Exploring Arunachal Pradesh: A Journey Through Rain and Reverie
- pathakgaurav
- Jun 29
- 15 min read
The plane banked low over a sea of emerald just before touching down. From above, the fields looked soaked and waiting, the way land does before monsoon bursts open. Arunachal Pradesh had long sat on the fringes of my birding dreams—remote, unpredictable, and teeming with promise. This was to be my first trip to the Northeast — a land long imagined, its names carrying the mystique of borderlands, of birds seldom seen, and of cloud-laced valleys that held stories in their silence.
We landed at Dibrugarh Airport, a modest outpost that serves as the airborne lifeline into Upper Assam. There’s only one non-stop flight from Delhi, flown by IndiGo, and it feels like it delivers you not just to a new region, but to another rhythm entirely. Outside the terminal, two Mahindra Scorpios waited for us — rugged and reassuring. We’d be a compact group: two cars, four people each, including drivers and guides. Tight enough to be nimble, spacious enough to breathe.
What struck me immediately, just minutes from the airport, was how alive everything was. We hadn’t reached any birding site yet — we were still on the road, still getting our bearings — but the fields that flanked the highway shimmered with activity. There were birds everywhere. Not a vague notion of “bird life” but clear, specific, almost cinematic glimpses: a Lesser Adjutant stalking across a paddy’s edge, a Cinnamon bittern flying low over the fields, a Watercock darting through reeds. At one point we stopped, cameras already in hand, to watch a male Watercock chasing a female — frantic, comical, earnest in its hope. The trip had barely begun, and already the birds were performing.
The light was soft and broken, the sky a ceiling of damp white. It was the cusp of monsoon. Scattered showers would drift through the day like passing moods. And all along the road, as if Assam had laid out a welcome banner, were its famous tea gardens — neat rows of green rippling like water. The air was balmy. The landscape rustic and saturated. Even in motion, we could feel it: this was going to be a journey that asked you to look closely, and feel deeply.
Originally, our plan had been to drive eastward in stages, stopping at Tezu on the way to Walong. But Rajesh Panwar, a well-known birder and our guide for the journey, had only just returned from scouting the area with another group and knew better. “Too quiet around Tezu,” he said. “Maguri is more alive right now.” We trusted him. So we adjusted the route. That’s how birding works. You chase not only species but signals — the right place, the right moment, and someone who knows when those align.
Our new stop: Maguri Beel, a wetland nestled along the banks of the Dibru River. It would be our base for the night, and more importantly, our launching point for one of the trip’s first great targets — the Australasian Grass-Owl.
Maguri Beel: Into the Grass
We reached Maguri Riverview Camp mid-morning. It was a modest, cheerful place perched close to the wetland, run by Palash Phukan — our local guide. It was Palash who would lead the next leg of our journey: the search for the Australasian Grass-Owl.
It wasn’t a simple walk into a hide. To find the owl, we had to cross the Dibru River in a flat-bottomed boat, seated low as the boatman poled us across still water. The sun had come out strong now. The air was thick. We docked on the other side and stepped off into the grasslands.
But this was no tame savanna. The grass was wild and towered above our heads, a vertical green wall that shimmered with heat. The humidity hit like a wave, rising from the ground and closing in above. Palash walked ahead with a machete, slicing through the denser sections, cutting a path into the unknown. It was surreal — a corridor of motion and silence, broken only by the swish of blades and the squelch of boots in sodden earth.
Somewhere in here, hidden within this swaying jungle of grass, were three individual Grass-Owls. We trudged through for nearly an hour, scanning every rustle, every shadow. Then — without warning — a flash of wings.
An owl burst from the grass right in front of us, rising just above our heads and circling twice, silent and deliberate. For a moment, it wasn’t clear who was watching whom. The bird seemed to size us up, suspended against the pale sky, and then turned and drifted deeper into the field.
We stood breathless. A few of us managed to raise our cameras in time — mine caught the bird mid-flight, wings open. It was one of those encounters that reminds you why you come to places like this. We searched on for another hour, hoping to see more — a clearer shot, a second owl — but they had melted into the landscape. Then the rain began again. Not a drizzle this time, but steady, honest monsoon rain.
We made our way back to the river, wet and steaming. As we stood on the muddy bank, waiting for the boat, we looked behind us — that vast grassland now grey under falling water, holding its secrets once more.
By the time we reached the cars, it was time for lunch. After lunch, the rain eased up, and after a short break we were on the move again. There was no time to waste — the next two targets were no less elusive.
Malayan Night Heron and a Forest of Fireflies
Our search for the Malayan Night Heron took us into an entirely different setting — a dense forest patch, dark under heavy canopy, where light struggled to get in and leeches didn’t.
The heron had been heard calling from within. Palash and Rajesh listened, head cocked. Without further hesitation, we followed them into the gloom. The ground was a mosaic of slick roots, damp soil, and thick undergrowth. The thought of snakes and leeches passed through our minds, but none of us spoke. You don’t get a second chance with this bird.
After about thirty minutes of slow, breath-held tracking, Palash pointed up. There — high in the branches, barely visible through the foliage — was a pair of Malayan Night Herons. Just as we caught a glimpse, they took off. Only Rajesh was able to react in time and capture a shot. The rest of us stood in reverent silence, watching them vanish.
It was nearly dark now. On the way back, we stopped at the edge of a small grove where a Collared Scops-Owl had been seen before. We waited quietly, hoping for a call. I turned around to scan the trees behind us — and paused.
The grove was lit with fireflies. Not one or two — dozens. They blinked in quiet rhythms, a secret code shared only with the night. I pulled out my phone to take a video, trying to record what felt almost too ethereal to belong to the same day.
Then came the call.
The owl had been right in front of us all along — closer than expected. So close, in fact, that my 600mm lens was almost too much. But I managed a few sharp frames. It felt like a gift. The rain, the forest, the fireflies, and now this owl — each a layer, each a note in a growing symphony of wilderness.
That night we went to bed tired but elated, our minds still full of feathers and flight, of calls from the dark and eyes that watch silently from the trees.
The Road to Walong
In the easternmost edges of India, the sun rises early — really early. And as the saying goes, if you want to meet the birds, you have to rise with them. By 4:30 a.m., we were packed and rolling once again, the engines of our Scorpios humming low in the half-light. Our destination was Walong, still a long way off, tucked deep into the folds of the mountains. But here, even the road was a stage — the act of getting there was never just travel; it was constant watching, listening, and stopping for the unexpected.
One such moment came mid-morning.
We were cruising through a remote stretch of road, hemmed in by mist and scattered groves, when Palash suddenly called out for the car to stop. He had heard something — something sharp, specific. He stepped out and motioned us forward. We followed him into the leech-infested field, the wet grass clinging to our clothes, unbothered by the threat of bites. The sound had come from a bamboo grove a little distance off the road.
There, among the stalks and shadows, we spotted them — a flock of Grey-headed Parakeets. Their green plumage was almost too bright for the morning fog, and the grey wash over their heads gave them a strange elegance. A Near Threatened species, they carry a kind of vulnerability in their presence — beautiful, but never guaranteed. Cameras clicked. Voices stayed low. For a few minutes, the birds stayed with us, flitting between branches, occasionally pausing long enough for a clean frame. And just like that, they were gone.
Some hours later, we stopped for lunch at a small roadside dhaba — just as the skies opened up again. We had grown used to the rain by now. It fell like a constant breath over the hills, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, never entirely gone. Most of the group stayed under shelter, waiting for the downpour to pass. But then, just beyond the edge of the hill, something caught my eye — a flash of movement, a ripple in the undergrowth.
Camera in hand, I stepped out into the rain. There, perched just low enough for a clean frame, was a Hair-crested Drongo — tail flowing behind it like a black ribbon, plumage glistening in the wet light. A lifer, and one I hadn’t expected. The rest of the group soon joined me, and for a few minutes we forgot the dampness altogether.
It’s moments like these that remind you how birding is often about being present, more than being prepared.
By early evening, we reached Walong — a village caught between mountain and river, quiet and self-contained. Our homestay stood slightly above the Lohit River, its wide braid of water glinting beneath a darkening sky. Below us, just visible through haze and drizzle, lay the Advanced Landing Ground of the Indian Army, a small airstrip meant to give India a strategic advantage. Its presence was quiet but resolute, a reminder of where we stood — not just in terrain, but in history.
We settled in, not speaking too much. There was something about the landscape that quieted even the most talkative among us. It wasn’t fatigue — it was reverence. Tomorrow would be a full day. We prayed for clearer skies and for Walong to reveal its secrets to us.
A Day in Walong: Lifers in the Morning Light
We were up before the light again. The stillness of Walong before dawn was different — denser, somehow. The hills here absorbed sound rather than carrying it, and only the distant rush of the Lohit marked the passage of time. By 4:30 a.m., we were out the door, cameras slung, scopes loaded, eyes adjusting to the soft grey of early morning. This was to be a full day of birding in the easternmost folds of the country — a day that would bring with it both long-anticipated rewards and fleeting glimpses.
The weather held steady — overcast, but dry — and the roadside offered rich promise. Our birding here didn’t involve climbing trails or deep forest walks. It was a rhythm of slow driving, eyes peeled, ears tuned, punctuated by frequent stops whenever a call or flash of movement invited a closer look.
One such moment came early, when a rustle in the roadside scrub revealed the unmistakable form of a Streak-breasted Scimitar-Babbler, moving low and deliberate through a tangle of undergrowth. We crouched quietly nearby, watching as it picked its way through the leaf litter, its arched bill flicking in practiced motion. It gave us just enough time to admire its richly barred flanks before disappearing again into shadow.
Further along, we stepped out to investigate a treetop commotion and were rewarded with a fleeting but clear sighting of the Black-headed Greenfinch. It paused just long enough on an exposed branch for us to get a few frames before bounding off in its characteristic undulating flight.
The road wound along a ridge above the river, and it was here, while scanning a lower bank, that we picked out a Black-browed Tit — small, precise, almost too quick for the eye. It fed rapidly through the branches of a mossy shrub, appearing and vanishing in turns, finally pausing long enough for a satisfying click of the shutter.
Later that morning, while rolling slowly along another turn, one of us spotted something pale along the far bank of the Lohit River. We braked, pulled out scopes, and zeroed in. There, unmistakable even at a distance, was the Chinese Pond Heron. It had slipped our grasp back at Maguri Beel, but now stood statuesque in the reeds, as if offering a final chance. It stayed long enough for us to get distant, yet confirming images before vanishing down the riverbank.
In the same area, a Plaintive Cuckoo called, its soft, fluting notes rising from somewhere in the middle canopy. We tried to track it by sound, circling back and scanning tree lines. Eventually, it burst into flight — a quick, graceful arc overhead. Just one usable flight shot, but the moment itself was what stayed with us.
By late afternoon, the clouds began gathering again. We returned to the homestay — not exhausted, but deeply satisfied. This day hadn't delivered fireworks, but something better: a steady rhythm of lifers, of effort rewarded in pieces, of moments strung gently across hours.
The next morning, we would head toward Kaho and Helmet Top, places where birds, history, and borderlines converge.
Kaho and Helmet Top: On the Edge of Light and Memory
We left before dawn once again, but this day carried a different weight. We were headed toward Kaho, a name that is more than a location — it’s an idea. The first village in India to see the sun, nestled on the very edge of the map, where the land begins to blur into geopolitics. It isn’t marked by a monument or a line — it’s just forest, river, mountain. But you feel the tension in your breath. And you feel its silence.
Our target for the day was one of the most distinctive birds of the region: the Derbyan Parakeet. While not globally rare — it’s commonly found in parts of China — the bird’s range just barely nudges into India, making its presence here an ecological quirk, a borderland exception. Seeing it here isn’t just a tick on a list — it’s a statement. A claim. A delicate thread of biology that crosses boundaries drawn by nations, something nature doesn’t recognise.
Our destination lay enroute to the village, near a slope of tall pine trees overlooking the river, close enough to the border that your phone picks up international signals. We weren’t just birding now — we were on the seam of sovereignty, in a place where history, diplomacy, and ecology coexist in unspoken negotiation.
It was here, standing quietly beneath the pines, that we saw them — a pair of Derbyan Parakeets.
They were not shy, not distant. They were simply there — living their lives in a patch of India where they barely exist. The female was inside a hollow in the tree trunk, and the male was flying short circuits, returning with food. There was something intimate about it. Not dramatic, not flashy — but deeply moving. We stood still, surrounded by the hush of the forest, the wind through needles, the faint thunder of the river below. Time slowed.
The male returned again and again. A small ritual of care, unfolding just metres from where two nations watch each other over ridgelines. There was something sacred in that moment — as though this little stretch of borderland forest had allowed us to witness a secret.
From there, we continued upward to Helmet Top — a place steeped in a different kind of gravity. It overlooks the Namti plains, and during the 1962 Sino-Indian War, this ridge served as a defensive bulwark. Its name comes from the helmets once found scattered across the battlefield — a haunting testament to those who never returned. Today, there is a memorial to the brave souls who defend our nation. It doesn’t shout its significance. It doesn’t need to.
A flash of motion through the canopy caught our attention — the crimson and metallic flash of a Mrs. Gould’s Sunbird. I hadn’t planned for it. I hadn’t even hoped for it. And yet, there it was — flitting in and out of the branches of a tree, brilliant in the filtered light. It stayed just long enough for a clean shot. A flash of color in a place of memory. It felt like a gift unasked for, but perfectly timed.
Not long after, the rain returned. We waited it out in the cars. It wasn’t a brief spell. We dozed in our seats for nearly two hours, the rhythmic thrum of rain on the roof of the car growing into a kind of dull chant. When the rain finally let up, it left behind a heavy, creeping mist — beautiful, but difficult.
We stepped out and tried to make the most of the quiet.The Yunnan Nuthatch was spotted quickly — a flash of movement in the grey — but the mist dulled the light, the visibility, and our lenses. The bird stayed high and busy, and while we were thrilled to see it, it didn’t yield the kind of moment you wait years for. We moved on, searching, waiting.
Then, in a thicket of bamboo and scrub, we saw them: Spot-breasted Parrotbills — the kind of bird that seems to exist in motion more than in place. But this time, we got them. Perched just long enough, dancing across our viewfinders, they gave us a real sighting, a real set of shots. The mist hung around them like theatre fog, softening the scene, sharpening our sense of luck.
There were glimpses of others, promises made but not kept, as many species stayed just of of reach in the mist - the Himalayan Cuckoo, the Square-tailed Drongo-Cuckoo, the Silver-eared Mesia and the Brown Bullfinch.
As the light began to drain from the hills, the rain threatened again. We packed up, thinking only about the next leg — Mishmi Hills, where we hoped the weather might shift in our favour.
Though we didn’t know it then, this was our last real day of birding.
Grounded in Walong: Balcony, Rain, and the Shrinking Sky
The next morning, the rain hadn’t stopped. We stood on the balcony of the homestay, sipping tea, watching a sky that no longer allowed movement. Our world had shrunk from roads and ridgelines to a wet concrete edge.
But even here, the birds came: Blyth’s Swifts, Asian House Martins, Eastern Red-rumped Swallows. They circled overhead, fast and uncatchable, winged punctuation against the grey.
We didn’t speak much. But I think we all understood — the trip was turning inward. Mishmi still waited. But something had changed.
Mishmi Hills: The Storm, the Goodbye, and a Final Gift
The next morning we set out early again, heading toward the famed Mishmi Hills — a name that resonates with birders across India and beyond. We had two more days carved out for this leg of the trip, and despite the forecast, we clung to hope. The drive began in pouring rain, which by now felt like a natural part of the landscape. But as the road unfurled beneath us, the scenery became breathtaking.
Rain slicked the green hills until they gleamed, each layer of forest fresher than the one before. Clouds hung low, catching on the ridges, and the valleys opened up like bowls of light and shadow. Despite the falling rain — which never quite stopped but sometimes softened — the journey felt almost sacred.
We stopped several times along the way. Even through the murk, birds appeared — often faint outlines that sharpened just long enough to stir excitement. Two lifers greeted us on that winding road: the Chestnut-winged Cuckoo, with its rich, warm coloring visible even through the mist, and the Hodgson’s Hawk-Cuckoo, a more ghostlike figure that sat huddled against the rain in a tree. These sightings offered reassurance. We were still in the game.
By the time we arrived at our accommodation in Mishmi Hills, the rain had intensified. It had now been falling for more than two days straight, sometimes heavy, sometimes just a curtain in the air. That night, we went to bed hoping the clouds might shift. Just enough for a few hours in the field.
But by morning, it was clear: the storm had settled in.
The hills were soaked. Rivers swollen. There was news of landslides along the roads we had driven, and of rivers breaching their banks down in Assam. Some of the smaller slides, we realized, we had unknowingly driven through just the day before. It no longer felt like a passing spell. It felt systemic.
We gathered and made a collective decision — one of those hard, quiet calls you sometimes face in the wild. Mishmi would have to wait. We advanced our flights, cut our itinerary short, and began the descent back to the plains.
It was a painful kind of retreat. And then, as if cued by some cosmic mischief, the rain slowed to a stop.The clouds still hung low, but the downpour was gone. As we reached the flatter stretches of highway in Assam, the sky turned a soft, dry grey. For a while we sat in silence, equal parts frustrated and amused. Nature, as always, had the final word.
But birders — the real kind — don’t stop just because the plan changes.
We kept our eyes open as we moved through the landscape, especially along the tea gardens that flanked the road, those endless, undulating greens that had welcomed us on our first day. And that’s when the curtain lifted just a little.
First came the Indochinese Roller, perched clean and upright on a pole, its pale blue body and subtle streaking like a watermark against the clouded sky. It stayed for a while, offering a calm, almost deliberate goodbye.
And then, as we neared the final stretch, we saw them: Oriental Hobbies — not just one, but a family. Two adults and a juvenile, swooping and diving over the trees, aerial and alert, like shadows moving through wind. They danced through the air above us, fast and elusive, their grace undiminished by the dull light. It was the kind of moment that doesn’t need to last long to stay with you.
By the time we reached the airport, the weight of what we’d missed had been replaced by the warmth of what we’d seen. We had come chasing birds across a landscape shaped by weather and war, rivers and ridge lines, silence and flight.
We left with a promise to return — not out of obligation, but out of yearning. Because some places don’t let you leave for good. They just ask you to come back better prepared.