Meynypil'gyno Bound

I walked through the automatic sliding doors of the Vnukovo Airport and found myself immediately disoriented. After making my way through a simple metal detector checkpoint I tried to get my bearings. I had about 2.5 hours until my flight, but I was still nervous. There were various check-in desks clustered everywhere within the large open space, all numbered. It took me more time than I’d like to admit to work out that the large electronic board displaying flights also noted which check in counters one needed to use. To complicate things further the board was constantly shifting and usually displaying text in Russian. Fortunately, “Anadyr” looks pretty similar whether displayed in Cyrillic or English text. After standing in the wrong line for about 15 minutes (as much as I’d like to visit Bulgaria, it wasn’t on this trip’s itinerary) I found the correct cluster of counters. I had been waiting in this correct line for about half an hour and was nearing the counters when I was startled to hear a voice in English to my left asking if I was Wyatt. I turned to see a group of several people clustered together. Somehow the other international members of the expedition managed to pick me out from the line waiting for the check-in desk amid the hectic airport (maybe the “Alaska Shorebird Group” hat I was wearing tipped them off).

              A brief exchange later and I had my ticket to Anadyr and my luggage was trundled off on a conveyor to who-knows-where. I briefly hoped I would see it again before meeting up with my new colleagues and heading for the security checkpoint and ultimately the terminal. The plane ride from Moscow to Anadyr airport (technically located in the settlement of Ugolnye Kopi on the other side of the river from Anadyr proper) is about 8 hours and runs twice a week (three times a week later in the summer). The plane was rather empty on our voyage East, but I was told this would likely not be the case upon our return trip. We departed Moscow after 7pm and landed in Andyr around noon the next day. At this point us foreigners on the team were incredibly grateful to have a Russian traveling with us as we tried to navigate the complicated Visa permissions and customs checks with the Chukotka border guards. I honestly think it would have been impossible for us to figure out on our own. I quickly learned that in Russia (at least Chukotka) few official procedures are clearly explained and all are subject to frequent and unpredictable change. At least this seemed to be a motif for the rest of the trip, especially for those of us who were not fluent in Russian.

              While Katya worked to get our Visas and Passports checked with the border guards, we were approached by a rather emphatic Russian woman who explained in broken English and frantic gesticulations than we needed to bring our luggage and come with her. At first it seemed she wanted us to leave our luggage over night at the airport (though this may have just been a severe misunderstanding in translation), but I eventually gathered that she was supposed to take us to where ever it was we were staying for the night. Not having any clear alternative, I started just walking the direction she was pointing, thinking rather sarcastically “what’s the worst that could happen.” I remembered reading somewhere that in Soviet times convicts were sent to Anadyr to work in the coal mines. I didn’t know if it was true, but it seemed like a rather dismal place to be sent, and now I had ended up here on my own accord, so at least it couldn’t get any worse. To add to the chaos, Bloodhound Gang's "The Bad Touch" was playing over the airport's speaker system. 
Eventually some of the other team members followed along as well, but others were rather reluctant to go along with this seemingly random woman without getting their passports back (a sentiment I shared). Long story short, the woman (named Natasha) owned the flat we were staying in for the night and had apparently told Katya about the arrangements. We were supposed to go with Natasha while Katya finished getting the paperwork cleared. Of course, none of this was conveyed to us at the time. It was my first introduction to the seemingly systemic miscommunication that made planning and working agonizingly inefficient at times throughout the summer.

              We had made it to Chukotka, but the village of Meynypil’gyno was still a two-hour helicopter ride away. In theory we would depart the airport sometime the next day. However, the helicopter apparently did not have radar, so the flight was dependent on whether it was foggy in Meynypil’gyno or not. The forecast didn’t look great for the next day and there was a precedent for delayed flights, sometimes for as long as a week or more to get to the village. After walking the streets of Ugolnye Kopi, I certainly didn’t want to wait around for a week there. On the scale of dreary places I’ve visited I would rank it somewhere near the bottom and have begun using it as something of a metric upon which other places can be ranked. That said, many of the concrete buildings were painted bright colors, and I managed to see my first Russian Glaucous Gulls flying about.

              While I was anxious to go birding, the other team members wanted to have dinner, so rather than wander off on my own I decided to go along with the plan. I was still under the impression that the helicopter flight would probably get cancelled so I’d have plenty of time to search for Temminck’s Stints and Wood Sandpipers the next afternoon. Next morning, we arrived at the airport around 8:00 am, shortly before it opened and began waiting to hear if the helicopter would go. At 11:00 we were all surprised to hear that the chopper was going to depart and it became a scramble to negotiate the security and weight stations before we were able to board the helicopter.

The helicopter could sit about 13 people. I managed to wedge myself between a window and a large metal tank that was giving off gasoline fumes, so by about halfway through the flight I was rather dizzy, but otherwise is was pretty comfortable thanks to the ear plugs I had decided to pack at last minute. This was my first time in a helicopter and the view of the ice-choked coast and snow-covered peaks made for an aesthetically impressive flight. Even so I managed to doze off for a while, only waking as we were beginning our descent into Meynypil’gyno. 

Meynypil'gyno helicopter

A wall of local villagers created a circle to greet the helicopter. I hopped down with my bags and moved towards the cluster of my colleagues to one side. Nearby, two tall Russian men introduced themselves as Nikolay and Fyodor, both of whom were members of the Spoon-billed Sandpiper field team and ended up herding us towards the town. Nikolay is the coordinator of the Meynypil’gyno field camp with BirdsRussia, and Fyodor is a geneticist working with the Spoon-billed Sandpiper head-starting program. We ended up in a pleasant newly constructed building made out of old shipping containers that served as a kitchen and dining room for the crew. Here we had lunch and got recombobulated, hearing from the Russians that the first few Spoon-billed Sandpipers had been seen the day before. We then began shuffling baggage and figuring out living arrangements. Around this time, Dr. Pavel Tomkovitch returned from a morning in the field on an ATV. I introduced myself and went with Pavel to drop my bags off in the empty room of the house he was staying in for the season. I had come to Meynypil’gyno to serve as Pavel’s field assistant, so we got acquainted over some tea, after which Pavel mentioned he was heading into the field again before dinner and asked if I wanted to come along. He wanted to check whether two other pairs of spoonies had returned to their former territories to the West of the village.

              

Coastal Tundra habitat near Meynypil'gyno

A wild ATV ride later (another motif of the summer) and we were walking along a relatively narrow peninsula of crowberry-covered tundra sandwiched between a partially frozen river and a large snow bank with some melt-water at the base. The sky was overcast, but there was no wind. I heard a Dunlin singing somewhere to my right and several Red-throated Pipits and Eurasian Skylarks giving aerial display songs. Then, off to the left, an unfamiliar Calidrid song. A descending buzzy growl. Pavel had seen the birds fly onto the tundra on the other side of the snowbank from where we were, so we crossed the snow and climbed a low bluff to the open tundra above. Here I managed to pick out a male Spoon-billed Sandpiper, walking about 30 meters in front of me and calling quietly. A female trundled nearby. Admittedly, this first encounter with a Spoon-billed Sandpiper felt a little anticlimactic, especially given that I had seen one within 3 hours of landing in Meynypil’gyno. I was more underwhelmed than I’d like to admit. It was neat to watch these peculiar birds calling and picking for a few minutes on the Chukotka tundra, but the moment didn’t have quite the gravity or reverence I expected to feel. It was highly satisfying, but aside for the peculiar bill shape, Spoonies aren’t particularly remarkable among the small calidrid waders. Red-necked Stints, their closest relatives, undergo similar migrations and often breed in similar areas, but lack the spade-shaped bills.

 While it is easy to value a particular species because its rare, I personally think this is rather shallow. I didn’t intend to have such a blasé feeling about my first Spoonies; perhaps it was partially exhaustion from traveling around the world and not sleeping much in between, but in hindsight I am rather glad for my initial feeling. It meant that my appreciation for these birds was able to grow out of experiences searching for their nests, hearing them sing, watching them feed, finding their broods, and contemplating their future conservation. As the summer unfolded it became quite clear that more than just a cute calidrid with a funny bill shape, Spoon-billed Sandpipers provide a puzzle with several pieces missing. I am happy to admit I am incredibly fond of Spoon-billed Sandpipers, but this affection is borne out of being intensely engrossed in their study for two months of the sub-arctic summer, and it is easy to see why so many scientists and conservationists have made this species a focal point of their studies