A Wing and a Prayer
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday July 26, 2014

It was almost 9am and I’d been on the road for two hours. I’d expected a procession of trucks driving north on the Brand Highway but I hadn’t seen another vehicle in 15 minutes. Had I missed the turn-off to Badgingarra?

I slowed around a sweeping bend and noticed a faded truck, parked on the shoulder of a gravel track. I veered off the highway and crunched to a stop in front of it.

Painted across the bonnet was the slogan: “Alcatraz, the Bird Man.” Up close, the pale morning shadows conspired to suggest the truck was deserted but then a gruff voice came from behind the cabin: “Morning!”

I heard the thud of feet landing on gravel and an older bloke in a black fleecy tracksuit limped into view. He wore white cotton gloves, the palms a grubby grey. A knitted beanie hugged his ears. “Hi there!” I replied, our steamy breath rising in drifts. “Can you tell me if I’ve gone past the road to Badgingarra? I think I’m pretty close.”

“Nah. You’re good. Another ten minutes. You can’t miss it.”

I pulled my coat tighter. “Aren’t you freezing?” I asked, noticing the thongs on the big slabs of his feet.

“This ain’t cold!’ he said, chuckling. “Sun’s up. Balmy!” and he leaned in and slapped the front grille of his truck. His right leg twisted at an odd angle and he winced.

“Pins and needles in your leg?” I asked.

“Nah. Vietnam,” he said matter-of-factly.

I felt a pang of awkwardness but he thrust forward a gloved hand: “Dave. Ugly Dave, they call me!”

We both laughed.

It was then I took in the signage down the side of the truck: The Racing Pigeon Federation of WA Inc.

“I’m about to let ‘em go,” Dave said. “There’s a thousand birds in that truck. Know anything about pigeons?” I shook my head.

“Well, this race is what we call a short sprint. Nine different clubs put birds on my truck this morning. I drive ‘em 200 clicks north, fire ‘em off and they race home.”

He checked his watch – 9.11 – then beckoned.

The truck’s back doors were open facing east. The pale sunlight streamed in, lighting the baskets of pigeons slotted into rows along each side of the gloom. Dave swung himself aboard and hobbled up the centre aisle, systematically flicking the metal pins from the bird boxes.

“This arms ‘em,” he yelled. “In a sec, I’ll flip up these levers, and fire off the first box. I’ll count to five until the birds clear and then I’ll fire off another row. I don’t want no flyover.”

“What’s a flyover?”

“That’s when the top and bottom birds collide. You get busted wings and feathers. I won’t do an illegal start. Some of these pigeons are worth $400 a pop. Best you stand back. I gotta clear this lot at quarter past nine on the knocker.”

I stood against my car, no clue what to expect.

And then a furious drumming filled my ears as the air exploded with birds. For a few moments, the truck blurred behind a thrashing mass of wings. Birds kept pouring out, swarming up and over my head. Seconds later, they’d whirled into a feathery grey cloud above the treetops.

“They’re getting their bearings!” Dave shouted. I watched agape as the clump of birds banked westward and wheeled towards the coast.

“Flying compasses they are!” Dave said, scrabbling down from the truck. “They use the sun, wind, magnetic fields – whatever it takes to get home.”

“Amazing!” I said as we watched the smudge of pigeons disappear.

“Me and my brother had 50 between us as kids,” he said. “We’d sneak around the railway yards at night and scoop ‘em up with a net. Sitting ducks they were – pigeons won’t fly at night! We’d re-set ‘em – keep ‘em in a loft for a month. Then we’d load ‘em in milk crates tied to our bikes and ride ‘em further and further down the road and let ‘em go. They never went anywhere but home.”

Dave retrieved several crumpled photos from his glovebox and passed them to me. “I been a racing pigeon driver for eight years now, ever since I left the army. I get a real rush watching ‘em.”

An abrupt shriek cut the air. Dave scanned the branches of the ghost gums standing sentinel along the track. He pointed out a falcon, its head cocked to one side, inspecting us.

“You’re too late, you dope!” he yelled into the tree. “You’ve missed your breakfast!”

I shook Dave’s hand, climbed back into my still warm car, and headed up the highway.