Australia's big bird is strong, lean and very fast.  And even the blokes have a cute little feathery skirt...

Paul Jennings rolled the Pajero to a silent stop as a dark shape melded into the gidgee scrub. Rolling the window down, he leant out and started whistling a series of high-pitched chirps, ear splitting within the confine of the vehicle. The tough scrub swayed hesitantly at first, but the rhythm of the whistle was insistent and soon an adult emu shoved the branches aside. High-stepping over the browning debris of a good outback season, the emu swivelled its neck as only an emu can do to pinpoint the call. Paul, then superintendent of Sturt National Park in far-west New South Wales, explained the charade. “That’s a male, and he’s looking after his brood.”

Sure enough, a nervous group of about eight chicks ambled in fits and starts after the adult bird.

“Those chicks are about a month old by the size and the strong striping they’ve got. Young chicks that have been left behind will call out, and old man emu is thinking that I’m a distressed chick.”

Obviously, emus can’t count. As soon as Paul ceased his chick-impersonation the family group moved off, nonchalantly pecking at gourmet treats as though nothing had lured them from their daily stroll. The possibility of a missing chick was forgotten.

Male emus are definitely the “mothers” of emu families, and take the chore right after the happy-go-lucky female completes her egg-laying task. The nests, little more than a depression in the ground with a bit of scrub for decoration, will hold up to 15 or more eggs. Then old man emu will take over: warming, turning and protecting the eggs. They must love the job, for during the eight week incubation they don’t eat or drink, relying on reserves of fat built up leading into the breeding season.

The eggs themselves are simply beautiful, multi-layered and prized as the base for carved blown-egg works of art.

Emu chicks, like most wild animals, are able to fend themselves to a certain degree by the time they’re about two days old. They will stick to dad’s family group for many months, particularly during their early weeks when protection from predators – or other male mums – is needed, but lose their camouflage stripes after about four months. By their first birthday they’ve reached their full height, but some may cling to the clan for up to six months more.

Generally, emus are solitary birds and don’t flock together in a jovial and friendly manner as do, say, corellas or galahs. When the season is good, pairs or small groups may form, but even those birds won’t draw together for a peck and a preen, preferring to keep a bit of distance.

Though flightless, emus do have wings – they’re the little floppy bits at the base of their necks. But not being able to take to the air doesn’t stop the old emu, as anyone who has startled one when driving can attest – those birds can run! Top speed when in full emu-flight, stretched like an arrow and with only one toe at a time wisping the ground, is an amazing 70km/h. They’d lose their licenses these days if they tried it in residential streets! That’s at full throttle, but even cruise speed is a distance-crunching 45km/h.

While our tour around Sturt with Paul Jennings certainly didn’t push any of the flightless residents beyond an amble – and a second look for stray chicks – it was an incredibly good emu-season. Seemingly huge numbers of the birds were gathered to take advantage of local feeding spots greened by isolated storms.

In amongst a repertoire of emu-facts on leg strength, feather insulation and sheer numbers, Paul was fluttering his handkerchief in the breeze with an “I’m going to show you something special” look about him. And he did.

The nearest group looked. And then looked away. But the grass was greener close to the hanky, so what should an emu do? Stepping, pecking, stepping, looking. Stepping, running, pecking, looking – Charlie Chaplin should have been so good. Those birds may as well as rushed up to us and said “Excuse me, I think that two-inches from your right foot is the most delicious crushed stem I’ve ever spied”. And we would have stepped away, but we didn’t move. An arm’s length; a feather’s breadth. The handkerchief stopped moving, and the grass was immediately greener the other way.

Rubbernecks. Superbirds. Here’s to Australia’s bush chooks-in-frocks.