What the hell? The peak is so isolated and difficult to get to that the only signs of humanity are ancient ones. And here is a glass bead. In a pond. Tiny iridescent feathers floated on the water's skin. I picked up the bead.
The bird's wing, the feathers and the bead. "It's a carrier pigeon's leg ring!"
"Oh wow. I wonder ..."
I had visions of this doomed pigeon crashing into the mountain in an exhausted daze, or maybe it was killed by a raptor and taken to the peak to be eaten?
That night in the cave, we lit a fire and cooked up some kangaroo, garlic and mushrooms. We sat down in the dirt and inspected the leg ring by torchlight. Then we got out our phones and started googling. Now you may think that googling a pigeon fancier from a cave on the top of a mountain is strange but you should try the mother lode of pigeon racing p*rn we encountered that night. A YouTube clip, posted by the owner of our unfortunate pigeon, depicted his avian heroes posing coyly amongst red sparkling graphics to the strains of that ultimate stalker song Every Breath You Take by the Police. I recognised the iridescent feathers cloaking the birds' throats. Seeing those feathers set to the music completely did my head in. Days later, I'm still finding that clip unsettling but I keep returning to it like a dysfunctional lover.
So, the day before yesterday, I rang the phone number on the leg ring.
"Hello, I'm Sarah. You probably don't know me. Um, I think I may have found one of your pigeons. Do you live in Albany? Do you have pigeons?"
"Ah, yes, yes. You find my pigeon? Where you find my pigeon?"
"At the top of the mountain."
"The mountain? At the top?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. I found bits of a bird and the leg ring in a pond."
"Ahh, the peregrines ... What number was it?"
"Number? I don't know. Loft 5?"
"No, no. The blue ring."
"I only found a yellow ring, with your phone number on it."
"Oh, ok."
"You might know me. I used to sell fish at the markets." I knew he was Filipino and the local community were great customers at our stall. They like whole, fresh fish (and anyone who has to fillet for hours on a Saturday will appreciate those who like whole fish).
"Fish? Not pigeon? You want to sell fish?"
"No! I want to give you the ring. I'll drop it off tomorrow if you like. Where do you live?"
We organised to meet at his house so I could give him back the leg ring. As I parked on the verge, he came home with his wife and children. He was a short, sturdy man with bushy brows that made him look stern. In the video he was wearing a short straw hat, Chilean style, but this day he was hatless and his hair was speckled with white. A jack russell rabbitted around our feet. He showed me into the back yard, to the pigeon loft.
"Three weeks ago, the club took 300 birds to ahh Leonora. 100 birds came home."
"You lost 200 birds?"
"Yes, yes. The peregrines. They eat them. They eat only brains," he picked at his head with his fingers. "Only brains."
200 pigeon brains.
"How far is that? How long?"
"They fly 865 kilometres. We set them at 8 in the morning and the first three come home at 6 o'clock."
Shit. That's fast. You couldn't drive from Leonora to Albany in that time, not as the pigeon flies.
"We have big races in Adelaide. This bird, this is a famous bird," he pointed one out to me. The pigeon eyed me. What can I say? A fine looking bird, sleek and muscular, its beautiful throat reminding me of the gnamma hole, again.
"All over Australia, people come to race birds in Adelaide. We send them when they are babies. November 30th. Then July we race them from Marla or Coober Pedy, 1000 kilometres to Adelaide. That bird is a famous bird. He came -" he holds up two fingers.
"Second?"
"Yes. Three thousand dollars prize."
I have to say that at this point I was dangerously close to becoming a pigeon fancier. I'd entered the murky world of a sub culture previously beyond my ken. I was totally understanding the sentiment in the theme song to his You Tube clip. Stalker song? I think not!
Why can't you see? You belong to me, is really about the relationship between a man and his homing pigeon.
"I will tell the club about you," he said. "Who climb the mountain and find my bird. Is a magnificent story."
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