Tag Archives: birds

Costa Rica parte dos: On land, in which I take a liking to some of the locals.

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After diving a few days, I joined a tour to the massive Corcovado National Park (42,000+ hectares of land area). They’ve somewhat commoditized and package-ized the outdoor experiences here, which ruffled some of my meander-leaning feathers. This was before the bad dive and the whales, so I was still uncertain of my feelings for the place overall. But I went in with an open mind, a camera, a lot of water, and a desire to see some cool critters.

Check-in at 5:45, load onto the boat at 6, disembark and check-in at the ranger station, bag check for illicit food and plastic (Corcovado is very strict), and we’re ready to go into the park. In my group of 10 was a very nice Italian couple, a trio of French women, and a few others. We walked the trails slowly, with the guide stopping every 50 metres or so to point something out. It felt like he was acting the “guide” part a bit, with a flourish of his scope each time we stopped. Despite the showmanship and the production value, the trails were nice and we managed to see some indigenous species: 2 sloths, 3 tapirs, a smattering of birds and reptiles, a coatimundi, an agouti, and a partridge in a pear tree. Actually, a partridge-type thing (a tinamou), a great curassow, a couple of crested guans, a chachalaca (which is a great sighting if for the name alone), and others.

All-in-all, it felt canned. Like walking through a ‘nature park experience’ rather than hiking through primary and secondary rainforest. And, while I’m not regretful that I went, I’d likely sign up for a different experience if I go again. When I got back to Drake Bay, I booked some time with a local guide to go birdwatching.

The highlight of the day: a couple of Imperials (the local beer) with the Italian couple, some very decent ceviche, and fun conversation, culminating in them urging me to reconsider my domicile in these very bizarre times.

I rode out the hottest heat of the afternoon on the balcony of my hotel room doing some napping and lazy birdwatching from the hammock. The cacophony begins at dusk, when the cicadas announce the exact moment of sunset. It’s amazing, really, the scissor-like crescendo of their song. Track 2 to the evening symphony is the squawking chorus of scarlet macaws as they make their way, 2-by-2 into the jungle to sleep.

I met up with the local birding guide the next day with honestly low expectations after my Corcovado experience. But the magic of the whales prevailed and it ended up being a lovely, if a tad wet bird walk (we got caught in a tropical downpour while looking for toucans), making the memory better, if soggy.

If you are in Drake Bay, I highly recommend William Mora Gomez as a guide. He knows the area like the back of his hand, and his passion for birds and local wildlife shines through.

We ended up going on 2 outings, each time seeing more and more local birds and wildlife. The 2nd walk we took, William had rescued a baby white-face capuchin earlier in the day. The little monkey had gotten zapped on an overhead wire, and William reunited him with his troop. We walked by the same area a couple of hours later and the monkeys were still there, maybe waiting to give some good photo ops in gratitude. I’m anthropomorphizing of course, but it’s nice to wonder if they remember the good humans.

This inspired me to take my own late afternoon walks in-between lazing and diving. Birdwatching is good for the spirit. Looking through a viewfinder focuses your attention and silences the ridiculous chatter in your mind. A nonsense self-conversation about what’s going to happen in 4 days when you’re back in the real world has no chance against a chance sighting of a red-lored Amazon parrot with mate sitting on a nest, close encounters with rufous-tailed hummingbirds, cartoon-ish sightings of fiery-billed aracaris and yellow-throated toucans. Lineated woodpeckers.

It was during these walks, despite the heat, despite the prices (I still have no idea how people without a hefty vacation budget can afford to live there), despite the touristic-centricity, that I came to really appreciate the Pura Vida, pure life, aspect of Costa Rica.

There is a concept in my yoga practice called Iccha: the willingness to allow something, or the opening up to what might be. It had been a long time since I’d really, purely tapped into this energy and it felt like my spirit was trying to come home.

The following day the ocean would redeem itself.

Read Part 1 here.

A long weekend in the Maritimes

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Last 4th of July weekend, I went up to Vermont to ride the Cross-Vermont Trail, a 100-mile stretch of linked trails traversing the middle of the state. So, when looking at the calendar and the way the holiday fell in the week, it made sense to do another bike trip this year.

Work schedules have been madness, and so a few days prior to the blocked time off, there was no real plan… except to go North. Canada. We decided to wing it: spend a couple of days in Prince Edward Island (mussels, lighthouses, no idea what else) and then a couple days in Nova Scotia (ditto: no idea what to expect, except that I’d been there about 30 years ago and I remember the crazy tides in the Bay of Fundy). A couple of years ago I went up to Maine over 4th of July to see puffins… so I put in an order for sea parrots as well. You know, just in case.

With a Plan partially-baked, we set off. 6am departure and half a gazillion hours later, we arrive at our destination: a very sweet historic guest house in Charlottetown. I’ll admit that my expectations were lowering by the block as we drove there through strip malls and industrial areas that could have literally been anywhere else. But patience prevailed and the box stores and faceless motels gave way to tree-lined streets and lovely brick architecture in the historic downtown area.

We were zonked and starving, but found an Irish pub (we’ll come back to the Irish in a bit) and ate very respectable mussels and pub food and listened to some very respectable live music before crashing entirely. I’ll gloss over the part where we got back to the guest house and the key didn’t fit and we had to call the guy and get a new key. It was late but hard to be annoyed because the rumors are true: Canadians are really nice. Even when they screw up and you’re completely shattered and it’s lightly raining and midnight and all you want to do is go to bed.

Enter, bikes.

Even though clouds threatened the next morning, we set out to do a 30-mile loop in the PEI National Park. It turned out to be a really nice ride on gravel roads and jetties through the Robinsons Island section, and on the road for the rest. Lighthouses, check. Thriving dunes and red sandstone cliffs and pink-tinged beaches: also, check! The rain held off and we explored the rest of the national park by car and foot. A flat-calm Atlantic Ocean washed the fragments of work worries out to sea.

That evening we set out to wander the cobbled Charlottetown streets in search of dinner. An aside: I’ve recently adopted a new dog who is so different from my old one in many ways. One thing is that while walking, he will stop dead in his tracks to dramatically sniff the air in hopes of being magnetically guided towards wafting scents of backyard BBQ. I share this because, as we navigated down Great George Street looking for dinner, we walked past a waft of something good. So good, in fact, that as we arrived at the restaurant we were heading to, we stopped dead in our tracks, sniffed the air and were magnetically guided away from that and towards the spices emanating from Punjabi Bites, a local Indian joint. I have eaten a LOT of Indian food here and abroad (including in India), and so when I told the waitress at the end of the meal that it would be worth coming back to PEI just for their food I was not at all kidding. It was really some of the best Indian food I’ve ever had.

Bridge (droichead), not ferry.

The finger-like islands of the Canadian Maritime provinces are connected by a series of bridges and ferries. We decided to take the scenic route and drive across from PEI to Nova Scotia. There are plenty of French influences up here, but what I didn’t know or expect was the Scottish and Irish heritage still lingering as a result of descendants of refugees from the Irish Potato Famine. So as we made our way towards Cape Breton Island, at the top of the province, it was odd to see the road signs begin to change from French to (of all things) Gaelic subtitles. In addition to the First Nation place names and signage that abounds in the region, Gaelic is also widely spoken in these parts.

The Puffins, who thankfully don’t really care which dialect you speak as long as there is enough herring available, played not a small role in the destination choice (grateful for the Internet: a puffin boat trip magically booked from the car!). That and the Cabot Trail. Which I had no idea even existed just a few days earlier.

We rolled into the town of Baddeck (pronounced ‘buh-deck’) in time to drop off stuff at the inn, wander briefly, then get back into the car to traverse the bridges and windy roads flanking Big Bras d’Or, the ginormous lake or inland sea that feels like part Maine, part Vermont; the woods and sea and hills playing alternate roles in rolling out their finest scenery for all to share.

On-board the little birdwatching boat from Bird Island Boat Tours, Captain Ian put on a vaudeville-esque show while the puffins, eagles and other seabirds darted around us. It was nice to be out on the water, taking photos of these cartoonish cuties. I felt silly and light and very, very grateful to be right there as I was furiously chasing birds through my viewfinder.

The skies opened up in the morning, dashing any thoughts of a nice bike ride. Instead, we headed up the Cabot Trail, so named for the Italian explorer Giovanni Caboto (John Cabot), who sailed the ocean blue in 1497 and (re)discovered Newfoundland and Cape Breton Island. He may or may not have been friends with or inspired by a certain other Genoese sailor who claims to have discovered America a little farther south 5 years earlier. And even more unclear is whether this Cabot has familial ties to the Boston Brahmin Cabots for whom the main street in my town is named.

The Cabot Trail is a stunning roadway that circumnavigates the uppermost portion of Cape Breton Island, wending its way along the coast and around the densely wooded forest in the middle, home (apparently) to moose-a-plenty and Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The (apparent) moose did not appear, so I’ll have my moose-radar tuned on high next month when I’m up in Northern Maine. Stay tuned.

That first day on the Cabot Trail we began on the East side and went counter-clockwise, ducking in to hike a few of the little loops along the road, including the Franey loop (its stunning views might have been even more-so with clearer skies), a stop at a genuine general store for gas (replete with a 1950s-era pump attached to a large tank!), and a glimpse of the Lone Shieling, a replica of a Scottish shepherd’s hut along a path that also hosts a stand of 350-year-old sugar maples. Rain or non, the landscape was magnificent.

When in, erm, Ireland (?), you go to a local pub to hear local music. Or something. So there is a section along the coast called Chéticamp, which is Acadian, Mi’kmaq, and a little Scottish. It’s a peculiar little enclave that looks like part fishing village and part sea-level summer camp. There are about 6 restaurants, a couple ice cream shops, and a string of seaside motels catering to summertime fun. It was about 8:30 and as the sleepy village was about to shut down, we grabbed a table at the local Irish-ish bar and stayed for the band. Fish and chips: fab; Band: well, meh!

The rain persisted, so our last day was spent doing The Cabot Trail the other way around: a surreal walk on the foggy, spooky Skyline Trail, fog-dodging along the road as we drove along the coast, and a visit to a quaint whale interpretive center in Pleasant Bay, plus kilometres upon kilometres of ridiculous views as the fog came and went. The Cabot Trail is nearly 300 kilometres long, each twist and turn of the road holds something to discover.

Back in Baddeck, the last plan before the long slog home in the morning was to attend a local cèilidh (pronounced Kaylee), a traditional Gaelic musical gathering. What wholesome fun it was to spend a couple of hours after a really nice local seafood dinner listening to amazing local musicians play guitar and fiddle, tell stories, and share tea and biscuits with the audience.

Maybe next trip we’ll order a better forecast, but all in all, I think we crammed as much as possible into these few days up north. I’m sure there are moose up there… somewhere!

Print shop coupon alert!

I have puffin prints available and will soon have more cards up on my photography shop!

Use code TGM15-1 for 15% off your purchase of puffin prints and more.

Madagascar marvels part III: What’s this tsingy?

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After 10 days of sun and salt and sharks and palms, I did the Malagasy version of planes, trains and automobiles (pirogue and taxi and speedboat and 4×4), meeting up with a local guide and driver to see the national parks in the north of the country. On that first day, I had a bit of shell-shock with a 10 hour drive on terrible, not-quite-paved roads, from the port of Ankify to area near Joffreville. En route, I am sure I inhaled half a kilo of red clay dust, had a pit stop in one of the most unusual outdoor toilets I’ve ever experienced, and fully realised the value of a sea breeze as we drove towards dry season in the interior (hint: 39C feels quite different inland v the coast!).

I spent the hours in the car with a traveller’s guilt: the conflicting feelings of being privileged in affording this kind of trip while simultaneously observing straggly stick homes with no running water, outhouses, skinny zebu, over-farmed land; but also thriving local markets, self-sufficient small villages, and wide beaming smiles on everyone I encountered. I consider how complicated life back home is in comparison.

On this first day, a “travel day”, the saving grace was a quick stop for a nature thingy, a tsingy called Tsingy Rouge. You leave the main highway and wend through a maze of sand and clay-dirt roads to reach it, diggers and roadwork vehicles everywhere. They’re digging and paving in the name of modern infrastructure. As I watched the small rustic villages go by through my window, I considered whether modernization is really worth it. Water, yes. Sanitation facilities, of course. But the chaos these new roads will bring, and the tourism… can the ecosystems sustain the influx?

Tsingy was a new term for me. In Malagasy, it means “the place where one cannot walk barefoot.” As I was to learn, so named for good reason.

Tsingy Rouge is Madagascar’s miniature Grand Canyon. It’s a red (rouge) geologic marvel, formed of eroded laterite and looks like some prehistoric giant played sand castles and then got bored half-way through. It reminded me of a cross between a model of Bryce Canyon and a salt mine, out in the open even though it looks like the bottom of a cave. This place looks like it should be underwater – and it probably was, a million or so years ago – the formations were carved by the rivière Irodo.

At the time, I was road weary and dusty from the drive, but the short walk down into the tsingy and then the sight of some gray-headed lovebirds nesting in the red clay helped me reset. At the lodge that night, I chalked (clayed?) the day off to what it was, and delighted in the thought that tomorrow we’d be hiking through Parc National Montagne D’Ambre, Amber Mountain, and the hunt for chameleons would begin in earnest.

Zoom in on this map to see the different places I visited during the trip.

A slight detour about the climate of Madagascar. As the 4th largest island on this planet, Madagascar is simply enormous. So the country encompasses rainforest through savannah, with a dry season (of which we were at the end) and a rainy season. From zebu to man-on-the-street, it seemed like everyone was looking forward to the rains! In a recent article, The Guardian highlights that these inconceivable temperatures are a clear result of climate change. Entering Amber Mountain was like travelling through different worlds. On the one hand, it was hot and humid, and as we got into the forest the air turned almost sweet. On the other hand, it was so dry that the riverbeds were completely dried up and one of the waterfalls we were to see, there was not enough water for it to actually fall. I was thankful for the lush forest canopy to provide shade.

We hiked to the Cascade Sacrée (Sacred Waterfall) and the Mille Arbres (Path of a Thousand Trees) trail, all the while feeling ensconced in a terrarium separate from the hot and humid outside world.

Montagne D’Ambre feels like its own bioverse, with endemic birds, lemurs and chameleons found specifically in this reserve. It was very cool to actually find some of these critters, including the Amber Mountain rock thrush, the Amber Mountain chameleon, and the very adorable and teeny Mount D’Ambre leaf chameleon (note how small he is on my hand!). While not exclusive to Amber Mountain, the endangered Sandford’s brown lemurs were an amazing find, as was the very weird and master of camouflage leaf-tailed gecko (can you spot it in the last photo in this slideshow?).

Possibly the highlight of the day came as we were exiting the park and really more focused on lunch than seeing any more critters, since the day was already full of such wonderful sightings. As we were driving down the main reserve road, we spotted a beautiful little pygmy kingfisher perched on a branch where he gave us a fantastic view of his bright plumage.

Of all the wildlife experiences on this trip, I think this one wins for the most unexpected sighting. The grin and sheer joy on my guide’s face at the sighting was absolutely priceless.

And, no, I didn’t get a photo of that.

This concludes our tour of Parc National de la Montagne D’Ambre. Stay tuned for Part IV including the most horrible thing in Madagascar and why you need shoes. In other words, next up is hiking in the tsingys of Ankarana.

Isn’t it ploverly?

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Last summer, I signed up to volunteer at the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge. Each year, the endangered piping plover comes back to the shores of the Atlantic to nest and breed. Currently, it’s thought that there are only roughly 8,000 remaining. In. The. World. So it’s significant that nearly 25% of those come back to my home state to nest.

Papa piping plover, checking me out as he forages for lunch

Parker River each year runs a Plover Warden program to help protect their nesting grounds. Largely, we are the hall monitors of the beach, reminding beachgoers (despite the GINORMOUS signs) that the beach is closed. The 6-mile stretch of pristine beach with its protected dunes is perfect nesting grounds, hence the beach is closed from the beginning of April each year through early August (even through greenhead season!), or when the last of the fledglings go. Only 1 of 4 eggs make it from nest to flight. In short, it’s our job to help them get there.

My first encounter on my first day last year included a pair of entitled locals and their dog who were indignant that they were not allowed to walk down the pristine beach. But you can’t even see the nests, local Karen said. Ken piped in and asked when the wardens’ hours were. Hand on my walkie-talkie, I persuaded them to cooperate, and they finally relented. It is Federal land after all. Nor are dogs allowed.

The guy with the drone was nicer, but still confused as to why endangered birds, whose primary predators come from the sky, would feel ruffled by an ominous robotic sky creature humming around and spying on them from the blue.

This year’s encounters have been more tame. In my official volunteer t-shirt and fluorescent hat, I’ve been able to ward off most would-be violators just by being a tad obvious, and most people I’ve encountered are genuinely curious – some even passionate – about the birds. Not so much the obnoxious college kids camped out in pop-up tents just beyond the (again GINORMOUS) signs, feigning ignorance when nabbed by the plover police, “we thought nobody was checking.”

So far, we have about 33 nesting pairs, with 16 or so active nests after some storms and predators took out a swath of nests. This weekend, the refuge noted that some hatchlings have emerged. Over the next weeks we’ll expect the little fuzzits to begin scooting around the beach. This little guy is from one of last year’s broods that, sadly, didn’t make it after a spate of coyote binges.

So if you encounter a sign, a volunteer, or even just a plover… please tread lightly, as nests are camouflaged and the little ones need as much help as possible. No kites, no dogs, no bikes, no feet… just for a few more weeks to give these guys a fighting chance at fledging!

Zoom in… can you spot the plover sitting on its nest in this photo?

Watch this space. I’m hoping to get some plover-ific pics as the little ones emerge.

L’Afrique: Réflexions après coup.

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I didn’t know how to write about this trip. It’s been 5 years since I’ve been on a proper tour and half of those were spent while my life was sideways, treading water in an upside-down world changed forever by a plague and other mishaps. So in trying to compare and contrast my experiences, it dawned on me yet again that places have spirits or souls or essences that invite you in or spit you out, like Rajasthan or Istanbul or Botswana or Sardinia or Belize or Aachen or Marrakech or Amsterdam or wherever you call home…each has left its mark on me in a different way.

In Rwanda, I felt held. I felt fed – with local foods, recent history, a collective passion; with knowledge about conservation and community, with a shared compassion and humanitarian heart, eyes towards the future.

In Kenya, I felt sold-to, as if consumerism and capitalism and commercialism had woven its way into the fibers of existence there. It felt like a place that wanted to be so much of what my country stands for that they have shed their own identity. And while the pockets of the natural world there are being protected and nurtured, the delicate balance between selling eco-tourism as a commodity and believing that conservation is the right thing to do felt like a grand fuzzy line.

That said, I still had two days on my own at the end of the trip. So I spent my last couple of days in Nairobi learning more about how the country came to be, and seeing some of Nairobi’s conservation efforts for the Rothschild’s giraffe.

Stop #1 was the National Museums of Kenya (and snake house). The museum itself was a pictorial and diorama-ish narration of the country’s history from essentially prehistoric man to the present. If nothing else, the snake house was an opportunity to see their deadly (“a bite from this snake is considered a major medical emergency”) reptiles in a controlled environment.

The most disturbingly fascinating part of the museum, though, was the Birds of East Africa gallery. I wandered in, completely unaware, and was presented with what was functionally a life-sized Field Guide to the Birds, but instead of photos, each Kenyan bird was represented as a taxidermied example, meticulously arranged in plexiglass cases, labelled and numbered as in a bird book.

Stop #2 was the Giraffe Centre. What I thought would be a serene giraffe sanctuary turned out to be a breeding center and chatty tourist attraction. You are given a coconut shell full of snack pellets when you enter. Then you walk up to the viewing platform, where you can hand-feed and interact with the giraffes. It is a legitimate reintroduction program, as there are only approx. 1600 Rothschild’s giraffes remaining. They are at the centre to be bred, then released into the wild in protected parks throughout the country.

Looming large (and lovely) in the background was the renowned Giraffe Manor, where for $1000 USD a night (or more) you can stay in an enchanting stone manor that sits within the sanctuary’s grounds, as you commune with the resident long-necks. It was a weird but oddly satisfying visit, giving me hope that perhaps the commercialism of this place would help its natural beauty thrive.

Flying back home, I had a couple of distinct thoughts: I left Kenya with more things bought. I left Rwanda with more experiences sought. Yet it’s the little memories that pop into my mind as I digest my experiences:

The night I stood along the fencing separating the Lake Nakuru lodge from the reserve proper, watching a mass of dark hulking beasts make their way to the watering hole, grumbling and chatting amongst themselves in a low snuffling murmur. It was only once I shined my flashlight on the herd and saw 50 eyes staring back at me in the black night that I realised they were buffalo.

The night I went out to look for rhino in the weird Lake Naivasha camp, instead finding bushbabies skittering about (baby tree, said the night watchman). And maribou storks, dozens of the immense and bizarre creatures, using the half-dead and waterlogged trees as their base camp.

A lunchtime impromptu tour of the bush camp in the Maasai Mara, spotting hippos and monkeys and crocodiles, guided by a kind and eager Maasai warrior.

An exploration of the little paths along the park fence in Akagera National Park, wondering what might be stirring in the long grasses or what critters lurked just beyond the wires. I had a staring contest with a baboon in a nearby tree and spotted a family with the tiniest baboon baby (babette?) I’ve ever seen.

That night the Land Cruiser broke down on a long stretch of road between the Northern Province and Kigali and we were rescued (luggage and all) by a park ranger (and a veritable stranger) on his way back to Kigali.

The bicycles piled high with sugar cane. The lush hillsides. The milky way and the Southern Cross. The shoebills and hornbills and storks and kingfishers…brightly-coloured birds of all shapes and sizes.

A flash of history: We drove back from Giraffe-land past the new president’s house at about the same time the Kenyan supreme court awarded Ruto the win. The street outside his gates was lined with cars and photographers.

And the food…Dinner in the gardens at Hôtel des Mille Collines, staring out over the pool and pondering what Kigali’s people went through during the 90s. A homemade Rwandan lunch in the cook’s own kitchen, probably the best meal I had in the 2 weeks there. Dinner on my last night at an Eritrean restaurant in Nairobi, complete with injera.

I’ll come back to Africa. There’s so much more of this amazingly diverse land to experience. I want to see the Serengeti and Amboselli and Madagascar and Uganda…and return to Rwanda to hike more in the Virungas and return to Botswana and camp for longer, deeper in the Okavango. I want to eat injera in Ethiopia, and I want to see Deadvlei and Sossusvlei in Namibia. There’s probably more, not to mention the East African coast, that I don’t even know I want to see yet!

Travel is a privilege and an education. And for me, it is a prescription for the part of my soul that feels lost and wild and homeless and restless much of the time.

Jusqu’à la prochaine fois, l’Afrique !

Read about the whole trip: [Part I: Rwanda] [Part II: Jambo Kenya] [Part III: Maasai Mara]