A new knowledge-sharing project aims to ensure the survival of the migratory short-tailed shearwater, a bird that apparently treats international travel like a casual Tuesday.

Short-tailed shearwaters used to blacken the skies on the south-west coast of Australia each Djilba season (August to September, when the weather can't make up its mind). In Wudjari Noongar, the language of the traditional owners of Kepa Kurl (Esperance to colonists), they're called yowli. To others, muttonbirds - because nothing says 'respect for nature' like naming a creature after your dinner.

At the other end of the year, flocks darken Alaska's skies, feasting on fish and squid from melting Arctic ice. The Yup'ik mark their arrival too. But First Nations peoples on both coasts noticed something off: sick and dying shearwaters washing up, bellies full of microplastics instead of food, veering off their usual migration routes like tourists with no GPS.

Jennell Reynolds, senior ranger with Esperance Tjaltjraak Native Title Aboriginal Corporation, grew up hearing about the yowli - over 30 million return annually to breeding colonies off Australia's southern coast. 'It's so graceful seeing them skip across the water,' she says. In April, they head north for a 15,000km journey back to Alaska with newly fledged chicks, because apparently long-haul flights are for birds too.

Tjaltjraak rangers are now working with Yup'ik and other Alaskan traditional owners in a global research project combining ecological, scientific, and ancestral knowledge. 'It was one of those things where you know that you've got this connection through this one bird,' Reynolds says. 'We both have a kinship with the animals.'

The collaboration builds on pre-existing relationships between rangers and Eyak, Iñupiaq, Yup'ik, and Alutiiq communities. Early conversations revealed shared concerns about declining numbers. David Guilfoyle, a coordinator with Tjaltjraak, spent years living in Alaska and says those ties fast-tracked a formal cross-cultural partnership.

The project aims to understand the birds' migration patterns, how deep they dive for food, and the risks they face in a changing environment. 'It's very holistic,' Guilfoyle says. 'We can't do that until we get a lot of data.'

To get that data, rangers had to catch and tag the yowli - working quietly in cold, dark, snake-infested sand dunes on a Southern Ocean island with only red torchlight. Ranger Hayleigh Graham recalls the struggle: glue didn't work, double-sided tape failed, but eventually they used smaller zip ties. 'We got our first yowli,' she says. By night's end, they tagged 21 birds.

'It's still really early days,' Guilfoyle says. 'I can't sleep since we've tagged these birds - every hour I'm checking the map. It's like being an expectant parent.' The birds are now slowly tracking towards Tasmania, then will 'mission north to Alaska.'

The shearwater's fixed habits make it an alarm bell for ecosystem health. 'If we don't see them as much now, what have we lost?' Guilfoyle asks. 'That observational data is a call to action.'

Estelle Thomson, Yup'ik leader and president of the Native Village of Paimiut Traditional Council, notes that shearwaters are now appearing in her region far from their traditional path - a sign of climate change. 'We can tell when things are going awry,' she says. The permafrost is melting, typhoons are hitting, and traditional food sources are scarcer. Thomson partners with Indigenous peoples globally through Children of the Sky. 'The birds are a global citizen,' she says. 'This bird has no allegiance to any specific country.'

Reynolds hopes the project opens the way to other cross-cultural endeavours. First, though, rangers must catch the birds again next November to remove their tags. 'We're all custodians now,' she says. 'It's everyone's responsibility to care for country.'