The Lek

I first heard about the mating rituals of the Cock-of-the-Rock in my sophmore year Animal Behavior class. So when the opportunity presented itself to witness the spectacle, I signed on.

We woke at ten of four, dressed in the dark and tiptoed downstairs to meet our guide. Outside the lodge, we walked uietly, savoring the night sounds of frogs and insects, the trail illuminated by our headlamps and a waining moon. When we reached the ridge, we paused for breath, and found ourselves between the big dipper and the southern cross. Below us lay the sleeping towns of Nanegal and Nanegalito.

We left the main trail and descended steeply crossing a small stream and climbing again. I began to wonder how this site had been found. Shortly before six, our guide stopped, fished a pocket knife out of his backpack and began to cut long, broad leaves while we, in whispers, guessed at their purpose.

The path descended more steeply and we shook drops of water from each tree we clung to for support. The trail ended in a bench made of two long poles worked into the hillside. Our guide spread the leaves across the poles forming a dry-ish seat for each of us. "The birds will be here," he informed us indicating a swath of the forest below with his flashlight. "Please don't use your flash if you take pictures and don't shake the trees." Then we sat, still and silent waiting for the show to begin.

The daily ritual is called a lek. Males gather in the same spot day after day to compete for a mate. They strut, squak, show off their brilliant plumage and make themselves appear as fit and worthy of a mate as possible. Usually, it seems, the females choose the fellow at the center of the lek, who, as an alpha male has earned the right to be there and fathers about 90% of the offspring.

As the day lightened and the leaves took on color, a loud sqwak sounded below us. A bizarre foot-high bird in brilliant crimson with black and white wings and a bulbous array of feathers on his crown paused on a branch to preen. It was 6:00 am, right on schedule. Other birds added their voices to the melee and shortly the lek reached a crecendo. Birds flew in and out, flapped their wings, ducked their heads adn called loudly, each seeking to out-compete the others for best in show.

Over the next hour, the volume increased, ebbed, then racheted upwards again. We sat spellbound on our leaves craning our necks to spy ont eh birds through dense foliage. This day, apparently, the performace concluded without the presence of a female - who, according to our guide would have landed on the ground and immediately been surrounded by a hopping squadron of crimson suitors. At ten of seven, the squaking died down, each crecendo a little further from the last and a little less intense. Finally in a prolonged period of silence, we rose to go.

On the walk back I thought of Robert Askins who first introduced me to many of the strange and wonderful habits of birds, and whose teachings ignited in me a lifelong passion for and curiosity about the natural history of my avian fellows.