happened?” she asked. Georgy explained. “I wonder how they knew you were here!” she said, and then offered us the milk. She looked apologetic. I don’t hold a grudge against her for calling the military base (although I might if we were currently in a Russian prison). Having two Americans claiming to be studying birds suddenly show up out of nowhere on your helicopter base-adjacent farm and start walking around with recording equipment is cause for suspicion.
We finished our last birds as quickly as possible and got back on the road. We stopped for lunch, and Matt and I drank beers to calm our still-jittery nerves. Back in the car, it finally dawned on us that we were done, finished, had caught all the birds we needed. 542. We had caught 542 birds over 5,600 miles of the world’s biggest country. We were too tired to get really excited. Now all that lay between us and the Pacific was a last 35 miles of road.
-Liz
We finished our last birds as quickly as possible and got back on the road. We stopped for lunch, and Matt and I drank beers to calm our still-jittery nerves. Back in the car, it finally dawned on us that we were done, finished, had caught all the birds we needed. 542. We had caught 542 birds over 5,600 miles of the world’s biggest country. We were too tired to get really excited. Now all that lay between us and the Pacific was a last 35 miles of road.
-Liz