I Like Big Boats and I Cannot Lie

I've always loved working boats, both big and small to be honest, and there are few places better suited to someone with a love of such boats than Atlantic Canada. From the sandy shores of Prince Edward Island to the tides of the Bay of Fundy, shared by Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, to the rocky coast of Newfoundland and Labrador, this region has a wealth of boats of all shapes and sizes.

They can be found in small towns and big cities, tied up at wharves, riding at anchor, or moored "on the collar" in small coves whose names don't appear on any map. The unifying thread among all these boats is their utilitarian grace. They're built for work, not for show, but they have an innate beauty that's a bit poignant somehow, as if try as they will, they just can't help being graceful and elegant.

These days their hulls might be fiberglass, metal or even concrete, but there was a time when every one of them had been built from wood in a local boat shop. Examples of those older wooden boats can still be found if you're willing to look; they might be housed in museums where they're carefully studied for their lines, hauled up on the shore and falling into ruin, or -- in some rare cases -- lovingly patched and mended and still afloat after seventy-five or a hundred years of plying the North Atlantic.

I particularly like those parts of the region where there's a lot of individuality expressed in the colours of the boats; those bright reds and yellows and blues and greens add cheer to a foggy day, and from a practical standpoint of those who wait on shore, it's a lot easier to recognize the boat you're looking for when it rounds the headland making for home. Although today's navigational and safety equipment have reduced the hazards, fishing is still a dangerous way to make a living; here's wishing safe home to all those boats, and to those who travel in them.

One Fluke at a Time

When whale researchers take photos of humpback whale flukes, right whale callosity patterns or fin whale chevrons, they're not doing it just to have a beautiful image to hang on the wall.  They're looking for specific patterns that identify individual whales, in order to expand the knowledge base for these species. Humpback fluke patterns are unique to the individual whale, and are often compared to fingerprints since they remain the same throughout the whale's adult life, apart from the addition of new scars from barnacles, orca attacks or other such incidents.  Right whale callosities are the rough patches that appear on the right whale's face in the same areas where humans have facial hair: eyebrows, mustache, etc., and they, too, remain relatively stable, aiding in identification. The variations in the chevrons on fin whales' right sides are also usable for identification although that's a daunting task.

Identification by humpback fluke patterns, though, is the area that's seen the greatest concentration. Fluke patterns like the one above range from almost completely black through patchy variations to almost completely white; curiously, scars on white flukes appear black, while scars on black flukes appear white. These stark, graphic patterns can be compared to make positive ID of an individual whale regardless of its location. There are a number of organizations that pursue this identification work, and each of them is fortunate to count on dedicated and selfless volunteers whose passionate commitment to the whales drives them onward. A great example of such dedication is Gale McCullough of Maine (aka Flukematcher), a tireless advocate for the environment and marine mammals, who operates fluke-matching sites on Flickr and Facebook for comparing the images submitted by researchers, volunteers, whale enthusiasts and tourists up and down the east coast of North America. By scanning through hundreds of images by hand, Gale and other experts match flukes to find links between Newfoundland, the Gulf of Maine, Cape Cod, Bermuda, and the Dominican Republic as well as other locales.

Don't get me wrong, Gale's not the only such cataloguer who's working long hours to advance our knowledge, she's simply a dedicated and passionate person who devotes much time and energy to this very worthwhile study. She's a remarkable woman whose work contributes greatly to increasing what we know about humpback whales and their feeding, breeding and migration patterns, and she deserves our thanks. Happy birthday, Gale.

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.

Captivating Fogo

North of Gander in central Newfoundland lies the port of Farewell, terminus for the ferry to Fogo and Change Islands. These island communities are not only beautiful but culturally captivating -- they provide a glimpse into a traditional Newfoundland way of life that's fast disappearing in many places. Change Islands is dealt with in another post, but Fogo is worth a bit more exploration. One highly recognizable feature of Fogo Island is the abundance of fishing stages painted in shades of red ochre. They are especially striking when seen in evening or morning light,

like the one above. The landscape is uncompromising: barrens and scrubby trees give way to rocky headlands; houses and fishing stages cluster in snug harbours while surf pounds the exposed shorelines nearby. There's no question that Fogo Island holds almost endless appeal for photographers, but the island has a vibrant life of its own. As in much of Newfoundland and Labrador, fishing remains an important source of income for many

islanders, as reflected in the song "The Joe Batt's Arm Longliners". There's commerce as well, and a thriving tourism industry in the summer months. Change is afoot on the island, though, as the Shorefast Foundation works to create opportunity for local entrepreneurship. Fogo Island is nearby and yet a world apart; it is an unforgettable destination filled with stark beauty and strong character.

Found Art

It's been an interesting summer for found art on the Bonavista Peninsula. In June I happened upon an arrangement of chain and small rocks, simple in design but beautiful and intriguing. The contrasting colours and textures of the rocks and rusted chain were accentuated by the smooth stone beneath them.

In early August, the community of Red Cliff provided its own work of art, again involving a rusted chain. This time the chain was casually heaped on a rounded rock -- once again the contrasting shapes and textures were eye-catching and photogenic. To the artist or artists responsible, thank you!

LaHave Islands

The LaHave Islands lie just ten miles from Lunenburg, on Nova Scotia’s scenic South Shore. That’s ten miles as the crow flies, but unless you’re actually a crow then getting there takes a bit more time than you might expect. Travel along Route 332, the Lighthouse Route, to East LaHave, and from there take the cable ferry across the LaHave River -- it leaves the eastern side of the river at 15 and 45 minutes past the hour. Turn left after leaving the ferry, and proceed no farther than the delightful LaHave Bakery before continuing on your way. It’s essential to stop at this bakery
and café to snack on fresh baked goods or enjoy delicious soups, light lunches, and a fine variety of teas, coffees, and cold beverages. You might like to pick up a loaf of bread to bring along as well; milk & honey, cheese & herb or multigrain are just some of the choices. Now that you’re properly provisioned, it’s time to continue west along the shore to Crescent Beach; the road to LaHave Islands runs parallel to the beach, behind the dunes. Take time to linger on this smooth strip of sand; although the seawater is usually too cold for swimming, it’s a great walking beach, well-used
by locals and visitors alike. During my most recent visit, there were several people wading hip-deep in the cold water, digging into the sand for surf clams (above right). They’d wisely chosen to wear wetsuits for this activity!

Back on the road, a bridge at the end of the beach/causeway leads to Bush Island, where a small but picturesque fishing harbour makes for interesting exploration. The next island is Bell Island; here you’ll find the LaHave Islands Marine Museum (top), housed in a former Methodist church. The eclectic collection of displays here pays tribute to the area’s seafaring past and to its farming history, as well as recognizing the contribution of the district’s veterans of the two World Wars. There are some fine examples of local boatbuilding, including large double dories and an example of a double-ended Bush Island boat christened the Vera Mae.

A little farther down the road lies the turnoff for Wolfe Gut, an out-of-the-way corner with lovely views of the shoreline. This is just one of the many peaceful spots that make a visit to the LaHave Islands worthwhile. The South Shore is a popular travel destination and can at times be busy and bustling during the summer months, but the LaHave Islands are a haven of calm and peaceful surroundings on a summer’s day.

Springtime in Grand-Pré

The day before my most recent junket to Newfoundland was spent exploring Nova Scotia's South Shore and Annapolis Valley regions; it was a relaxing and interesting way to make the trip to Halifax for my flight. The South Shore was a natural since it lies between Shag Harbour and the airport, but the jaunt to the valley was prompted by the need for a plate of Santa Fe Haddock at Lisa's Cafe in Windsor, NS. Lightly breaded and seasoned with southwestern spices, the flaky white fish is

served with a delightful cranberry salsa and it's definitely worth the drive. Getting there, though, was a pleasure as well; it was a perfect day for seeing the sights of the eastern Annapolis Valley around Grand-Pré National Historic Site and Evangeline Beach. One of the prettiest views of Grand-Pré is from the Post Road as it travels along a ridge above the community (top). Apple orchards were in full bloom, and the gracefully arching umbrella-shaped trees in the older orchards

were especially striking. Before the widespread use of dwarf varieties of fruit trees, standard trees were pruned in this pattern to allow the sun to reach the fruit more evenly and to keep the apples closer to the ground for picking. Although it's fallen out of favour in more recent years, this pruning style can still be seen in a few locations. The most striking sight of all, though, was a remarkable sculpture along the road to Evangeline Beach. Three doors, one standing on a base at ground level and the others arranged above it, created an intriguing and traffic-stopping attraction -- there weren't many cars on the road that afternoon, but I wasn't the only traveller who stopped for a closer look. I've done a bit of research since, but to no avail; I'd love to know more about this piece of roadside art and the artist who created it. A short drive from here lie the broad, red tidal flats of the Bay of Fundy, stretching out from shore at low tide. There'll be more about them, and their crucial role in shorebird migration, in a future post.

A Great Way to Spend an Evening

The call came yesterday evening: "I'm going out to visit the iceberg. Care to go?" Of course the answer was yes, so after a couple of phone calls, a friend and I were on our way south from St. John's to Bay Bulls, headed for Captain Wayne's Marine Excursions on the Northside Road. The Captain himself was waiting on the front deck of the ticket office, ready to fit us with warm jackets for the evening ride. The sun was sinking low in the sky, bathing the scene in golden light. We

boarded Blackfish 1 and headed out toward the mouth of Bay Bulls, where a large tabular iceberg was grounded on a ledge just off South Head. We kept a respectful distance, staying back at least the length of the berg at the waterline. The ice glowed golden in the sunlight, bringing out the textures in sharp relief, and waves roared as they rolled under a small ledge at the water's edge. Streams of meltwater sparkled as they caught the light, falling from its flat upper surface. We

completed our circuit and headed back in the bay as the sun was setting, streaks of pastel pink painting the sky. We returned to the dock and tied up just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. What a perfect end to the day!

It's a good year for icebergs along the coast of Newfoundland and Labrador, with prospects of bergs staying around well into June. An excellent resource to see where bergs can be found and to learn more about how they are formed, how they reach our shores and where they come from, can be found by following this link.

Icebergs and Sun Pillars

On Monday evening a friend called to say that there were a couple of icebergs grounded just outside the "gut" at Quidi Vidi, a small village that's part of St. John's. Would I like to go take a look? I didn't have to be asked twice -- I love the icebergs that work their way south along the Labrador current in spring and early summer, and I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to see and photograph one, especially in a setting as picturesque as Quidi Vidi. We drove to a point above the village, then walked to the Quidi Vidi Battery, not yet open for the season. The hill gave a commanding view of the bergs in the narrow opening to the small harbour; the two bergs were of completely different

shapes, one flat or tabular and the other pinnacled and looking a bit like a huge white walrus. There were thirty or so people gathered on the point, taking photos or just enjoying the view, but the light was fading fast. We decided to return the following morning to see the bergs in the early light. Serendipity provided the perfect weather conditions for a sun pillar as the day dawned, making for a spectacular scene that was well worth the early start. When an opportunity arose for yet another visit to the bergs that evening, of course I couldn't resist. After a walk to the end of the Barrows Road and a scramble across the rocks, another friend and I joined the watchers on the point and settled in to

enjoy the view and the changing light. We were delighted to see a couple of colourful kayaks head out for an evening paddle, past the bergs and along the coast. While they were gone, the tabular berg shifted on the tide and nearly closed off the opening to the harbour; fortunately there was enough room for them to get past, but the return trip was definitely a bit more challenging than the outbound one. Thanks to those two kayakers for adding extra interest to this beautiful evening!

There is a website that provides location data and background information on icebergs in Newfoundland and Labrador -- www.icebergfinder.com operates during iceberg season and gets its data from both satellite and local observer information.

Waiting for the Sunrise -- Doctor's Cove, NS

Just a few kilometres down the road (toward Barrington Passage, not up the road toward Shag Harbour), the road bends wide around a broad cove that makes a perfect reflective surface for some pretty dramatic sunrises. The community is Doctor's Cove, and of course so is the body of water. The causeway to Cape Sable Island lies to the east just below the horizon, and provides definition for it. The land that encircles the cove almost completely helps to shelter it from the breeze, so the water is often glassy calm, and there are ledges of rock in the cove that make it difficult to

navigate in anything other than a very small boat, but certainly make interesting accents against the reflected colours of the sky. There's a nice, wide shoulder on the road through Doctor's Cove and a couple of places to park; all these factors add up to a great place to wait for the sunrise, and to enjoy its full scope over the water. Cold mornings even have the added attraction of mist or "seasmoke" rising from the still water.

In 2009, my sister Sally Van Natta rented a cottage in Doctor's Cove -- check out her image of the village with morning sun peeping through the fog here, and while you're at it, stay around long enough to explore her wonderful photos.

This morning was exceptionally mild for March, the second day in a row when southwestern Nova Scotia awoke to clear skies and temperatures well above freezing, a combination not usually seen until sometime in May. The air was filled with birdsong, and light clouds formed a delicate tracery in the eastern sky.

As the light intensified they began to glow orange; I waited in a likely spot overlooking the cove and the sunrise began to shape up into an especially nice one. The trees on a small point of land jutting out into the cove were perfectly reflected in the still water, and the sun burnished its calm surface. With a beautiful spring day on its way, I'm off to explore more of the South Shore and enjoy this wonderful weather!

Raindrops and Dewdrops and Dull, Drizzly Days

Living in a part of the world where any season can be marked by rain, drizzle and fog, it's vital to develop an understanding that the weather outside doesn't necessarily have to set the tone for the day. There's much to be said for a foggy day in winter, since it usually means that the weather's taken a mild turn and the snowbanks are about to disappear, or at least show a significant reduction in size. The sun may not be splitting the rocks, but mild weather has its advantages. In spring and fall, the fog can make for some interesting photo opportunities as it seems to soften the edges of the landscape. In June, it's a sure sign that summer's on its way since it's a contrast between the warm temperature of the land the the cold water that create the condition.

In the spirit of embracing the moment, I often take the camera out for a walk on a foggy day to capture its subtle charms. I love the way water droplets collect on lichens and mosses, and the way the moisture darkens the bark of trees and shrubs to provide extra contrast with soft green leaves or bright autumn tones.

I can be just as put off by a downpour as anyone; it's challenging to get as much enjoyment out of a day when the rain's pouring down, but a little light drizzle can be taken in stride.

I have to admit that I love it when tour guests take bad weather in stride. It's what we're getting, we can't change it, so we may as well enjoy what we've got. For that reason I have some very happy memories of those out-of-the-ordinary touring days over the past thirty years or so, when weather could have spoiled our fun but didn't -- days that were enjoyed despite the weather's most determined efforts. Thanks, all you rollers-with-the-punches. You know who you are; you make my job a heck of a lot easier, and you're great fun to be with!

Of Peeps and Beaches

Beachwalking has its rewards. The broad, white stretches of sand in southwestern Nova Scotia seem to go on forever -- and the beach is a living thing, constantly changing its configuration. In winter, the sand moves offshore exposing fields of rounded rocks sculpted by scouring sand and seawater. In summer it drifts back in again to create smooth expanses where once the rocks showed through. Shells, bits of seaweed, the occasional lobster trap or float -- even a fish-splitting table -- might appear one day only to be gone the next. In spring, summer, and late into fall, though, there's another attraction: the peeps. Sanderlings (Calidris alba) stop in on their spring and fall migrations. They're here briefly to feed before continuing on the long journey between their wintering grounds in South America and the Caribbean and their breeding grounds in the High Arctic. They can be seen chasing the receding waves then running away from them in what looks like a highly animated game of tag.

Dunlin (Calidris alpina) have long, drooping bills that make them easy to identify even in their dull non-breeding plumage. These medium-sized sandpipers probe the sand at the water's edge; they too are migrating, but their journey is a shorter one, between the eastern seaboard of the United States and the shores of Hudson Bay. They are sometimes seen in mixed flocks with sanderlings and semi-palmated plovers, performing an aerial ballet as they swoop low over the waves. The star of the show here on these Nova Scotia beaches, though is a sparrow-sized shorebird that nests near the edge of the dunes -- the piping plover (Charadrius melodus).

These little birds forage on the beach, running along then stopping suddenly to feed in an abrupt stop-and-go pattern. They must be treated with respect and care since they're endangered here in Canada, due to destruction of habitat, changes in water levels, and harassment -- often unintentional -- by people, vehicles and dogs. To protect their fragile nesting sites, it's best to beachwalk away from the dunes, to keep dogs on a leash and keep them out of the dry sand at the upper reaches of the beach, and to confine any use of recreational vehicles to the wet, compact sand avoiding known nesting areas. Efforts to protect the piping plover in Southwestern Nova Scotia have been more successful than those in the rest of Atlantic Canada; the photos that accompany this post were taken at a respectful distance with a long lens, then cropped for detail. Being on the beach in the company of shorebirds is a delightful experience, but by showing them some consideration it's a treat that can be shared with future generations, both of people and of birds.

Saltmarsh mornings

One of my favorite places to wait for a sunrise is the saltmarsh. The frosted grasses in winter, the rustling of birds and small animals, the hoofprints of deer come to test the salty tang of plants along the shore, the ever-changing tableau of seaweed or eelgrass arranged by the last tide; they all captivate me. There's a stillness here that overrides the noise from the traffic passing just a few yards away. A good pair of boots and a walking stick are essentials, and of course the camera has to come along as well, since the still water can provide a canvas for perfect reflections of a glorious sunrise. The scent of the marsh

is salty too, of course -- fresh seaweed left by the receding tide. Sound carries well over the water, so the cries of a pair of loons or a small flock of mergansers can be heard from the islands in the near distance. A heron's quick lunge for a passing fish makes a quiet splash, and a small stream tumbles over rounded granite rocks as it flows into the cove; a pair of muskrats dabble in the shallows by the brook. As spring approaches, the willet's distinctive "pill-will-willet" call is added to the soundscape. The sunrise seems somehow more accessible here -- not a distant event but an intimate one as the first rays of the sun peep through the trees and begin to cast their golden light

on the marsh grasses. It creeps slowly along, casting long shadows that enhance the delicate lines of the tide-swirled seaweed, sparkling off the frost or shining warmly on the mist that rises gently off the water. With the sun fully risen it's time to tread back across the muddy flats and head back to the house for the first sip of morning coffee, but the marsh will still be here tomorrow, constant, timeless, yet ever-changing and new.