Tag Archives: seabirds

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Rhymes with Puffin: An impromptu photographic journey into tourist-land.

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Note to self: don’t go to Mid-coast Maine during 4th of July week unless armed with a bucket of money, a mask, a self-driving car and a high tolerance for touristic behaviour. If you do, take it all in stride in service to the Quest.

The Quest: I’ve always been a dabbler in myth; a sort-of romantic about knights and castles and stones and the sea…and every Quest needs a grail of some sort. So the Holy Grail of this expedition was the Atlantic Puffin. A bowling pin of an endangered waterbird that spends its time (precariously) in the cooler seas. Puffins fly back, in the summer months, to the islands from which they fledged to socialize and mate and breed new pufflings (YES, that’s what they are called!). I had never seen a puffin (or a puffling) in the (feathery) flesh, and the days I took off this week were well-earned, so I took advantage of the holiday and the season, consulted the birding bibles, and loosely stitched together a plan.

I’ve been a hermit these past few months, with work eating up my waking hours, and stress about the current climate consuming the remaining twilight before crashing after such long days… Then came the COVID. And while my case was relatively mild (it only kicked my butt for a week, but even 2 weeks recovered I’m still feeling lethargic!), I can’t imagine what it would or could have been without my being vaccinated. I’m grateful for modern medicine. Shameless plug: get vaccinated already please!

Medieval knights and castles or non, I set out to Mid-Coast Maine to see if I could at least find some puffins.

Maine. First stop on the micro-adventure was a visit with a dear friend I hadn’t seen in years. When miles and life and a pandemic all conspire to get in the way of an otherwise great friendship, it’s nice to know that there are certain humans on this planet with whom you can just pick up again as if all the intervening circumstance didn’t matter. It was one of the most pleasant afternoons I’d had in ages.💖

By the time I arrived at the little hotel I’d booked, I realised my plan to ride my bike along the seacoast the next day wasn’t in the cards. The windy, narrow, hilly roads were made only slightly more treacherous by the smattering of tourists driving too haphazardly, alternately too fast and too erratically, for me to feel safe on my bike on these streets. Time to consider a Plan B. Plan C, actually, since the following morning’s weather looked unfavorable, and I had already moved the puffin expedition out a day.

But first, the fireworks. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it doesn’t quite feel like the year to be celebrating this country’s independence. But as a tourist in a sea of red (white and blue), it felt like there were two options: watch the spectacle or go to bed. It was 4th of July after all, and the fireworks would go on regardless of whether I felt like celebrating. I used it as an opportunity to play with light.

The next morning’s Plan turned out to be quite lovely actually: I went down to Ocean Point, apparently the east-most point in these already quite eastern parts, and I recharged amongst the rocks as I gazed out at the Ram Island lighthouse and watched boats (and a small pod of porpoises) navigate the harbour. The hazy summer air commingling with the ocean breeze and its seaweed-y bouquet helped clear out some of the chatter in my brain as I meditated to the sounds of the waves on the rocks and the ospreys calling from the little island just offshore.

Find the ospreys!

What this Quest lacked in knights and castles was recompensated in seabirds and rocky outcroppings. Fingers crossed that the Holy Grail of Puffinage would come through.

It was something of a lazy day after the rock-hopping. I napped during the rain showers in the afternoon. I started reading a new novel. I walked amongst the tourists in town and indulged: saltwater taffy and a lobster roll (when in Rome…); and readied myself for the puffin adventure the next morn!

Protecting puffins…

An aside about why we need to protect the puffins and terns and other arctic waterbirds in this part of the world (they are still prolific, apparently, in Iceland, Newfoundland and the UK, and they are even a delicacy in Iceland. Tastes like chicken?). It turns out that fashionistas in the late 1800s needed feathers for hats. In fact, the Victorian-era fancy ladies wore WHOLE STUFFED BIRDS (I sh*t you not!) on their hats, fast-forwarding the decline of these species. By the early 1900s, the entire colony of puffins and terns were all but wiped out in New England. Thanks to some of the fancy ladies, Audubon was started as a grass roots effort, and the anti-bird-hat contingent was born, aka, what the crap were we thinking?

As gulls began to repopulate the offshore islands, it was a concerted effort to bring back the terns and puffins to the area, success being only as recent as the 1970s and 80s. Read more about Audubon’s Project Puffin here.

Waiting in line to board the boat, I was hoping for less Disney and more nature, so I channelled my intention on a preponderance of Puffins rather than the annoying boatmates. The fancy ladies from Florida, arguing with the boat lady about why their short shorts and tank tops would be just fine on the open ocean and why she was crazy to suggest they bring along sweatshirts. The guy in the Yankees shirt and thick Long Island accent challenging anyone who would listen about baseball (apparently a Yankees/Red Sox series was in progress). The couple with the Giant Barking Poodle (On an Audubon boat? Really?) I wended my way to the bow: fewer seats, I thought. Fewer annoyances.

I grew up around boats and the sea and I’ve been on quite a few whale watches, so I had come prepared: sweatshirt and windbreaker, towels, binoculars, and, of course, cameras. It was a relatively calm and warm enough morning as we left the harbour. I was cautiously optimistic, but certainly aware that there was a chance we wouldn’t see any puffins. But it felt like a promising day, and I even caught a glimpse of a minke or pilot whale as we got farther into the sea on our way out to the destination.

The fortress, if you will, protecting the Holy Grail: Eastern Egg Rock. This little island sits about 6 miles east of Pemaquid Point and is home to roughly 150 nesting pairs of puffins, as well as a host of other seabirds like terns and gulls. It was about an hour from our departure point in Boothbay Harbor. The “Hilton” on the island is a research station, where teams of hardy scientists spend the summer studying the puffins and their offspring.

So as we approach, our tour guide (Audubon Lady) starts spotting birds: Puffin, 3 o’clock. Tern, 9 o’clock. Puffins flying, 11 o’clock. Puffins diving, 10 o’clock. And so on… Much to my delight, it was quite the puffin-palooza out there. A plethora of puffins. A preponderance even. And like that we spent roughly 30 minutes circling the little island, getting a glimpse of terns (arctic and otherwise), gulls (laughing and not so much), and of course our fill of the enchanting little stars of the day.

Not a puffin. Arctic tern.

In our glee, what we passengers conveniently overlooked was the shift in the wind and the less-than-swell swells that we now had to motor back through to reach the dock. So, just as the captain announced, “the winds have shifted slightly and you may experience some light spray…” we did, and spent the next 40 minutes battening down hatches and bracing for the swells and spray (read: deluges), soaking deck and passengers indiscriminately. The sweatshirt and windbreaker came in very handy. The towels, not so much.

Cameras safely stowed inside, I remembered what my dad taught me about rough seas: breathe fresh air, watch the horizon, and for fucks sake hang onto something! I was wet enough that the saltwater shower didn’t matter by a certain point, so I enjoyed the sunshine, counseled a very green-looking teenager to get as much fresh air into her lungs as possible, and enjoyed the ride. It wasn’t that bumpy after all.

Being on the ocean always brings back warm memories, and this one, paired with the prolific puffin party, did not disappoint. The seas calmed as we were embraced by the harbor, and the warm sun dried salt crystals over my legs and face.

Can you spot the puffin?

I’d drive home from this adventure salty but satiated; pleasantly puffinated if you will.