About every ten minutes, Shen Chen-chung picks up his stub of a pencil, only about two-thirds the length of his pinky, and, opening up the discolored and stained notebook on his lap, makes notes.

"4:30 in the afternoon: There are six kites at evening roll call (collective behavior)." Shen dubs this nightly gathering of birds "evening roll call," since it reminds him of the routine that soldiers go through every evening. Following the air currents they circle upward, then suddenly slide off to one side as if they had gone out of control, but just in time they adjust course. Nevertheless, often one or two leave the group and take off on their own.

"4:40: One among them suddenly accelerates, and flies straight as an arrow in the direction of Chingjen Lake." After its silhouette has disappeared over the ridge line, Shen, based on previous experience, guesses that perhaps it saw a friend (black kites have sharp vision). Shen had originally expected to see the first bird and its "friend" emerge together from behind the ridge, but to his surprise only one kite (perhaps the same one which flew off?) appears, and this time from behind a different ridge, to "keep the date" with the other kites. On this day a total of seven kites join the conclave.

These events took place just during the second cold spell of the year at the beginning of winter. In the mountains around Tungpeichiao, the northeast tip of Taiwan, the cold is several times more cutting than at sea level. When the sky darkens, temperatures plunge to below 10 degrees Celsius. Shen Chen-chung breathes deeply to ward off the chill. He looks lonely against the background of wild grass.

One can barely imagine that for the vast majority of days over the last four years he has lived in such isolation, sitting quietly on a mountain top, or perhaps popping up in some dense patch of forest where few humans ever set foot. He has done it day in and day out, through summer heat and winter winds, all in search of these few birds.

Bird neighbors

In the past, the black kite, commonly referred to as a "hawk," had a very intimate relationship with humans.

Anyone born before the 1950s, or who lived in the countryside, has many childhood memories of these birds. Perhaps you could only catch a glimpse of their silhouette as they sailed overhead, or perhaps you could witness them making a powerful sudden strike to capture a chick. However they appeared, they seemed always, in the words of Charlie Sung of the "Yellow Butterfly Valley Protectors," "like a toy kite, sailing on the wind, twisting and turning smoothly with the slightest shift in the angle of the wings or the tail."

In Chinese toy kites also have the nickname zhiyuan, in which zhi means paper and yuan means a bird of the kite species. It is interesting how Chinese and Westerners, quite independently, seem to have arrived at the same observation of the similarity of the birds and the toys. In Taiwanese, meanwhile, the birds are known as luhyou, which means "impressive wings."

Ornithological handbooks introduce the Taiwan hawk as Milvus migrans formusanus, a subspecies unique to Taiwan. Among birds of prey it is in the middle in terms of body size. It is most readily distinguished by its wiry claws and split tail. Nicknamed "the garbageman," it is most frequently active in dry fields and in the vicinity of forest clearings on hills near the coast. It feeds on dead fish and rotting meat, or else on insects or very small animals.

Because of their habits, it is easy to see the close degree of interaction between the kites and human activity. There is even an old Taiwanese children's song in which the kite plays the starring role: "Luhyou, luhyou, the luhyou flies to the mountain, the child will soon grow up to be an official. The luhyou flies high, the child will be first on the imperial examinations. The luhyou flies low, the child will soon be a father."

An environment at risk

In the past "all you had to do was raise your head and you could see a few" of this species, and people didn't worry much about its fate. The earliest count of the kite population in Taiwan was made only in the early 1980s. Yen Chung-wei, an assistant researcher at the National Museum of Natural Science in Taichung, drove around the island to do a survey. He stated that there were at that time probably between 150 and 200 black kites in Taiwan.

Lin Wen-hung, who used to be responsible for the data bank on birds of prey for the ROC Wild Bird Society, collated first-hand data and concluded that between 1985 and 1990 the only locations on the island with surviving groups of kites were in the mountains of Pingtung in the far south, and in the Keelung-northern Taipei County area at Taiwan's northern tip. The total number did not exceed 200 (the sum of the highest number of birds spotted at any one time in each area), and in fact the actual number could well have been much lower.

What about before 1980? Taking northern Taiwan as an example, bird-lovers say that "it was common to see 20 or 30 kites at a time active in the area of Keelung harbor." Also, a hawk-raiser relates that he saw thousands of continental black kites passing over Chinshan (on the north coast), and he even shot some down for a delicious repast.

Although there is no firm evidence to determine whether or not the number of kites has sharply declined in Taiwan, based on the experience abroad, the figure of "less than 200" is highly significant. Birds of prey can only survive in large numbers in Third World nations where the environment is still relatively intact. One bird lover observed as many kites in one tree in Nepal as are remaining in all of Taiwan.

Why are there so few black kites left in Taiwan? Lin Wen-hung, referring to the experience of the sharp decline in numbers of the red kite in London, infers that the likely "killer" of Taiwan's kites is industrial pollution.

Hawks are high-level consumers, far up the food chain. Besides depriving the natural world of their genes, their extinction would set off a chain reaction, affecting the overall ecological balance. "Birds are an important indicator of the quality of the living environment. If even the hawks die off, that means the environment has truly reached a bad state. Man is part of the environment, and cannot in the final analysis put himself outside it," says Lin Wen-hung.

Shen Chen-chung is determined not to let people put protection of the black kite aside.

The story begins in winter vacation of 1992, in a tiny fishing village of roughly 30 households on Taiwan's north coast.

A chance meeting

Shen was less than a month out of the "Bird Watching Training Camp" sponsored by the ROC Wild Bird Society, and he was doing a routine coastal bird survey. Within ten days, from the same mountain top observation spot, he twice happened to come across the evening meeting "ceremony" of black kites near Tawulun fishing village, close to Keelung. On one occasion there were 14 of the hawks, while 18 showed the next time.

"I was startled by the incredible sight before my eyes. I had always lived around there, so how come I had never noticed before?" Shen felt there must be a reason, so he began an all-year watch. By talking to the local residents and following the flight paths of the kites, he discovered three nests, becoming the first person in Taiwan (apart from hunters) to formally note the location of a black kite nest.

In order to insure that unhatched eggs be left undisturbed, kites always build their nests in hidden places. For a "fledgling" bird-watcher like Shen to find three of them is therefore especially remarkable. At that time no studies had yet been done in Taiwan on the black kite, and the kites that Shen found were just about to enter the reproductive season. If he had collected some scientific information regarding things like nest structure, the special characteristics of the eggs, or even the weights and lengths of the fledglings as they grew, Shen would undoubtedly have become an overnight success in the academic community.

But he did not feel any ambition to do so, because "there is one core principle to bird-watching: 'Stay away from the nests.' Allow the birds to give birth to their offspring without interference, until they learn to fly and become new members in the overall environment. That is definitely more important than the feeling of success of being the first in Taiwan to release first-hand data."

Although some might say that the purpose of all observation is to gather data, he decided to adopt the method that would cause the least disturbance to the birds, and keep his distance as a "peeping tom" (in the expression used by bird-watchers). From this position, he would faithfully record in words the story that unfolded before his eyes.

Like an expectant daddy

Like a newly expectant parent, Shen set up a temporary observation post on a mountain top near the fishing village. Here he was, originally intending just to observe the black kites, and now he had "fallen into the trap" of getting more and more deeply involved in their fate.

In his record of events, six kites from three different nests all have their own names. An adorable little female kite is called "Chachi" ("Insert Wing") because one of the feathers on her wing appeared to be stuck in sideways. Her mate is called Mr. Hao ("Mr. Anything's Fine With Me"). Despite seeing with his own eyes Chachi engaging in "marital infidelity" with another kite called Mr. Lang, Hao continued to fulfill his husbandly duties without complaint.

Eventually the "scandal" came to an end after Mr. Lang met "Baiban" ("White Spot"), a female distinguished by obscure markings on each wing. Meanwhile the pair of kites in another nest stuck together all the time, and therefore he gave them the name "Aijia" (which sounds like "Family Lover" in Chinese). Thereafter several other black kites that had been in captivity were released into the area by kind-hearted people. The new kites included Heihuan ("Black Band") Xiaochi ("Little Chick") and Podong ("Puncture," because of a hole in her left wing). One after another they became part of the ranks of the "observees."

The male hawk first chooses a good location for a residence and makes a few preparations. When the female is satisfied, they are "joyfully married." Then they set off together to collect branches for their new home. They circle in the air, heads turning left and right, eyes searching for suitable withered branches. After spotting a likely location, they point the tips of their wings slightly upward, and the tail also follows pointing upward. They gently circle to the ground like a helicopter.

Although it takes only a few seconds to mate, they take advantage of the opportunity to get in a few kisses and make "fee, fee, fee" sounds. After their love crystallizes (in eggs), the male takes charge of affairs outside the nest, while the female is in charge of things inside the nest. The male is responsible for finding food and chasing away enemies from a warning zone that may be up two or three hundred meters in diameter. (Once Shen Chen-chung was walking along the artillery path in Tawulun when Mr. Lang mistook him for an enemy and set off to chase him way. At a loss for what to do, Chen could only defend himself with his umbrella and make his way up the mountain by a more circuitous route.)

Meanwhile, the wife, incubating the eggs in the nest, enjoys the delicacies the husband brings back. She also takes advantage of the brief "change of shifts" to get some exercise and spread her wings. If there is a suspected intruder when the male is not around, the female will go forth on her own to defend their home, not allowing the intruder to come near the nest.

The deaths of Chachi and Baiban

As time moved into May, the tail end of the reproductive season, Shen's expectations of seeing fledglings grew increasingly urgent. But his hopes were constantly extinguished by the reality before his eyes. Chachi, perhaps exhausted from investing too much energy in incubating the eggs, crashed on the beach. Rescued by fishermen, she was sent to Shen, who cared for her for many days. Nevertheless, when released she crashed down into the forest and died.

Baiban died in a trap left at the nest by hunters. Using a telescope, Shen witnessed her death throes. "16:50: The thing [the trap] suddenly springs, and Baiban is frantic. She and the thing fall out of the nest in a jumble. Because of the shadow of pine trees, I can only see the lower half of her body--her stomach, tail, and wings as they struggle. 17:16: A large amount of white excrement comes from her tail. Her body is shaking because of the intensity of her heartbeat and breathing, and the vines [into which she has fallen] tremble along with her. She is struggling again, flapping her wings. 17:20, the vines are no longer moving. . . she is hanging beneath the nest.. . . there is no further struggling."

When Mr. Lang returns and looks beneath the nest, he circles around the nest repeatedly screeching warning cries, "Fi, ah, ah. . . ." He does not recognize Baiban.

The eggs that she protected with such devotion are now missing. Meanwhile, Mr. Hao and Mr. Lang, having lost the object of their affections, console one another by becoming "comrades."

Having watched the female kites that he had grown so fond of have their lives extinguished, Shen was not only saddened, he also felt that it was his responsibility to do something for the remaining kites. Therefore, using the months of June, July, and August, when the kites have left the Keelung coast to take up residence next to Chingjen Lake, Shen took up his pen and wrote down the story of Chachi and Baiban.

Territorial struggle

In years past, every September when the sea breezes turned to blow over the bay, about 20 kites returned to a fishing village near Waimu Mountain by day. They held their "evening roll calls" and searched for mates. At night they settled down on Masu Mountain.

In September 1992, however, shortly after Shen began observing the birds, government and private development plans robbed the birds of their homes and caused this group of kites to disperse.

Because the topography of the coast in the vicinity of Waimu Mountain is very special, it was designated a coastal protected area. However, the Keelung City government planned to turn it into a recreational area in order to bring prosperity to the harbor district. In fact, even before work had begun on this plan, there was already a parking lot and a highway in part of the protected area where the kites nested. In fact, the road pointed right at Mr. Lang's nest at the edge of the habitat.

Although Masu Mountain, where the kites set up an alternate area for their nests, was not part of the recreational area, it had long been the site of illegal dumping of earth by private interests. The only thing for the kites to do was move, but their only choice was to go back into the planned recreational area. So they were left without a home.

"Puncture" abandons her nest

In order to protect the remaining twenty kites, Shen worked hard to convince the city government to establish a "Waimu Mountain Bird of Prey Protected Area." But he received a terrible blow when "Puncture," the only remaining female bird, abandoned her nest.

One drizzly morning, Shen suddenly discovered that Puncture and her husband had disappeared, leaving behind two eggs.

It was already four days later when he braved the rain to climb the tree, take down the eggs, and send them to the Institute of Zoology at the Academia Sinica. By that time the eggs had grown cold and were soaked by the rain, so there was little chance the baby birds still survived. "We used tweezers to cut a fairly large hole in the shell. An embryo, already with feathers, slid out with the egg white. The same happened with the other egg. There was no bad odor, and the yokes had not been fully consumed. The eyes of the embryos were black and protruding; their heads were unusually large, but their arteries were still bright red. These two little bundles of hope just lay silently. I used a needle to lift up their tiny wings, to open their tightly clenched claws, and to raise up their tiny mouths. . . ."

"It seemed that time had come to a standstill. There was a deathly silence. I stared at the these two little lives, and alternately lifted up their wings, their tiny claws, their little mouths. . . ."

"Fly away! Call out!"

"But they just lay there in silence. . . ."

Shen was forced to ask himself, "Is it possible that I am merely recording the history of the extinction of the black kite?" No matter how strenuously he called for a protected area, no matter how deeply he cared about them, Shen could not keep up with these creatures. After the reproductive season ended, they left Keelung, to rest in some unknown place. Although they would still come back to Keelung harbor to search for food, it was not a hopeful scene: At the mouth of the water pipe running from the market into the harbor, bits of meat and intestines floated in a thick layer of black oil; a strange smell filled the air. Above the kites circled, homing in on the polluted food. . . .

Discovering a new paradise

Although Shen Chen-chung was deeply worried about the kites, to try alone to overcome all the obstacles to protecting these birds of prey would have immediately plunged him into a whirlpool of powerlessness that he would have been unable to pull himself out of. At the same time, because he wanted to continue searching for the kites' new habitats, he needed more manpower to do the job right.

Originally, he had only thought to quietly record the behavior of the birds, but with the encouragement of the ROC Wild Bird Society, he brought together bird-loving friends from the Keelung area and in June of 1993 founded the Keelung Wild Bird Society. Shen also formally resigned his teaching position to concentrate on protecting the kites. Wildlife photographer Liang Chieh-te came to know Shen because of his work photographing birds of prey. In order to make a visual record, Liang began taking photographs of the black kites.

Relying on his extraordinary determination, Shen tracked the kites into the mountains of Taipei County, where he discovered kite resting places one after another. To insure that these places were not disturbed, he gave these areas code names, including "Full Moon" and "New Paradise." Here little hawks could be born without obstruction. According to the Kite Hotline (a special information line) for November 17, 1995, "at dusk 42 kites gathered in three separate areas. The main group had 34, and there were four birds in each of the other two."

Besides continuing behavioral observations, Sheb has been placing even greater emphasis on accumulating scientific data. On the one hand, he needed to show some concrete results for the Keelung area black kite research program for which he received a grant from the Council of Agriculture. On the other hand, as the government goes through the process of debating whether to establish a conservation area in Taipei County, he understands the importance of having solid facts.

Keeping nature intact

When he first went to observe the kites back in 1992, Shen recorded his observations and feelings in words. He edited these into "Notes on Nature" and then sent them off to Liu Ke-hsiang, a writer and veteran bird-watcher. When Liu read Shen's passage on the death of Chachi, and noted how vividly Shen was able to describe these events, he encouraged Shen to participate in a literary competition. As Liu anticipated, Shen's story of Chachi and Baiban won the 1992 China Times prize for reportage, drawing the public's attention to Shen's work.

Overnight, large numbers of bird-watchers crowded to the Keelung coast in hopes of seeing an "evening roll call." But besides being curious and concerned about the plight of the Taiwan black kite, many people were even more curious about Shen himself. What motivations and beliefs kept Shen going in his pilgrimage, like an ascetic monk, to track and observe the kites?

When Shen is asked this question, he says with a shrug, "Actually my plan was very simple. It was just to keep an accurate record over an extended period. There is nothing remarkable about that."

Yet, in order to make this record, Shen had to spend long periods alone in the outdoors, single-handedly facing the unknown risks of the wild. He even gave up his job and his income, and brought his life down to a very basic, very simple level, close to nature.

In the past few years, he has steadily given up the accoutrements of civilization, such as his TV, air conditioner, refrigerator, and motorcycle (he did replace the motorcycle, but only because it proved necessary for his surveys). He wants to keep his use of natural resources to the absolute minimum. He once even walked all the way from Taipei County to Pingtung on a trip, eating only fruits and vegetables and sleeping in a tent, in order to understand how humans might survive in a natural environment without too much outside help.

His encounter with the black kite has turned out to be his road back to nature. "Just look, every life form in nature has its function and responsibility. If people would just consider other creatures' right to exist, and take care of our own responsibilities, wouldn't we be able to retain nature fully intact?"

From his encounters in the wild he has also learned that "nature is not something to be controlled, but to be accepted." Thus, when faced with resistance from many quarters to his efforts to protect the kite, or even when receiving help, he doesn't get either downhearted or excited. He always keeps an attitude of "taking what comes naturally."

Because of Shen's true dedication to the kite, the Buddhist monk Wu Hung of the Life Conservationist Society and journalist Wang Nien-tsu got the idea to apply to the Discovery Channel for funding to do a documentary about Shen and the Taiwan black kite. When Wu Hung told Shen about this proposal, the answer he got was, "Thank you, but don't go to so much trouble on my behalf."

Shen, whose goal is to keep the whole environment intact, even suggests that people turn their attention elsewhere. There are many kites in other countries, he says, but there are several animals in Taiwan that are on the verge of complete extinction, and should have a documentary record. They also need help, so perhaps everyone could work together to do a special on "Taiwan's unique animals."

A twenty-year dream

Recently the COA stopped funding Shen's work because the idea of setting up a conservation area has been put on hold. Shen has decided to go back to teaching in order to make a living. Yet there has been no slacking off in the study of the black kite.

In October of last year, Shen asked for contributions and assistance in an article entitled "A Twenty Year Black Kite Dream" which was published in Zhonghua Feiyu, the publication of the ROC Wild Bird Society. His request met with a considerable response. Hung Tsui-jan, an entrepreneur concerned about the environment, has offered to provide a private subsidy on a regular basis. Chang Hsiang-you, who works in the advertising field, bought 50 copies of The Story of the Kite and gave these out to clients to raise people's awareness; Chang is also considering setting up a foundation. The tasks of tracking and dye-marking fledglings and of tagging and release have been going on for two years now. Moreover, besides basic surveys of the black kite, a more specialized study of kite habitats has been commissioned to Li Ching-feng, a student in the master's program at the Graduate Institute of Forestry at National Taiwan University. The program laid out by Shen in his twenty-year dream is just taking off.

In fact, there is no one in Taiwan today who has a better overall understanding of the black kite than Shen Chen-chung. Moreover, there is a great deal of information available from foreign sources about the behavior of the black kite. Therefore it is unnecessary to spend a great deal of time doing comprehensive field observations. Would it not be better if Shen focused his energies instead on explaining why the number of black kites in Taiwan is declining? Yet Shen feels that his own strengths are in observing and writing, recording "the story of how the black kite struggles to survive on this overdeveloped piece of earth," to serve as testimony for future histories of the ecology. As for more in-depth research, Shen would prefer to leave that to those with more expertise.

Therefore his dream is like a beacon, allowing those willing to help to see clearly what it is they can do. Meanwhile Shen will stay in the role of an observer and recorder.

Even if in the foreseeable future Shen's name increasingly appears in the media, at conferences, or on circulating government documents, you can be confident that his mind will still be on some mountain top perch, waiting to take off with the kites, embracing nature. . . .

Says Shen, "I often dream that I am flying. Perhaps there is still something to shoot for." （photo by Vincent Chang）

These black kites perched on the branches look pensive. Are they waiting for the wind to kick up?

Shen built a temporary black kite observation post near the fishing village of Aoti.

This polluted coast is where the black kites search for food. The denuded promontory in the background shows the scars of construction on the west coastal highway.

Around Keelung harbor, it used to be that you only had to raise your head to see 20 or 30 black kites. But today? （photo by Vincent Chang）

A trap of the type that killed Baiban.

Shen measures a fledgling to track its growth.

In search of the black kite, Shen often goes into dense forest where few have gone before.

The Keelung Bird Society held an activity entitled "Bring the Black Kite Back Home." The Society hoped to spark concern for the bird by making direct contact with the public.

The photos of Liang Chieh-te （left） and the words of Shen Chen-chung make up a permanent record of the life, and possible death, of the black kite in Taiwan. （photo by Vincent Chang）

Look at how shiny the feathers are on this semi-adult bird! Please respect the fact that they are also part of our island.