Antpittas are a notoriously sneaky bunch of creatures. According to the Hilty and Brown’s Guide to the Birds of Colombia they are, “as a group, the most difficult to observe and among the least known of all South American birds,” and all Cornell’s Neotropical Birds website has to say about this species is that “almost nothing is known concerning its life history.” That’s because they spend their lives in tropical undergrowth sneaking about in the shadows. It is possible to be within a few feet of a singing antpitta and still not be able to see it. A friend once informed me “don’t bother looking for antipittas, because they’re actually just a myth and no one has ever seen one.” This is actually pretty good advice.

However, I sometimes get lucky with sneaky creatures hiding in the underbrush. While hiking in the Mesenia Paramillo Reserve in southeastern Antioquia, this little guy hopped out into the open and called for about two minutes. What you hear in the video is not the bird’s typical three-noted song, but some kind of alarm call. I was just about close enough to grab him while I took this video. I’m not sure what spurred the bird’s uncharacteristically brazen bahvaior, but I feel very privileged to have gotten this peek at such a seldom seen creature. It’s an especially interesting sighting, since I was not on the Pacific slope of the Andes and so was outside of the recognized range of this species.

An inhabitant of humid higher-elevation forest, the Crescent-chested Warblers is one of the most common member of mixed feeding flocks during the winter, although pairs defend a single territory during the breeding season. This bird is closely associated with oaks, and is found in pine-oak forests from northern Mexico to Central America.  This bird is very similar in appearance to the Northern and Tropical Parula, but they are identifiable by their distinct white eyebrow.

In a birding guide to Veracruz, I came across the casual mention of a bird called the Worthen’s Sparrow.  The guide said that Worthen’s Sparrows were known to have been seen in the far eastern edge of Veracruz in an area called Perote.  This part of Veracruz features a succession of increasingly arid habitats as it nears the state of Puebla – prairie, scrub, mal pais, and eventually desert.

I had never heard of this bird before, but I attributed it to the fact that I’m a terrible birder who doesn’t even own a field guide.  I wanted to see a Worthen’s Sparrow, since I have never seen one, but I didn’t think too hard about it.  That is, until we discovered this is actually one of the rarest bird species in North America.  They once ranged from New Mexico to Veracruz, but is now restricted three tiny groups in north-eastern Mexico. They seem to be tied to a very specific soil type and the vegetation that goes with it.  The total population of this species is estimated to be no more than 500 individuals, and is likely closer to about 200. They as scarce as the far more iconic Whooping Crane or California Condors.

Why has nobody heard of this bird, then?  I suppose because it’s ugly, and it’s in Mexico.  Although, rare, ugly, and in Mexico is about all it takes for ME to become very excited.  I have spent some time trying to find the probably extirpated Worthen’s Sparrows of Veracruz, but have turned up nothing.  I want another chance to look. Chances are there is no habitat in Veracruz that can really support their needs, but something seems romantic to me to be the champion of an ugly bird in an ugly habitat, and another reservoir of genetic diversity would be invaluable to a minute population of slowly dwindling birds.

The Golden-Crowned Warbler is a common ground-dwelling warbler with a substantial distribution ranging from Northern Mexico to Argentina. They occupy a broad swath of mid-to-low elevation humid and semi-humid forested areas, and due to this large but not entirely contiguous range there is a substantial amount of geographic variation within the species. The variation is visually noticeable in varying degrees of thickness and brightness in the head patterning between populations, but there is also an observable difference in song.

Typical Adult

Based on the Quetzal from the Temple of the Cross in Palenque

The Gray-crowned Yellowthroat is relatively common throughout lowland Mexico and Central America. More of a generalist than other members of its genus, the Gray-crowned Yellowthroat inhabits a wide-range of open and semi-open habitats including grassland, scrub, and cultivated areas. It is one of the few warbler species commonly sighted in cane fields. Compared with other members of Geothlypis it is also notably larger and and stocky and possesses a significantly thicker bill. Adult males have a comparatively small face-mask, a gray head, and a partial eye-ring, although not all individuals distinctly display this trait.

Adult Male

I acquired Dave while living in Honduras. It is no surprise to me that after a couple of months spent in a hot, humid environment at close proximity to cattle I had gotten infected. Nearly all terrestrial vertebrates get botflies from time to time, although some species are more commonly found with them than others. Typically each type of vertebrate host is infected only by its own specialized species of botfly, but as luck would have it, the so-called human botfly Dermatobia hominis is most commonly found in cows, and humans are just an accidental host.

Botflies infect their hosts by means of a vector, as the adult flies have no mouthparts or other organs by which to deposit their eggs on their host. Instead they place their eggs on a smaller blood-feeding insect, usually a mosquito, housefly or sometimes a tick so the botfly eggs can enter their host through the insect bite. Once inside, the botfly makes itself at home and will spend the next eight to twelve weeks growing and preparing itself for life as an adult fly.

As fond as I was of Dave, botflies are arguably one of the most revolting animals on planet earth. As adults they are a large, but relatively innocuous looking fly, but during their larval phase that they are undeniably repulsive. Before their metamorphosis they’re bulbous egg-sized monsters featuring several rings of back-wards pointing black hooks circling their amorphous bodies that hold them indelibly inside their host, a pair of black fangs near the mouth, and a long fleshy periscope that they use as a breathing apparatus coming out of the rear. Of course, if you are lucky enough to actually have a botfly, you probably won’t see most of this, because they spend the majority of their lives underneath the surface of their hosts’ skin. The only visible signs are usually an ever-growing lump with a tiny breathing hole at the center and an occasional twitch as they make themselves comfortable.

A young Dave during his molt.

Other than his little periscope tail, the only time I ever saw Dave was during his third instar molt when he came up order to shed his skin. I did feel him, however. The vast majority of the time the botfly was entirely painless, and I was able to ignore it completely. Very rarely, however, I would have a sudden, brief flash of pain so intense that I would find myself standing up and yelling before I realized what was happening. These sudden bursts made me seem slightly insane, and the explanation of having insects in my skin didn’t really dispel this notion. I have heard that they will cause pain when something affects their breathing tube, but for me the pain seemed to occur at random, and I suspect it was simply the moments when the feeding worm came across a larger nerve.

Although occasionally painful, botflies are virtually harmless if left alone. Once they finish developing inside their host they simply leave to complete their lifecycle, and the hole heals with remarkable rapidity. Because of their ability to keep the immune system at bay, it is only when they are killed but not properly removed that they pose a risk of infection. Still, removal is simple. All that is required is to cover their breathing hole in order to suffocate the worm and then to squeeze out the dead fly once its hooks disengage.

The reason I decided to put up with this painful, filthy nonsense for nearly ten weeks was so I could see Dave in all his glory when he finally matured (and so I could keep him in a vial and use him to weird out friends during dinner.) I wanted to see what would happen; it was a science experiment. After awhile, however, I grew attached to Dave on some sort misguidedly sentimental level, and I was excited to see him. I mean, hell, I did name him.

The problem is, botflies are evolved to exit their host as painlessly as possible so they can begin their pupation without being smashed or put into vial. Just as nature intended, Dave escaped from my leg without me even noticing. I simply returned from work one day with a hole in my life. I was genuinely depressed for a couple of days at losing my science experiment and pet. I’d like to think he’s at least grown up into an adult fly, but since I had moved to an arid climate since my infection, I doubt he’s had much luck in completing his lifecycle. …but who knows? Cattle are everywhere. I wish him the best.