First Visit to the Cape

The first spring visit to Cape St. Mary's always reminds me what a wonderful and varied place this is. Known primarily as a nesting site for thousands of northern gannets, it also provides a feeding ground for bald eagles and ravens, typical habitat for savannah sparrows and horned larks, and forms part of the range of the southern Avalon caribou herd.

I arrived in the early morning and started down the trail from the visitor centre; visible even from this distance, a juvenile bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) was circling high above the cove, the sun highlighting its mottled colours.

Another few minutes of walking brought me to the main point near Bird Rock, the centre of the gannet (Morus bassanus) nesting area.  This point overlooks the rock, and in another month it will be possible to spot the first of the year's chicks, guarded by their protective parents. Now, though, it's only adult birds that are visible, soaring overheard or returning to the nesting sites with seaweed or twine for nest repairs.

Returning along the trail, I heard the unmistakable trill of a savannah sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis) from just ahead. There it was, perched on one of the stakes that mark the trail.

The day's real treat, though, came in the form of a handful of caribou (Rangifer tarandus) trotting across the Eastern Hyper-oceanic Barrens. They were a hundred metres away, and seemed unconcerned at my presence. They'll soon begin to shed their pale winter coats, taking on a darker, sleeker look for summer. It will be fascinating to watch the changes that take place here at the Cape between now and October.

The Road Less Traveled

Many (sometimes I think a few too many) years ago, my high school English teacher, Mary Wille, assigned a Robert Frost poem as a memorization exercise for our modern poetry class:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost


At the time I didn't have any idea how deeply I would take those words to heart. After nearly thirty years exploring the winding byways of Atlantic Canada, though, it's become clear that roads less

travelled by have become my first choice. It's these roads that allow for breathing space; for stopping and smelling the wild roses or walking a woodland trail beside a crystal waterfall or watching an osprey hover and plummet in pursuit of a fat mackerel. These roads lead to small communities or to broad expanses of unsettled country, to forests and barrens and bogs and meadows where moose or deer graze, and to lakes or coves where eagles soar high above -- where bears sometimes amble out of the shadows in search of a mouthful of tender dandelions and

where wildflowers bloom in profusion, painting the landscape in purple and gold. They lead to places like Elliston, where abandoned root cellars, storage sites for houses that long ago have fallen into dust, create the look of a hobbit village and where a short walk leads to an Atlantic puffin colony that's ideally situated for viewing from land. They lead across eastern hyper-oceanic barrens where hundred-year-old trees rise a few inches in height, and where the only traffic doesn't pay much attention to roadsigns; the right-of-way belongs to the one with the antlers. These are the roads that reveal the

true character of this region; there's no pretense or putting on airs out here. I love exploring these out-of-the-way spots and visiting much-loved places that keep calling me back, and I love sharing those sights and sounds and experiences with others who have the same capacity for delight and discovery. As the summer touring season begins in earnest and the summer's travellers begin their journeys, I'm looking forward to every adventure-filled mile of it!

Following the Caribou

What's the difference between a caribou and a reindeer? The truth is, it depends which side of the fence it's on. They're the same species, Rangifer tarandus; a reindeer is simply a domesticated caribou. The caribou is a member of the deer family that is found in Arctic and Subarctic regions, and can be either migratory or resident. Although caribou were once common as far south as the state of Maine, where efforts to reintroduce them have been unsuccessful, Newfoundland is now home to the world's southernmost remaining wild herd of these animals.

In my travels on the Avalon Peninsula, I frequently see small groups of caribou, up to 20 or 25 animals, on the barrens near Trepassey and St. Shott's, and also near St. Bride's. These two areas are part of the Eastern Hyper-Oceanic Barrens, and provide great opportunities for viewing since there are few trees apart from small clumps of tuckamore. In the spring, the caribou are easy to spot since their pale winter coats and stand out against the landscape even at a distance.

Both males and females produce antlers, but those of the males' antlers are more robust and graceful. As the summer progresses, the animals' coats go through a stage of shedding and regrowth when they can look decidedly disreputable, like the stag pictured below. The small grazing groups we see at this time of year usually consist of a large male and several females and immature males. The females often have calves with them, although these young animals are especially vulnerable to coyote predation. Caribou are relatively docile and don't spook easily. We sometimes encounter them on the road and they aren't inclined to either startle or get out of the way. If there's a caribou in the road, motorists often stop for pictures and the animals seem more than willing to pose for a snapshot. They'll wander along the center line of the road contentedly, ignoring any threat from passing traffic. Fortunately, most motorists are willing to stop and enjoy the event instead of pushing to get past.

By late summer, the caribou start to look their best; their dark summer coats have grown in completely and all traces of the pale winter coats are gone. The males' antlers are at their most spectacular, just in time to attract attention and fend off competition during mating season. They can be more difficult to spot at this time of year, since their coats blend in against the changing colours of the landscape. In early summer the barrens are green, but as the year progresses the vegetation begins to take on golden and reddish tones. This change enhances the outlines of the sweeping hills and streambeds, creating dramatic fields of warm colour broken by rocky outcrops and highlighting the sapphire-blue ponds.

There are still places in Newfoundland and Labrador where it's possible to see caribou by the thousands -- the George River herd, for example, is estimated to contain about 50,000 animals. This is a drastic reduction from the last census, however; the herd has declined from 380,000 animals in 2001. Once plentiful in Newfoundland and Labrador, the caribou is now under pressure from increasing settlement, more human presence on the land, and a growing coyote population. In addition, an older problem resurfaces in cycles: a disease commonly known as brain worm and caused by the nematode Elaphostrongylus rangiferi. The introduction of this nematode was the unintended consequence of an attempt to improve the Newfoundland caribou herd: in 1908 a herd of 300 reindeer was brought from Norway to St. Anthony and small groups of them were herded to various parts of the island. The native caribou population at the time was actively hunted for food, and numbers had declined significantly. It was believed that the introduction of these Norwegian caribou would not only help to increase those numbers but improve the quality of the stock; instead, the introduced animals were hosts to the brain worm nematode and its effects spread across the island in the areas the new animals crossed. The native caribou population has never fully recovered from this accidental introduction.