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.

Magic at the Cape

Cape St. Mary's Ecological Reserve lies at the southwest corner of the Avalon Peninsula, near the mouth of Placentia Bay. It's roughly a two-hour drive from St. John's, across wide-open rocky barrens, through forested regions, and alongside some beautiful coastal scenery. The last few kilometres of the trip are on an access road that travels across eastern hyper-oceanic barrens, an eco-region that has almost no tree cover apart from small stands of stunted balsam fir locally referred to as "tuckamore" -- this is one of the worlds most southerly examples of sub-arctic tundra. There's a visitor centre with restrooms and a well-stocked gift shop, and a staff of knowledgeable on-site interpreters from the Parks and Natural Areas division of Newfoundland's Department of Environment and Conservation. A twenty-minute walk from this visitor centre leads to the site's principal attraction, Bird Rock. On this 100-metre tall sandstone sea stack, thousands of northern gannets or Morus bassanus occupy precarious-looking nesting sites from early spring through autumn. Early in the season, through the month of June, cool temperatures and fog often dominate the weather at the Cape; it might not be the conventional view, but a foggy day is my favourite way to experience this remarkable spot.

Visiting the Cape in the fog is an act of faith: there are days when it's so thick that the visitor centre is barely visible from its parking lot, yet even on those days it's possible to get excellent views on gannets at their nesting site. The walk along the well-marked trail becomes an epic journey straight out of Tolkien, up hill and down dale, the air filled with the raucous cries of murres and razorbills. The seabirds' voices fade out as the trail passes behind a large rounded hill, then suddenly the harsh "grrah, grrah, grrah" of the gannets. They're still not visible, mind you, but their calls are reassuring -- there's definitely something out there! A few more metres down the trail, through a brief rocky section, and the shape of Bird Rock begins to resolve itself through the mist. The bright white bodies, black wingtips, and golden heads of the birds stand out against the surrounding grey. The viewing area is so close to the nesting rock, a mere 15 metres away, that the views are excellent even in the thickest of fog. Every inch of the stack's rugged dome seems to be occupied, with nesting pairs of gannets and their young.

Sometimes Nature is kind and rewards this foggy trek with a few minutes of sunshine; in fact, depending upon the wind direction there may not be a trace of fog. Whatever the conditions, though, this observation area near Bird Rock is a place to remain and enjoy the proximity of these beautiful, graceful creatures. They wheel overhead on the breeze, dropping suddenly onto their nests before exchanging greetings with their mates. The partners touch beaks in a behavior called fencing, the "honey, I'm home" of the gannet world. Shortly after one partner's return, the other leaves on a foraging mission. Watching the newly-returned partner closely will sometimes provide an opportunity to see one of the rock's more interesting sights, the feeding of the pair's chick. The hardest part of a visit to Cape St. Mary's, for me, is tearing myself away from the spectacle of Bird Rock to start back up the trail. I never tire of this place and its magic.