The House & other Arctic musings

Bad photographer. Bad!

A few days ago the sun once again showed itself briefly late in the day, about 11pm or so. As I had seen what I thought was a Red-throated Loon on a nest on an island I decided to head out that way and try my luck. Sure enough, the loon was in the same spot, so I walked down towards her, meandering my way there, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.  The loon, from when I was still quite far off, laid her head along the ground, trying to disappear from view.  The effect actually works quite well, had I not known exactly where she was I would have found it hard to distinguish her from a rock.

She stayed in this position and I made my way as close as I thought I could get and not disturb her too much, or flush her from the nest. Close was a neighbouring island in the river and I laid down prone, and tried to disappear myself and wait for her to relax and raise her head. Now when I say "island" I mean a mound of sopping wet sphagnum moss, slightly above the level of the river. I laid there for an hour, and this next photo shows as high as she lifted her head during that time.

I could wait no longer, as I had promised to pick up Leah at midnight from Victor Bay, and I stood, snapping this picture from a little higher angle. I then shifted over a little bit to try and get a photo with her head a little less obscured by grass.

That shifting proved too much and she flushed from the nest. It was not what I had wanted to do, but I fired off a couple of frames when she moved. The results, while a less than stellar photo of a loon, is one of the most interesting water pictures I've ever taken.

As I walked the half kilometre or so back to the truck, I kept turning back but she had not returned to the nest yet, so I didn't linger when this female Lapland Longspur posed for me. I returned to the truck and hightailed out of there, knowing that I had gotten too close, and wasn't being an ethical photographer. But life is filled with mistakes, and the idea is to learn from them. As I drove away she was returning to her eggs.

Nesting Redpoll

It must be the day for me to post other people's photos. Indigo Sweetwater, that passionate patron of northern blogs, has taken a couple of great photos of a nesting Common Redpoll (Carduelis flammea), at let me know after I bemoaned the fact that my son has seen one up here, but I've yet to. Check out this little beauty.

And you know, I don't know how much more "northern" this could get, but not only is the redpoll an Arctic nesting bird, but this one has built her nest in a caribou skull/antler sitting on a building rail.

Thanks Indigo.

Take me out to the Bird Game #103

The boys of summer are at it again. Who knew they were bird watchers.  The latest edition of I and the Bird (#103) is up at the Bird Freak.  As always, you'll find a fine selection of wild bird related posts from about the world. Visit, for you're bound to find one that hits it out of the park.

Raven's Nest

My son, I'm quite proud to say, is turning into quite a budding naturalist.  He takes great delight in the natural world around him, and never fails to tell me of the birds and other things he's seen when we are apart. He also delights in the small, flipping rocks to find what lies beneath. A couple of days ago he found some tiny life during our walk, a small red mite under a rock and a larger whitish one under another stone.

The night before last he slept over with his grandparents at their tent in Victor Bay (Travis is never happier than when outside). When he returned home he told me of his discoveries, a dead bird (the name only known in Inuktitut), and a live one. When he described the dead bird I was at a loss, but his description of the live one tantalized me. I grabbed the closest field guide and opened it to a possibility. Yes, he confirmed that was the bird, one of the redpolls. 

So when we returned to Victor Bay we set off with two goals. He was going to show me the dead bird and where he saw the redpoll, a bird that while I know it is well within its range here, I've yet to see in the Baffin. The first spot was a small pond that is used by the kids for swimming at Victor Bay, and sure enough a smallish very dead waterfowl was floating in it. Numerous rocks later we moved it close enough to shore to grab. It was a female Long-tailed Duck, quite smaller than I thought they were, wrapped in fish line. It was a good example of why we gather discarded fishline when we find it, and why we never discard it on the land.

Next it was off to find the redpoll, and while I'd love to say we were successful, alas we only found the usual suspects. We saw a lot of Snow Buntings and Lapland Longspurs, both species pouring forth with song, but the redpoll was not to be found. It was then we found out about another treasure, an easily accessible Raven's nest.

As soon as we arrived and began scrambling over the rocks (our party had grown) one of the parents could be seen flying away from the site, low and fast and quiet. But tucked into a pocket in the rock face, perhaps twenty feet above the ocean was a jumbled nest. The bulk of the nest was made up of Arctic Willow sticks (gathered with a considerable amount of effort I would think), but it was lined with man made objects, cloth and I believe a small pillow. A single chick lay low in the nest, outstretched so as to show no profile that might belie its presence.

I dutifully fired off some photos, using a flash thanks to the heavily overcast days we have had, and the lateness of the hour. And after everyone, including my young naturalist, had had a look, we left. As we left the rocks I again saw the parent, low over the ice, heading back to check on her charge.

Dance of the Qarsauq

I'm not sure if I spending more time afield these days, or just being lucky, but I am witnessing more and more breeding behaviour this year than in the past. And seeing amazing scenes that I've never seen before.

A trip to Victor Bay to spend time at Leah's parent's camp didn't unfold as planned, as no one was there when we arrived. So our plans got altered and we went for an evening drive instead. I thought that we could drive out past Second Bridge, somewhat selfishly because I hoped to find some Horned Larks, a species I've yet to see this season.

On the way there though we pulled into the outflow of the water lake. I had just turned around at the pump when Leah's sister asked if two birds were ducks or loons (well actually she asked if they were Mitiq or Qarsauq, but I digress). A quick look saw that their silhouettes were unmistakably loons, and I pulled over and handed her the binoculars.  Then remarkable things started happening.

First I heard the mewing I heard the other day. At this moment there were probably seven (but certainly at least five) Red-throated Loons on the river/ponds below the water lake. The other day, the loon I heard mewing was by itself, the other loons paired up. Very quickly the single loon (I'm assuming that it is a male, but I really don't know) appeared swimming upstream towards the pair of loons we had initially spotted.

As it approached one of the paired loons started a display that involves plunging underwater producing a large splash, then all three began to swim rapidly around in a sort of synchronized display. The paired loons side by side, the odd loon out a little ways away. This display saw them swimming with their necks curved, heads towards the water, and their wings open partway, held in an arch. The activity was accompanied by a lot of calling that was, well, most loon like. It was reminiscent of the sounds of Common Loons (but distinct enough one would recognize instantly that it wasn't a Common Loon making the calls). It might seem strange to remark on this, but I have never, until the other day, heard these Red-throated Loons make any noise other than what I term a nuthatch on steroids.

This went back and forth for a few minutes with less energetic displays and activity punctuating the dance, when suddenly the lone loon was driven off (or had had enough). He flew over to another pair and the process began anew over there.  In the mean time the original pair began making their way closer to where we were parked. From time to time they would pause at the edge of the water and gather plant material as though starting a nest.

At their closest approach, the two began to display again. This time there were no calls, both loons were silent. Most often the male would do the "splash" display, throwing spray a surprising way into the air. But occasionally they would "dance" together. Not with their heads down and wings open, but upright across a short distance of water. Then, right at the edge of shore, the male mounted the female and copulation took place.  This was followed again by the gathering of plant material and "nest building". Then one more dance display and they swam away to a farther body of water.

The photos that follow show some of the behaviour we saw. Bear in mind that much of it took place at quite a distance, and all photos have been cropped. At times I was shooting almost directly into a low sun and glare on the water.

The unpaired loon approaches.

A whole lot of excitement and splashing.

The lone loon starts displaying.

The pair begins its open wing display and the lone loon moves to get beside them.

All three display.

After chasing him off, the two paired loons begin the dance display.

Closer now... Splash display.

Flapping wings display just before...

Copulation. The female is not visible in this photo.

Gathering plant material.

The start of...

... and peak of the "dance".

And at the end they turn and look in opposite directions. (And I don't know if it is just me but these loons' faces look a little strange when they look directly at the camera. The eyes and beak just seem to meld into the background of the face.)

Lapland Longspur (Calcarius lapponicus)

Now that we are getting some cloudless skies, I've been looking for some free moments to get out to the outflow of the water lake and get some photos.  I managed to find a couple of hours late last night, got dressed in some camo, and headed out. My goal was to get a decent photo of Red-throated Loons, but as someone once said "You can't always get what you want."  There had been three of the loons hanging about the other times I was there, but they were strangely absent when I arrived.

The water has risen an incredible amount in the last few days and I had to alter my plans and I found myself near some flat rocks that had been propped up against each other. I had noticed that several times in the past a male Lapland Longspur would occasionally land on these rocks after an aerial song and continue to sing, so I set up with the idea that it would make a cool photo. But of course, the longspurs had other plans. At one point I had three or four males all around me, flying up in the air and parachuting down singing, but none would land on the rocks my camera was pointed on.

This female, however was hanging out in the shadow of the rocks when I arrived and as she moved away from me I took a couple of photos of her in the low light on the late evening sun.
There were at least three pairs of Baird's Sandpipers scattered amongst small pockets of dry tundra, and I'm guessing that if nesting hasn't already happened it will very shortly.

I spent a great deal of time snapping mostly useless photos of a Long-tailed Duck male who would start to get closer to where I was but then kept changing his mind.

Of course, right on cue, shortly after I gave up and started walking away a pair of Red-throated Loons appeared. As they came in, seemingly unconcerned about my presence, they shone in the light of the low sun. As I watched them circle in to land they seemed to glow and it was an incredibly beautiful sight. I was apparently unaware that there was a camera in my hand and didn't even attempt to raise it up for a shot...

Baird's Sandpiper (Calidris bairdii)

It bears repeating but one of the biggest advantages of 24 hour sun is you can do things while the rest of the world sleeps. Say its 4:30 in the morning, and you've been hit by insomnia and knowing you have to get up in a couple of hours you give up trying to sleep. And say its the first sunny calm day in a week. If the feeling took you, you could hop in your truck and go watch birds. I mean its light out, no one is going to disturb you.

And say you decide to just sit quietly in the truck, you might get to see things you haven't seen before. Like three Lapland Longspurs fighting at the same time, tumbling through the air with a background of the cliffs across Admiralty Inlet framing them. Or you might see Baird's Sandpipers copulating right in front of the truck. And hear things you haven't heard before, like Red-throated Loons mewing like a cat, instead of sounding like a nuthatch on steroids.

And if you finally leave the truck, to see if you can stalk the Baird's Sandpiper for a closer photo you might, just might discover that occasionally birds can be unafraid and very accommodating. And you just might end up with a photo that you are actually very proud of.

Long-tailed Ducks (Clangula hyemalis)

Late last week I was out at the outflow of Marcil Lake (our water lake), birding at midnight. It was magical, as suddenly most of the species of birds I've been waiting for seem to have arrived up here. In a little less than an hour I saw some ten species of birds, six of which were first records of the year. These birds I saw for the first time the day before. Long-tailed Ducks (although I'm a dinosaur and prefer the old name). Poor light meant I had to push the ASA to 1600 so there is a lot of noise in the photo.

These three birds were sleeping amongst a group of five males and three females.

Out

I don't get out on the land near often enough, and it seems like I forget just how incredibly beautiful, how incredibly sweeping, how incredibly majestic this land is. Last Sunday I got a reminder.

Its funny, but essentially I can be in the wild almost the moment I step out of my door.  If I walked out on my deck right now, and set a course due south I'd come within fifty kilometres of Repulse Bay, but I wouldn't get really close to another community until I reached Pagwa Lake in Northern Ontario. But for some reason, turning the corner onto Admiralty Inlet makes me feel like I'm truly in wilderness.

As we travel south on Admiralty, I find it difficult to keep my eyes on the trail, and keep looking at the grandeur that surrounds me. This is potentially a bad thing, as much of the trail is rough ice this year and travelling on it requires constant vigilence. But it is difficult to ignore the beauty out here. One direction is vast expanse of white and blues, bordered by the cliffs on the far side, beautiful fluted cliffs. On the near shore mountains, craggy in some, smooth in other places. They are punctuated by canyons, deep jagged canyons, and gentler valleys. Raised beaches dot the shore line between glacial smoothed rocks. For the land is rising here, still rebounding from the weight of the last ice age. Along the way, massive icebergs wait for break up, to continue their journey on the tides, until they break smaller, and smaller and lose their majesty, but not their beauty. A couple of these beamoths that we pass are the size of apartment buildings, and we only see a fraction of their ancient bulk, made up of snow that fell on Groenland thousands of years ago.

We pass by the spot I really want to visit, and continue on to Iqalulik, where Leah's parents, and our son spent the night. The closest good fishing spot to Arctic Bay, it is nestled in a cliff lined valley, inland from the ocean. But the going is slow and I haven't been there in a while, and thus make several false starts to shore in all of the wrong places. And then, just as I'm finally pointed in the right place, a snowmobile and ATV appear, and we meet Leah's family and Travis heading for home. So, Leah jumps into the komatiq and we dutifully turn and head home.

Retracing our track Leah's mother points out features to Leah, who in turns points them out to me. Features such as a dark rock face they call "white man" because it looks like someone wearing a cap. It is easy to recognize, and can be seen even when most of the land is covered in snow. I see a seal lounging on the ice in the distance, but no one is interested, we are heading for home.

But this time, we stop at the spot I want to see, almost. Qikiqtaukat where Leah's parents, and her three oldest siblings lived before moving in to town. I say almost because I still didn't see the location of their qarmat, somewhere over the hill. And I didn't really do what I wanted, which was to spend some real time there, with her parents, finding out what their life was like then.

Only Leah's youngest brother and I walked up the raised beach, and I realized just how beautiful this spot truly is.  A small gentle valley, with a lake (containing land locked Char) and a small stream. The view out over Admiralty Inlet is inspiring. Then a grave catches my eye, a seven month old buried on top of the hill above the beach. And then a second grave, and then a half a dozen lined up, looking over the lake.

I wander around, wanting to stay longer and explore, but I know that the others are finishing their tea and will be anxious to return home. Home is just around the corner in a manner of speaking. So as I linger two spots of white across the lake from me catch my eye. Brighter than the snow I can see they are two Rock Ptarmigan, so I back track and make my way across the stream and try and get closer.

Then, as I pause to take some photos from too far away, something I've never seen before. Something amazing. The male ptarmigan takes off, circles and then locks his wings and parachutes to the ground, churring on the way down. An aerial display that I had no idea these birds made. I watch as he repeats the display, flying up to gain a bit of altitude and then parachuting back down, almost to the surface of the ice. I try and take some photos, but it is far, and late and overcast. One time he circles closer, not displaying but coming in to the slopes above her, and one of the shots is passable. He stands on a bank of snow, his eye combs impossibly bright red and I get another passable shot.

And then, one more aerial display and she joins him, and the two fly off across the lake. I walk back down to the ocean to join the others, finish the thermos of coffee and we make our way back home. But I keep looking back, drawn back to this little valley, and already I want to return.

Light

There's been some discussion lately about the 24 hour, or mostly 24 hour sun that we are getting now. Most of it centres around how to sleep during it, or how it is messing up the internal clocks of those who can't sleep during it. I understand, and I've gotten enough first time visitors to the arctic who start their day looking anything but refreshed after tossing and turning all night. I understand.

But I love the light. I have no circadian rhythm. It was beat out of me by my working shifts pretty much all of my adult life. I've slept during the day since I was 18 or 19. And I tell you, I love the way the landscape changes as the sun circles and dips and rises in the sky. But more than anything I love the fact that, if I want, I can go for a drive at 10:00 at night and do things. Or a walk at 2:00 am.

Friday after a late supper we did just that, went for a drive. I checked out some areas for arriving birds (and discovered I misidentified one the other day. We went out to the water lake, and Leah and Travis did a little fishing where the incoming river clears an opening in the ice.

And what could be cooler than ice fishing, stepping back on shore and doing a little biking?

Here the late evening light paints the newly blooming Purple Saxifrage with that gorgeous light of a sun low in the sky.

And here is a Canada Goose (probably the Lesser Canada Goose subspecies Branta canadensis parvipes) that I thought was a Cackling Goose. This photo was actually taken Saturday morning.