Birding in Belize

Wetlands at Crooked Tree

My first stop is the Crooked Tree Wildlife Sanctuary, 33 miles northwest of Belize City. Established in 1984 by the independent Belize Audubon Society, the BAS maintains a small museum, selling books and displaying local creepy-crawlies—snakes, tarantulas—safely pickled in glass jars. The sanctuary is a winding network of inland lagoons, swamps, and waterways, up to a mile wide and over 20 miles long. Home to both resident and migrant species, it's one of the best places in Belize—and the world, for that matter—to see jabiru storks. With a wingspan of 10 to 12 feet, they are the largest flying bird in the Americas. Two pairs are known to nest here, arriving in November, and others join them from northern and central Belize during April and May, when their young have fledged.

In front of the museum a column of leaf-cutter ants are industriously carrying chips of bright leaves to their great nest, somewhere deep in the forest, up to ten feet in diameter and two feet high. We are greeted by Sam Tillett, a park ranger with a wide, infectious grin. His passion for his job is inspiring, and he is deeply knowledgeable about the area. He takes us to a small boat at the water's edge, and as we push off from shore a pair of vermilion flycatchers alight in a nearby logwood tree, the vivid male an unmistakable, glorious crimson.

A causeway built a few years ago flooded much of the land, killing many logwood trees. Their stark silhouettes still cleave the waters, and their loss is our aesthetic gain: Many are now garlanded with sprays of white orchids. The lower branches are clustered with the frosted translucence of apple snail egg masses, white or pale pink; the dozen or so snail kites we see feed exclusively on the adult snails (they've recently been discovered engaging in kleptoparasitism, stealing snails from limpkins). In this swamp boat-billed, chestnut-bellied herons and tiger-throated herons roost, and flocks of American coots, along with blue-winged teal, Muscovy ducks and lesser scaup scatter in front of the boat. The sinuous forms of anhingas and cormorants fill the trees, while below northern jacanas pick their way across abundant lily pads.

Reaching open water, Sam cuts the motor and we drift. Local boys splash in the shallows, diving from the gunwales of a dugout dory, laughing in the bright sunshine. We spy a peregrine falcon, hunting American coots. He makes a swift pass and aborts, circles again and then, almost faster than we can see, he takes a bird and is aloft again. He flies heavily, a strange creature with four wings. I'm snapping pictures, amazed, when Sam casually says, "There's a manatee beside the boat." He grins widely at my astonishment. I lower the camera and stare into the deep blue, where an enormous russet shadow, six feet long, gently undulates past the boat. When he submerges his wide flat tail leaves a liquid path of silver circles.

Following a small stream into the trees, Sam ties the boat to a small bridge. He has built a wooden walkway through the swamp, where our footsteps cause vibrant green iguanas to slide noiselessly into the water. A citraline trogon perches nearby, its bright gold belly unmistakeable. At the end of the trail a wooden tower offers a broad view, and we sit and enjoy the peaceful scene. A sleek black catbird alights close to us, a lucky sighting of this rare bird. When a peculiar deep croaking sound catches our attention, Sam cocks his head and says, "Pigs."

How mundane, I think—but then I notice the twinkle in his eye and hazard, "Frogs?"

He shakes his head, smiling. "It's an olivaceous cormorant." Back on the water we see osprey and kingfishers hunting, boat-tailed grackles, the tall graceful forms of great egrets, and pretty blue mangrove swallows, diving low for insects.