Where Eagles Soar

There are few feelings quite like looking skyward and catching a glimpse of the broad, straight wings of a bald eagle high overhead(Haliaeetus leucocephalus). These strikingly beautiful and majestic birds of prey are relatively common around the coasts and waterways of Newfoundland and Labrador; they're well suited to life here, since appropriately enough they fish for a living. They can be spotted waiting patiently in trees or on

rocky outcrops, scanning for the flash of a fish moving through the water near the surface, then swooping low, flaring wings and tail to apply the brakes, and striking quickly. The resulting prize may be devoured right away at a favourite spot nearby, or carried back to a huge, unkempt-looking nest to feed recently hatched young.

During the winter months, they tend to congregate where there is open water or another readily available food source; in the

St. John's area, that means Quidi Vidi Lake with its ready selection of ducks and huge aggregation of gulls. Both adults and juveniles can be found here, like these two youngsters scuffling just above the ice of the lake. The return of summer means the birds are more widely spread across the landscape, since food is more readily available in open water. Keep an eye to the sky, and you just might catch sight of one of Newfoundland and Labrador's resident bald eagles.

The Lure of Labrador

I love the island of Newfoundland and the opportunity to share it with visitors, but Labrador holds a special place in my heart. It's a wild and rugged and raw-boned region, the mainland portion of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador, and its lure is simply irresistible. Accessed by ferry from Newfoundland, by air, or by land via the province of Quebec, Labrador's imposing landscape greets the traveller with sweeping, wide-open vistas. Sparkling rivers like the famous Pinware, a rich salmon stream, flow headlong to the sea, while sharply-defined mountains dominate Labrador's northern reaches. In 2005, this northern region officially became known as Nunatsiavut, (Inuktitut for "Our Beautiful Land") a new territory born out of the Labrador Land Claims Agreement. It is a self-governing Inuit region within the province of Newfoundland and Labrador, the first of its kind, taking in the communities of Nain, Hopedale, Postville, Makkovik and Rigolet. Farther to the south lies the area known as NunatuKavut ("Our Ancient Land"), the territory of the southern Inuit. There are also two Innu communities in Labrador, Sheshatshiu (Sheshatshiu First Nation) and

Natuashish (Mushuau First Nation), making up the area known as Nitassinan, the Innu Land. Many communities in Labrador, particularly those of the south coast, have non-native (or "Settler") populations as well.

Many sights and experiences await the visitor to Labrador, from the restored fishing station at Battle Harbour to Red Bay, site of a large-scale whaling station established by the Basques in the mid-1500s, to

the breathtaking beauty of Torngat Mountains National Park. This region isn't tame or gentle or shy; it demands attention and defies understatement, but if you're willing to meet it head-on and prepared to take in its huge scope and its equally huge appeal, it can be an incredibly rewarding and even life-altering place to explore.

A Morning With the Seabirds

You'd definitely have to call it a busman's holiday: on the day following my last Newfoundland Adventure of the 2012 season, I drove to Bay Bulls for a trip with friends. We headed for Captain Wayne's Marine Excursions and boarded the Blackfish 1 for a visit to the Witless Bay Ecological Reserve and a look at the surrounding coastline. After a loop through Island Cove, a look at the sea stacks of Spoon Cove, and a visit to a beautiful sea cave, we struck out for Gull Island, nesting site for thousands of Atlantic puffins, kittiwakes, murres and storm petrels. Light fog was hanging over the area and sea conditions were excellent, with an ocean so calm that the hundreds of birds in the water cast perfect reflections. We travelled slowly alongside Gull Island, pausing to photograph the puffins outside their burrows on the grassy slopes and lounging on the rocks near the water's edge. These photogenic little birds seemed to be in a particularly cooperative mood, posing for us as we slipped past. Although the fledging season is here and many pufflings have already left their burrows, there were still plenty of adults to be seen. There were also many common murres, some

guarding chicks that had not yet fledged. The young birds are ready to leave the nest at about three weeks of age;; unable to fly, they tumble or glide down the cliffs to the water below. Once the chick has fledged, the male parent attends it closely for up two two months as the birds venture out to the open sea. Within about two weeks the young are able to fly. The female stays at the nesting site for an average of two weeks or slightly more. This is the time of year when the

dense concentration of murres on the island begins to thin out.

A little farther south on the island, an unusual sight awaited us: one of this year's black-legged kittiwake chicks exhibited a condition called isabellism, a dilution of melanin, the pigment that colours the bird's black feathers and legs. In isabellan birds, one of the two types of melanin, Eumelanin and Phaeomelanin, is missing, resulting in a bird that shows a pale tan colouration

in areas that are normally dark.

As we reached the southern end of Gull Island and headed for open water, we found that the fog and onshore wind had brought a large number of greater shearwaters, birds that are usually found far at sea. These birds nest in Tristan da Cunha, a remote group of volcanic islands in the South Atlantic. One of these curious birds swam up to the boat to investigate us, providing a great opportunity for a close-up shot. From our shearwater encounter, we headed north to view the area's beautiful coastline; more about that in a later post.

Exploring on the South Shore

Wednesday dawned bright and clear with promise of record-high temperatures -- alarming from an environmental point of view but subversively attractive in the lean, cold, hungry month of March. It was definitely time for a road trip. I set out for Kejimkujik National Park's Seaside Adjunct at Port Joli. The area was set aside in 1988 to preserve a large section of Nova Scotia's coastal barrens; it consists of spruce and fir forests and bogs where orchids like Dragon's Mouth(Arethusa bulbosa) and Grass Pink (Calapogon tuberosus) and carnivorous Pitcher

plants (Sarracenia purpurea) can be found alongside the trail. A beautiful crescent-shaped beach of sparkling white sand lies approximately 2.2 km from the parking lot, accessible by a well-maintained walking trail. It was a beautiful day for the walk, with the temperature near 31° and sunny skies. The park is not yet officially open for the season, but the main trail to the beach was open; the longer, more scenic route, however, remains closed.

After my visit to the Seaside Adjunct I headed back toward the southwest, then turned down the

road along the east side of the Sable River to Jones Harbour, where two lobster boats were tied up at the wharf while another unloaded its newly caught lobsters into a car or storage unit floating just offshore. A bit of movement over the water caught my eye as I turned to the left, and I was delighted to see an adult bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) take flight from a low ledge. It flew low over the water toward the shore, then angled sharply upward to land in the top branches of a bare tree -- next to another adult, which I hadn't noticed before. The two were almost certainly a mated pair, since these birds tend to be very territorial during breeding season. After a quick word of thanks to the eagles for making my day, it was time to hit the road for Shag Harbour. What a great way to spend a beautiful day in sou'west Nova Scotia!

There's Nothing Like a Good Oxymoron

I love a good oxymoron -- an expression that seems to contradict itself. One of my favorite examples is personified by gannets; they're tremendously elegant and graceful in the air yet remarkably awkward and clumsy on land, so I tend to think of them in terms of awkward grace.

Their broad wings carry them effortlessly through the air; they sweep and wheel and plummet toward the sea with wings folded, knifing into the water in pursuit of fish with the grace of Olympic divers. They rise again into the air, returning to their nests to feed their young, and it's then that everything goes pear-shaped.

Just look at those splayed feet as this gannet puts on the brakes, flaring for landing. Could anything be more awkward than those big, black paddles set so far back on the body? They're useful for propulsion under water or when paddling on the surface, but when it's time to set them on the ground they've got all the delicacy and finesse of clown shoes.



It's small wonder, then that the gannet's raucous cry of grrr-aaah grr-aaah sounds for all the world like a warning cry of "Look out! Look out!"

Herons in the Shallows

It won't be long before the herons are back. Ardea herodias is theoretically a year-round resident in Southwestern Nova Scotia, but it's very unusual to see them here in January or February. When spring arrives, though, so do the herons; we'll start to see them wading in the shallows, making quick lunges to catch small fish swimming past. Herons tend to be shy and are startled by loud noises or sudden movements -- they'll take to wing when frightened and their broad wings, spanning up to six feet, will carry them quickly away. It's often late autumn or early winter before we see the last of them, with ice forming along the shoreline and on pools in the marshes.

These birds can be found in Newfoundland as well, although the salt marsh that forms their principal habitat can be scarce there so herons are confined mostly to the southwestern area of the island. I'll be glad to see the herons return, since when they make an appearance in the shallows, spring can't be far behind.

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.

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!

The Whales of Summer

Imagine being in the place where the world's largest gathering of humpback whales takes place every summer. The waters off Newfoundland and Labrador are rich in phytoplankton, providing nutrients for zooplankton and in turn huge numbers of caplin, a small member of the smelt family. It's the presence of these caplin that brings the whales from their winter breeding ground off the Dominican Republic to this prime summer feeding ground. The humpback's scientific name, Megaptera novaeangliae, translates to "big-winged New Englander" --

a reference to the massive pectoral flippers that are roughly one-third as long as the whale's body. These fins or flippers are used for steering rather than propulsion; in the North Atlantic both the underside and upper surface of the pectoral flippers are white, making them easy to spot through the water. Humpbacks are baleen whales, filtering their food from the water with massive parallel baleen plates that hang suspended from the palate; the inner surface of this baleen shreds into coarse bristles that make the filter more efficient. The whale takes in a mouthful of water and food

such as caplin, then expels the water through these baleen plates leaving only the food behind. This food must be small, since the whale's throat opening is smaller in diameter than a grapefruit. Humpbacks and other baleen whales have a very informal social structure, unlike many toothed whales like orcas and dolphins; they often travel in company with other whales, but not in highly organized pods or family groups. In areas with high concentrations of food, though, they can often be observed feeding cooperatively, working together to herd the schools of caplin into tighter groups

before lunging up through them with mouths agape to feast at this mobile buffet. Organized whale-watching tours by boat can be found in many parts of Newfoundland and Labrador, but excellent land-based whale watching is possible from spots like Signal Hill in St. John's, the cliffs at Cape St. Mary's, Cape Pine, or Twillingate, the beach at St. Vincent's on St. Mary's Bay, and viewing areas like Fishing Point in St. Anthony, to name just a few. The best time for whale watching in Newfoundland and Labrador stretches from late June until early August, although it's possible to see whales from spring through fall. Individual whales can be identified by the markings on the underside of their tails; more about this identification process can be found at Atlantic Whales.

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.

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.

Might as well face it, I'm addicted to puffins

It's official: I'm addicted to puffins. 95% of these little seabirds here in North America, nest around the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador. There are several spots along the course of my regular Newfoundland Adventure tour where it's possible to get close-up views of them, but the best place for dry-land spotting is Elliston, near Bonavista. When conditions are right and luck is with us, we sometimes experience the thrill of several puffins landing on the mainland side of the tickle, or narrow channel between the headland and the puffins' nesting area. When this happens, the photo opportunities are remarkable. There's a sense of wonder that comes with having wild birds like these choose to alight nearby; lowered voices and slow, easy movement are in order then. If the puffins don't feel threatened they'll stay, almost fearlessly, in close proximity to the people who have come to see them. A visit to Elliston can provide a truly memorable opportunity to experience nature's wonders.