My journey with wildlife and forests didn’t start with a textbook or a camera — it began with dirty hands, scratched knees, and a heart that raced every time a bird flew overhead. Over time, what started as childhood curiosity grew into something more powerful: a silent, lifelong commitment to nature.
While I never set out to be a conservationist in the formal sense, my life choices, reactions to forest loss, and growing awareness of what was disappearing around me turned me into one — piece by piece.
I was born in Lore, a small village nestled in the Western Ghats of Sindhudurg district in Maharashtra, a part of the lush Konkan region. Though my early years were spent in the city, Lore was — and still remains — the true heartbeat of my existence.
When I was around three or four years old, my father, who worked as a government servant in Mumbai’s Jijamata Udyan (Byculla Zoo), brought me to the city. He would often take me to the zoo, and unlike most children who needed hand-holding, I was allowed to explore on my own. I knew every animal by heart — their habits, their corners of the enclosures, their calls. That early exposure to wildlife wasn’t just fascination; it became the foundation of a lifelong bond with animals and birds.
But the true magic began each summer when school exams ended, and we returned to Lore for our holidays. I was never the kind of child to stay inside. From the moment we arrived, my bare feet found their way into the soil, the forest, and the farms. Along with my cousins, I roamed under canopies of towering mango and jackfruit trees, tasting seasonal fruits and listening to the songs of the jungle.
I became keenly observant, learning how to move silently and blend into the forest’s rhythm. That’s how I discovered my first bird nests. From Bulbuls to Magpie Robins and Fantails, I followed the nesting cycle from egg to fledgling. I learned to identify eggs by their color and texture, and the joy of watching chicks hatch and grow was beyond words.
The Hornbills and the Nilgiri Tree
Lore was once a land of birds— where mighty trees ruled the skies. I remember our Nilgiri tree — the tallest among all, where large flocks of Malabar Pied Hornbills gathered every morning and evening. One unforgettable evening, I saw one of them hunt a palm squirrel, toss it mid-air, and fly away with its prize. That memory still sits vivid in my heart like a painted scene.
My first encounter with the Malabar Grey Hornbill was in Lore too, when I was barely six or seven years old. It was right after a light monsoon shower. The bird, damp and calm, perched on a branch, letting me admire it from up close. I never saw this species again in Lore. It’s now seen in mid and lower locations of Sindhudurg district.
A Lapwing’s Disguise
Lore has always been full of small, quiet wonders. One summer evening, I went swimming in the river near the preserved patch called Bhitobachi-rai, a sacred forest grove. There, I found a Red-wattled Lapwing nesting on the open riverbank — her eggs laid carefully between sun-warmed stones.
A few days later, I heard alarm calls — two Lapwings crying out in warning. I approached cautiously and suddenly saw a tiny furball darting through the leaf litter. It stopped. Disappeared. Then moved again. It was a Lapwing chick — a master of camouflage. Despite standing right in front of me, I couldn’t see it until it moved. That chick, in all its delicate defiance, felt like the forest itself — fragile yet resilient, visible only to those who truly look.
The Fall of the Forest
Over the last 35 years, Lore has changed drastically. We’ve lost nearly 90% of the forest cover. The tall, native trees have vanished, replaced by fruiting trees kept merely for human benefit. The green fabric that once embraced our village has been torn apart by sugarcane plantations and reckless tree-felling. Paddy fields were swallowed, and with them, went the diversity they supported.
One loss still haunts me deeply — the death of our massive mango tree in 2010. I returned to Lore that April, only to find an open plot where once the tree stood. Its trunk had been over 10 feet wide, its canopy sheltering generations. Villagers said woodcutters found hundreds of embedded stones in its inner wood of a tree trunk— silent testimony to the countless summers when children threw stones for a fruit. The owner had sold it for timber. I stood there, heartbroken, nearly in tears. It wasn’t just a tree. It was a guardian, a storyteller, a giver of sweetness — the best mango I’ve ever tasted in my life.
Threats and the Shrinking Wild
Today, Lore’s have few remaining forests struggle to support its native birdlife. Birds like lapwings, Doves, Babblers, Nightjars, and Bulbuls have learned to adapt, nesting in open fields and riverbanks. But the true forest dwellers — the hornbills, the thrushes, the Barbets — are rarely seen.
One summer evening, I went to Shivganga River — a serene river flowing near Lore. In a preserved sacred grove known as Devrai, untouched in reverence to local deities, I spotted a majestic Brown Fish Owl. It perched on a rock, undisturbed, hunting for crabs. Our eyes met. He flew away, leaving behind a memory etched in silence and awe.
Yet, even the sacred is not safe. Poaching and illegal tree cutting still occur.
Shiravali: Where the Wild Still Whispers
If Lore was my birthplace, then Shiravali — my maternal village — is where I truly belong. Tucked deep in the folds of the Western Ghats, this village feels like a forgotten page from an ancient book of nature. There are only two houses on the entire hill: my uncle’s home, which he shares with his brother, and ours. The rest of the village lies across the stream — a small stream that begins from a sacred spring and divides Shiravali into two worlds: the one humans live in, and the one where wild things still roam.
It is this remoteness, this seclusion, that has allowed Shiravali’s forests to hold on to their mystery — at least for now.
My Forest Dawn
I began visiting Shiravali more frequently after 2015, when I fell deeply into the world of birding and wildlife photography. By then, my love for wild places had become something more than passion — it was a calling. I woke up before sunrise and by 6 AM, I would already be in the woods. Mornings were sacred. The air would fill with the gentle calls of Flowerpeckers, Fulvettas, Bulbuls, Spurfowl, Grey junglefowl, Hawk eagle and the melodic whistle of the Malabar Whistling Thrush.
On one such morning, I reached a special spot — the very origin point of the forest stream. It’s an area few dare to go, known also for regular Leopard sightings. But I was never afraid. That day, a Peacock came to drink water from the stream. The forest was alive. Puff-throated Babblers, Treepies, Fulvettas, and the ever-elusive Malabar Whistling Thrush and Indian White-eye flitted among the trees. These white-eyes are now rarely seen — I count myself lucky if I spot even two individuals at once.
Around 10 AM, a commotion of Indian Grey Langurs shattered the calm, shaking tree after tree as they bounded through the canopy. That was when it happened.
The Brown Fish Owl
Out from the dense cover of rocks, a massive Brown Fish Owl emerged — disturbed by the langurs, but completely unaware of me. He perched just a few meters in front of me. The moment we locked eyes, time stopped. I didn’t move. He didn’t flee. It was a surreal, primal connection — bird and man, both aware of each other, both curious, both still.
I managed to photograph him, slowly and respectfully. He flew to a Garcinia indica tree behind me. I followed, barely breathing. For a moment, he flew directly over me, settled again, and watched me. This time, it was I who felt vulnerable. His stare was not fearful — it was knowing. Around the base of his perch, I found signs of his reign: crab shells, claws, all evidence of his meals. It was his roosting site, and I had been gifted an audience.
That moment stayed with me so powerfully that I later named my dream project after it: Wild Roost Forest Stay — a sanctuary built in that very region, where humans can live as humble observers among the wild.
In Shiravali, where my heart beats the strongest, I chose the place where a Brown Fish Owl once stared fearlessly into my eyes to establish my dream — Wild Roost Forest Stay. But it is not just a stay. It is a symbol. A place where nature is respected, and visitors are taught to observe, not interfere.
By preserving native trees, avoiding aggressive landscaping, and letting the land stay raw and wild, I am trying to show that hospitality and conservation can coexist. Guests are introduced to the forest’s rhythm — the fruiting of Ficus, the calls of sunbirds, the rustle of a civet in the night. These experiences are my way of awakening love in others — just as it awakened in me.
And yet, Black Panthers — those mythical shadows — have been seen here multiple times. Leopards, Gaurs, Wild Boars, Porcupines, Civet Cats — they still roam. For now.
Encounters in the Monsoon
During the 2019 monsoon, I returned to Shiravali with a macro lens. That night, the forest transformed. Under my torchlight, I saw around 22 of Giant Black Scorpions looking out from their laterite stone cavities. Green Vine Snakes curled across bushes, blending with the wet leaves. My uncle called me suddenly — a Saw-scaled Viper sat coiled near the front lawn, unbothered by our presence. It later disappeared into a narrow rock crevice.
Years ago, when I was 16 or 17, another close encounter ended differently. While helping clean the roof of my uncle’s house, my cousin lifted a tile, unknowingly disturbing a Malabar Pit Viper. The snake struck out, mouth wide, but missed. In panic, my uncle killed it. I couldn’t stop him then. But today, because of the knowledge I’ve gathered and shared, my family now understands the importance of every creature. That shift — from fear to awareness — means everything.
In Shiravali, I’ve recorded nearly 250 bird species, including Great Hornbills, Malabar Pied Hornbills, Orioles, Sunbirds, and Nightjars and many more. As a birder and wildlife photographer, I rise before dawn, capturing their beauty, their songs, their vanishing worlds.
Yet, this too is changing.
In the past five years, vast tracts of Shiravali’s forest have been cleared for cashew plantations. The Great Hornbill—once a common sight—is now seen only in pairs, if at all. The Malabar Pied Hornbill still visits during fruiting seasons, drawn by native trees like Ficus, the Poison Tree, and Areca Palm, but their numbers are dwindling.
An even darker threat looms over Acacia catechu (Khair) trees, which are now being illegally logged at night for their heartwood, used in producing Katha. In 2023, smugglers cut down 4–5 large trees from my uncle’s land. With no official oversight, the forests are unguarded. In desperation, even local farmers have begun cutting their Khair trees for commercial profit—they harvest themselves rather than lose them to theft.
And then there are the Black Panthers. Yes, they roam these hills. I’ve never feared them—only poachers. Fortunately, poaching has decreased significantly, thanks to growing awareness and changing attitudes.
One memory stays close to my heart: the night in 2019 when a Saw-scaled Viper appeared near our house. Instead of panic or violence, we watched it disappear safely into a laterite hole. That same night, I saw hundreds of giant black scorpions and a few vine snakes—a world most people never notice.
Thankfully, Ficus trees, which fruit multiple times a year, along with Areca palms and the Poison Tree, still attract hornbills and forest pigeons to areas close to our house. These trees are lifelines — their fruits a last call to the wild in a changing land.
A Birdwatcher’s Oath
My love for birds has taken me across 11 Indian states and allowed me to record 614 bird species so far. But no place ever matches the raw magic of Konkan — especially Lore and Shiravali. These lands are not just home; they are sacred chapters in the book of my life. They need to be known. They need to be protected.
I believe we all have a duty — not just to admire the beauty of places like Shiravali and Lore, but to protect them, fiercely and tenderly, with our knowledge, our actions, and our stories.
My conversations efforts about the vanishing hornbills, the smuggling of Khair trees, and the conversion of paddy fields to sugarcane are not complaints — they are warnings, born from someone who has seen both abundance and absence. I now use my knowledge — of species, calls, trees, behavior — to protect what is left. I speak to whoever will listen, share data, talk to children, guide farmers where I can, and simply refuse to give up.
Because conservation doesn’t always start with laws or cameras or campaigns. Sometimes, it begins with someone watching a bird long enough to care.
Checkout some of thebeautiful images here: https://ganeshmandavkar.photo.blog/native/
Animateness 