Paradise...

... for a Baird's Sandpiper must look like the dry tundra around Marcil Lake (our water source).

Wednesday night, a foul mood forced me out into the foul weather. I needed to get out of the House, out into the wild. I needed to get the smell blown off me as my Grandpa would have said. So with rain gear and camera I drove out of town.

My habit these days has been to go to the outflow of Marcil Lake. Two or three pairs of Red-throated Loons have established themselves here, Long-tailed Ducks are always around, usually off in the distance. And a walk across the tundra always turns up three or four pairs of Baird's Sandpipers, and the usual suspects, Lapland Longspurs and Snow Buntings. As I parked the truck I put the binoculars on the nesting loon that was established on a small island, and watched her for awhile from a distance. A family of Long-tailed Ducks, already on the wing moved from pond to pond.

Just off the road a female longspur collected insects, so I began following her movements, sure that she would soon reveal a nest of hungry young. She was joined by a male, his breeding colours already starting to fade, his maw stuffed with crane flies. It was only then that I saw the fledglings, surprised that they were already out of the nest. Cryptically coloured, they'd hunker down until an adult flew close, and then they'd chase him, always running, never flying, mouths agape. They seemed insatiable as the adults stuffed insect after insect into them. Although they were fairly close, the heavily overcast skies and lateness of the hour made photography all but impossible. I simply sat and watched.

My mood, only marginally improved made me restless and I decided to check out an area I had long thought of, but never visited. So leaving the longspur family behind I drove over to where the river enters the lake. A steady, drizzly rain fell as I left the truck and took off on foot to the far end of the lake, my camera tucked under my arm, under my jacket.

As soon as I had left the beach I put up a pair of Baird's Sandpipers, agitated and doing their level best to distract me from a nest or young. I snapped several photos, and thought of waiting them out, having them lead me to their prize, but the rain and cold made me think otherwise. It would be best if I moved on, and not risk the nest failure. Perhaps I'd return if the sun ever does this year.

Then I put up another pair, and then another. Even small patches of dry tundra seemed to hold a pair, and as I moved farther along, into a wide expanse of dry tundra more and more of them. Often more than one pair would be trying to distract me. Once four pairs vied for my attention: "This way!" "No, this way!" "Hey! over here, ignore them!"

Suddenly, with sandpipers calling everywhere a pair of Sandhill Cranes called out. They were one of the reasons I've wanted to explore here, the main reason actually. The voices came from a different spot than I had anticipated and then stopped. No amount of glassing the area would reveal them. How can birds that big simply disappear? I headed towards where last I heard them.

 

Then another call, the chuckling of  Long-tailed Ducks, sounding for all the world like old women nattering on. The lake was still mostly rotten ice, only the edges were free, and a hen and four large youngsters swam steadily towards me. The ISO on my camera cranked up I shot frame after frame of them, expecting them to turn away from me standing on the edge of the lake. But on they came, passing right by, the smooth grey water ruffled only by their passing.

A little farther, two Snow Geese with four goslings hurried to the water's edge, trying to put distance between us, while all the while I silently cursed the lack of light, noisy ISO settings, and slow shutter speeds. I continued on, the Baird's swirling all around, heading towards the ocean. As the tundra gave way to gravel the Baird's disappeared behind me. A Glaucous Gull mobbed a Thayer's Gull, and then turned her attention to me, passing over me again and again.  They nest on rocky heights and I had to be a long way from her nest, but she was joined by a second nervous parent. Too nervous considering how far their nest must have been.

I crossed the small height of land and headed down towards the beach. No cranes could be seen, had I imagined them? A hare burst out of the rocks near me, and then slowed to a lope, eventually disappearing down towards the heights that eventually make Holy Cross Point. I looked out to the sea ice, and could see several seal far off in the distance. That was the point I started coming to my senses. I was a long way from anything, in prime spring Polar Bear habitat, and no one knew where I was. I gave up my search for the wraithes that sounded like Sandhill Cranes, and with the occasional glance over my shoulder headed back towards the lake.

As I was going to pass over ground I stopped counting the birds I had seen, just shy of sixty Baird's Sandpipers in roughly 3.5 kms, about half of which was suitable habititat. There were also many Lapland Longspurs there, my best photo of a wet female, waiting for me to move by so she could return to her nest.

I was surprised to see a long pile of rocks, like a rough stone fence thrown up by a farmer on land more suitable for stones than crops, that marked the shore of the lake. No doubt thrown up by the same glacier that carved out Marcil Lake, it was over three feet high at points, and marked the margin of the lake for some distance. Returning the way I came, the rain still falling steadily, the goose family had their way barred by ice, and they had to turn and pass near me. As I grabbed the last few photos I realized my mood was much improved, despite the weather, and turned for home and bed.