The Vital Link

Around the shores of Newfoundland and Labrador, summer brings a remarkable surge of life; millions of seabirds build their nests, whales arrive to feed and put on collective tons of essential fat, and most of them rely, in whole or in part, on a single food source: the caplin (or capelin). This small forage fish, Mallotus villosus, is a member of the smelt family. They come in to follow the dense clouds of plankton found in coastal waters, and spawn on the sandy or fine-gravel beaches. Not only the whales and seabirds but squid, mackerel, seals and cod consume caplin at least to some degree.

The caplin roll in onto the beaches in vast schools, the females laying their eggs which are then fertilized by the males. There is a very high mortality rate at this phase of their lives -- nearly all the males die, while a small percentage of the females survive to spawn another year; the eggs remain on the beaches, looking like grains of golden sand, waiting for the next high cycle of tides to carry the young to sea. Traditionally, the dead or "spent" caplin were gathered by residents of coastal communities and dug into the soil as garden fertilizer. A comparatively small quantity were also harvested for eating fresh or for salting and drying.

Today, though, there is a commercial fishery for this vital link in the food web, despite opposition from those who believe that because of its vital role in the life cycle of so many species, the caplin should not be subject to commercial harvest. If you happen to be in Newfoundland when the caplin are spawning, the scene is definitely worth a side trip: whales feed offshore, birds dip beneath the surface to feed themselves and their young, and crowds of people head for the beach to cast a net, or simply to watch the spectacle.

Breaking Winter's Hold

Spring is gradually making its presence known on the Eastern Hyper-oceanic Barrens, as the snow begins to melt and the warmth of the sun reaches the earth beneath. What was once an unbroken expanse of white has become a mottled, patchy landscape where the deepest drifts remain but bare ground is showing through. Bird Rock is the spot where thousands of northern gannets (Morus bassanus) will soon be arriving to begin their nesting ritual; today it's completely bare, swept clean of nesting materials by winter's storms and gales. Ironically, it won't
be long before it's once again covered in white; this time, though, it will be the snowy white plumage of the gannets that provides the coverage. The gannets begin to arrive in mid-March, older birds returning to the nesting sites they've used in the past. The other birds that nest here will arrive soon as well; in fact, the first of the kittiwakes have already returned but are not nesting on the sheltered rocky ledges they prefer. The murres will soon be back, gathering on even narrower edges where they'll lay their conical eggs directly on the rock without benefit of a nest, and the razorbills will be seeking rocky niches for their eggs as well.

Today the Cape is silent apart from the sound of the breeze whispering through the low-growing grasses. Soon, though, the air will be filled with the cries of thousands of seabirds as they wheel above or plummet into the sea to feed in an electrifying display. The caplin will be coming into the beaches to spawn, and the whales will follow them close inshore as the summer progresses. The rich life-cycle of the Cape is at a low ebb now, but the tide is turning fast.

Tickle-aces, Turrs and Noddies

One of the most interesting things about Newfoundland and Labrador is the wonderful variety of expressions and figures of speech that are very much a part of life; archaic words that have fallen into disuse in other parts of North America are alive and well here, and there are local names for most of the seabirds found around the province's shores as well. The bird that's widely known as the black-legged kittiwake, Rissa tridactyla, is called a tickle-ace or tickle-ass here because of its habit of pursuing other birds and pecking at their tail feathers to make them drop the food they're carrying, allowing the kittiwake to swoop in and gather it up. Kittiwake in itself is an interesting enough name, echoing the bird's call, but it pales in comparison to tickle-ace.

The common murre (Uria aalge) nests here by the thousands on the islands along the coast, and is a traditional food source for coastal dwellers; at one time it was such an integral part of the diet that it was sometimes referred to as "salt-water chicken"; there is a hunting season for these birds during the winter months similar to that for ducks or geese. In Newfoundland and Labrador this bird is commonly called a turr, although in Britain it goes by the much more aristocratic "common guillemot", while its close relative the thick-billed murre or Uria lomvia is referred to as Brünnich's guillemot. While not as plentiful as either the kittiwake or the murre in

breeding colonies on the province's shores, the northern fulmar (Fulmarus glacialis) is found here in sufficient numbers to warrant its own nickname, the noddy. Although it is primarily an Arctic breeder, small colonies of fulmars can be found in both Labrador and Newfoundland. The fulmar is a tubenose -- a relative of petrels and albatrosses -- with a highly specialized beak whose function seems to be related to getting directional sensory input to detect food on the open sea. The fulmar has a particularly endearing habit of regurgitating the oily, smelly contents of its crop if alarmed; my advice is to avoid alarming fulmars. If you're planning on birdwatching in Newfoundland and Labrador, bring your field guide but be sure there's room in the back for notes!