The Bird not seen

One of the main advantages of a sun that doesn't set (probably second only to its value as a sleep deprivation experiment for those whose circadian rhythm hasn't been bludgeoned out of them by a life of shift work) is that one can get out and enjoy nature, regardless of what time the need overtakes them. So at 2:00 am this morning, still wide awake from being able to sleep in this morning, and freed from the need to look after the children, I decided to go for a walk, to take advantage of the beautiful, still, warm morning.

One of the things that I told myself I was going to do this summer was to find some Northern Wheatears (Oenanthe oenanthe), a bird that, although I've seen it elsewhere in the High Arctic, I've never seen near Arctic Bay. In fact, until last summer, I didn't believe they frequented this area. I had never seen one here, and I had been told by the former Wildlife Officer (the only other bird freak I've found here) that one needed to travel up near Lancaster Sound to find them.

Last year however, one of our clients, a cinematographer, found a pair nesting atop the hills behind the House. In fact he was on his way, by four wheeler, up the very steep hills to film the pair when he discovered that having $150,000 worth of camera gear strapped to your back while climbing a very steep hill by ATV puts ones centre of gravity in exactly the wrong place. Just short of the top of the climb, and the Northern Wheatear's nest, gravity took over and he, along with the ATV and the camera equipment, rolled ass over tea kettle aways down the hill.  Fortunately he wasn't seriously hurt, and he was able to call us, like a voice from above, to his rescue.

James, of Birdman - birds from Tanzania blog, always inquires after his Wheatears, for as impossible as it sounds, our Northern Wheatears could very well be the ones he sees every winter and spring. The Northern Wheatear is one of our two species (the other being the Common Ringed Plover Charadrius hiaticula) that migrates through Greenland, across to Europe, and then down to Africa, eschewing the well travelled route south through the rest of Canada and the United States.  So I was determined this year that I would make the effort, to try and find some Wheatear, if only to let James know that they are fine.

Around the long weekend this year the Tundra burst forth with flowers. It is a spectacular year for them so far.  There are more Arctic Dryads (Dryas integrifolia) this year than I can remember in past years, the tundra is a carpet of their beautiful white and yellow blossoms, in places they form dense clumps. I paused at the beginning of the hike, on fairly level ground, to grab a couple of quick photographs. Then I began to climb the steep track.

About three quarters of the way up I came to the sudden realization, accompanied by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, that I haven't done any real exercise in a very long time. So, not wanting to lose any of the altitude I gained by clutching my chest, collapsing and rolling down the hill, I paused near a small patch of Arctic Heather (Cassiope tetragona) in full bloom.   Male Snow Buntings (Plectrophenax nivalis), the females all hidden on their nests, would flit near by, moving away the moment I reached for my camera, or pausing directly into the sun from me.  Backlight by the strong low sun, their feathers seemed more translucent than white, they would move off, pausing somewhere else to sing from a rocky perch.

At the top, or at least on the plateau I was aiming for, I paused again this time to admire all of Arctic Bay laid out below me. The Bay itself was like a mirror, and although many communities would be still at this time of the morning Arctic Bay was noisy with the sound of children playing, and four wheelers travelling around the community. Dog teams howled in the distance.  Capitate Lousewart (Pedicularis capitata) was plentiful up here, Wooly Lousewart (Pedicularis lanata) was also plentiful, it's blooms mostly finished now having bloomed earlier, with the Purple Saxifrage (Saxifraga oppositifolia).

I moved along the plateau, watching the Snow Buntings going about their business, pausing to listen for new birdsong, watching for the Wheatear. It was quieter up here and as I moved further afield, accompanied by the hordes of mosquito (Okay it was a single mosquito, but it followed me with the persistence of one of those stray dogs that adopts you on a walk, the one that joins you on your journey hoping that you'll share that sandwich it knows is in your pack). I began to realize that the Wheatear were going to prove elusive for me.

I started thinking that there was beauty in the bird unseen. For although I had started this walk with a goal to see one of James' Northern Wheatears, the journey had taken me through fantastic sights. Large Crane Flies lifted from the carpet of grasses and sedges at almost every step, small clumps of flowers grew among the rocks where it looked like nothing could live, hugging their small patch of soil with tenacity. Corpulent Bumblebees buzzed by, straight with some destination in mind. Glowing translucent Snow Buntings sang out pure joy, their mates secure on the nest. Blossoms of Arctic Dryads mingled with last years seed heads. Carpets of flowers framed a vista that many people only dream of seeing. To be sure there were no Wheatears, but seeking them replenished a wonder emptied from too long sitting in a house.

It was time to return home for some sleep. It was now 4:30 and there were clients needing breakfast in a couple of hours.  As I walked down the slope I could smell the fragrant smoke of a Heather fire that another early morning wanderer had lit, further down from me high up on the side of the hill. I quickened my pace, gravity was on my side now, and my bed was waiting.