The House & other Arctic musings

Love's labour lost

It is easy to anthropomorphize animal behaviour, to see the selfless act in what is really just the biological imperitive, the need to pass on one's genes. Or the vicious act, depending on the behaviour and our own values and perceptions. Often these behaviours are hard wired in, and just as often we don't know the "thinking" behind it. But anthropomorphism can be hard to avoid, especially if it is something tugging on our heart strings.

The first nesting attempt of Red-throated Loons that I saw this year ended shortly after it began. Frequently a pair of loons will nest on some small islands in the middle of the river that exits Marcil Lake. Calling them islands is being very generous, they are really a serious of small mounds of earth and vegetation, probably about 16 square feet in area. Islands offer some protection from predators to ground nesting birds, and nesting on them is a strategy often employed by loons, especially if the vegetation on them will include taller grasses to help hide the nest.

The first nest they attempted was destroyed by rising water in the river, a day or two after they started building it. I doubt if an egg had even been laid, but if it had it was gone. A couple of days later the water receded again, but not before many nests we'd found on our hikes in the area had been destroyed. Lapland Longspurs, Baird's Sandpipers and Snow Bunting nests that had been in low lying areas near the streams and ponds were submerged. Such are the risks of nesting so close to the buffet a wetland provides.

But quick drop in water levels allowed this loon pair to build again in the same small series of island. And they quickly did just that and when I next saw the nest, the female was sitting on a single egg. Usually they lay two, so it was either the first, or one had been lost in the original attempt. The flooding seemed but a momentarily blip in the breeding season for this pair. That was Thursday.

We returned last night, having been out on the land all weekend. The river had again risen, and this time it had come back with a vengence. The nest (and egg) were completely underwater. The female (or I assume it was the female) was sitting over the nest's location. She didn't leave it, but was plucking plant material from underwater and putting it under herself, where I assume the egg sat. She continued do this until sometime after we left, the embryo would have been long dead, drowned, or more accurately suffocated with no air able to get through the shell.

As I watched her there, not giving up, I couldn't help but have a heavy heart. This is nature, stuff like this happens, and the rising water had destroyed a lot of nests (it continues to rise tonight, almost as high as I've ever seen it), but this got to me. I couldn't help but think of the news photos of a wailing mother rocking her dead child as if it would spring to life if only she could comfort it enough. I know better to transfer those attributes to the bird, that this was likely the only response she could make, if the egg is too low, build up the nest. But knowing doesn't always trump what our minds have learned to do, project ourselves on the world around us.

Tonight they've moved on, there are three pairs of Red-throated Loons there.  None seem to be building, and it would likely not be successful a this stage if they did start. I don't know if they can re-brood after a nest failure.  I guess that will play out in the coming days. The Pacific Loons should start their nesting in the next few days, if the last two years were any example. Hopefully the water will drop before then, and they can be successful for two years in a row.

The landslide brings you down.

The Saint George's Society Cliffs are one of my favourite places out here. Spectacular red vertical cliffs that jut 600 feet out of Adam's Sound, they are right around the corner from where I live. This time of year we are often found standing below them on the sea ice, especially at the Gyrfalcon aerie tucked into their face. This photo from last year will give you a bit of an idea of scale (note Dave Brosha on the ice).

They are a crumbly cliff.  Thousands of years of freezing and thawing cycles annually drive wedges of ice in cracks, popping rocks off that tumble down the cliff landing far out onto the frozen sea. Often, especially after the sun circles away from the cliff face, you can hear or see rocks come loose and bounce down the face and out onto the ice. In 2008, I wrote about a rock fall that happened in between visits, hours apart.

Leah tells me a story about her grandparents camping across Adam's Sound from cliffs and watching part of the cliff face give way and smash into the ice, sending a huge splash up in the air, visible from some 5 to 10 kilometres away. If I was taking a guess I would think that rock came from where the Gyrfalcon aerie is. The cliff face is scooped out there, and looks less weathered than the surrounding rock, greyer.

I was last out there the Sunday before last, and made plans to go this weekend. This Sunday was one of those glorious spring days we enjoy up here this time of year. We dog sledded in the morning and the dogs had an incredible run. It is something to watch them, especially at the start when they hit 20 mph. It is impossible to wipe that smile of Travis' face.

In the afternoon, we joined much of the community, and several dog teams out at the iceberg for tea. Breaking one of the fundamental rules before heading out, I didn't check the camera battery, or put a spare in my pocket. A wonderful afternoon, with so many great photo opportunities it hurts. Dog teams + iceberg, yeah no potential there.   But while there a friend who just got back from a short holiday asked if I'd seen the landslide at the cliffs.

I hadn't and he pointed at the cliffs some 15 kms away and said "you can see it where that white strip is".  Sure enough, a light streak marked the cliffs where none had been.  We headed home, Travis joining one of the dog teams for a ride back on the qamutik. He will one day return the favour, passing along his growing skills with a dog team to some starry eyed youth.

After supper, he and I headed out to the cliffs. We hoped to see the Gyrfalcon, and I wanted to get a closer look.  Shortly after we arrived, Travis spotted one of the pair slipping away.  It had been perched further away from the aerie than we'd expected and I would have missed it if not for his sharp eyes. High up on another section of the cliff, perhaps 400 feet up, we found a Raven's nest. Somewhere, hidden from our view halfway up a Snow Bunting was belting out song.

But further up we found the slide. It had to have been spectacular to see. The scar on the rock reached to the top of the cliff, and rocks and what I thought was a dust field stretched far from the face, covering well over an acre.

What I saw as I got closer surprised me. The rock fall had smashed through a large area of the ice, turning the nearly smooth surface into a field of small iceblocks. The dust field, was in fact the splash zone.  The spray must have enormous to cover such an area. Someone standing below would not have stood a chance.

As I headed further and further out to try and get the scene in my telephoto lens we made another discovering.  The remains of Raven reduced to nothing but feathers. We have little doubt that it was the handiwork of the Gyrfalcons. And with that we headed for home, for with the Sun still high in the sky it was easy to forget that it was already passed someone's bedtime for school night.

Nemesis no more

It may surprise some people, given where I live, that I have never seen a Snowy Owl up here. Oh I've seen them in the south, on one of their irruptions, but never up where they are a common breeding bird. But I've never travelled to where they commonly breed, and have relied on chance to find them in their travels, foraging or moving from their breeding grounds. And chance has not been kind.

You see, for me, Snowy Owls are what are known as a nemesis bird, a bird that the fates seem to conspire against ones seeing it. Its not like they haven't been around, just that everyone would see one, but me. This year, due to the extremely good breeding year (thanks to an extremely plentiful year on the lemming cycle) Snowy Owls have been seen extensively in the south, as far south as Dallas Texas. A lot of juvenile birds, coupled with the crash of the lemming population meant that the birds were pretty far flung, looking for sufficient rodents to hunt.

Up here, we've also seen this bounty.  Well, others have also seen this bounty. At least three Snowy Owls wintered around here and succumbed. Two were killed by Ravens and a third was found dead of unknown causes. And from late winter through to now I've heard reports of at least one that has been around town. Everyone, well almost everyone, has seen it, with more frequent sightings as we've turned the corner to Spring. I've even seen video footage of the damned thing perched on a pole, taken by one of my son's friends on his iPod. Victor Bay, the dump, the road to the airport are all different spots where it has been seen. And I'd hear about it after the fact, "Did you see the Snowy Owl by the Hamlet Garage?" Why no I didn't, thanks for asking.

And its not like I'm not out looking.  We're out for a drive almost every evening. I make special trips when I hear of recent sightings. It just wasn't meant to be. Such is a nemesis bird.

Yesterday was another glorious spring day here. Temperatures are beginning to approach (but not quite reach) zero, but the constant warm sun makes everything feel warmer. Couple that with little or no wind and that makes it all but impossible to be indoors. Yesterday we took full advantage of it. 

In the morning we went dog sledding out to the St George's Society Cliffs, the dogs having their best run of the year so far. The two of them live to be in the traces, their excitement when they see the harnesses come out of the porch is intense. Yesterday they ran hard and fast from the moment they took off and you had the sense they would have ran all day if we'd let them.

After lunch we took our tea/coffee/hot apple cider/hot chocolate/instant something almost, but not quite, completely unlike lattes out further down the cliffs. We sat below the Gyrfalcon aeries, hoping to enjoy the bird's company. But they remained hidden from us and we were content to watch Ravens soar along the cliff face, almost brushing it with their wings.

Late afternoon we decided to take another run with the machines and leave the qamutiq behind.  We headed over down Victor Bay where Leah's parents are building a cabin. There was some debate about which route to take but my choice to go past the dump along the gentle valley in King George's shadow won out. As we got closer to Victor Bay I watched a Raven along the hills, and then saw another glide across my path further down. Only this one was pale.

My first thoughts were that it was gull as they have recently arrived back, but the flight wasn't right. It landed on a low ridge by the frozen river and I stopped and retrieved my binoculars from behind the seat. It was an owl. Obviously one that didn't get the memo that I was to be avoided at all costs. It was a juvenile or a fairly dark female, but unmistakeably an owl.  Leah had stopped and I handed her the binoculars and began describing where it was. About that time I realized my camera was hanging around my neck, and simultaneously the owl took off, disappearing behind the ridge. 

We headed over that way, hoping to get a better look and at least a record shot, but when we saw it again it was disappearing over another small ridge, and we decided not to pursue it further and cause it undue stress. As we turned and started off again for the cabin I'm sure a smile broke over my face. The jinx had been broken, Snowy Owls were no longer a nemesis bird.

Now about those Sabine's Gulls.

Some times you're the windshield, some times you're the bug

I had two interesting encounters with Ravens today.  Both decidedly different. 

This morning we headed off dog sledding, as we do most weekend these days.  The puppy is getting big enough and bold enough that he has followed us on a couple occasions. I've tended to just let him run as far as he can and we get him on the way back. Today as we paused on the ice he was heading down to join us. 

Following the puppy, just a couple of feet above him, was a Raven.  There were four or five other Ravens making a beeline to him. Now the puppy was oblivious to the Raven closing in on him and Travis had to run straight to them to scare the Ravens off.  They milled around close by, and I felt it was prudent to take the pup with us. Were the Ravens simply curious, perhaps. 

But we do know that we have a group of predatory Ravens here, that have taken eiders on the wing, and Arctic Hare. It would not be a stretch to think they were after the puppy. To my mind it seems like the most likely explanation.

Later Travis and three of his friends headed out with me to the Gyrfalcon aerie, to take tea by the cliffs. The wind was up, and although it wasn't overly cold, it carried a chill. We had our hot chocolate in the lee of the iglutaq while waiting to see if one of the Gyrs would appear. One is likely in the nest, as breeding has already commenced, but the other was also not in sight.

Then high up, above the tops of the cliffs (which are 600 feet high) one of the Gyrfalcons could be seen, gliding towards a fissure in the cliff face. It disappeared but quickly reappeared, hot on the tail of a Raven. As they moved away from us we watched as it struck at the Raven at least twice, before disappearing from our view.  We do not know how the Raven fared, but both birds are certainly capable of bringing down each other. 

Sometimes your place in the food chain can shift dramatically. Sometimes you're the windshield...

Ol' Halfbeak's return

Almost exactly three years ago, on April 8th, 2009, I had the opportunity to photograph an unusual Raven. The Raven, feeding on some scraps of meat behind the House, was missing half of its bottom beak.  An unusual site to be sure, but it seemed to be suffering no ill effects from the injury or deformity.

Today I discovered just how successful the bird has been, for it has evidently survived the past three years quite nicely.  We were heading out for a drive, and after dropping Hilary off at a friend's I noticed a Raven sitting on an oil tank stand. It seemed co-operative so I lowered the window and snapped a few shots. As I did, I noticed that it was Ol' Halfbeak. 

Here is a nice shot of the handsome bird.

And here is one showing his weak chin.

Nice to see him still kicking around.

 

Backlit flight

Sure its a photo of burning garbage. But the backlit smoke, contrasted by the Raven in flight makes it one of my favourite images thus far this year.

Alone in the Dark, an Arctic CBC

It shouldn't be a surprise, given where I live, that it gets cold up here. The last few days have hovered around -30C, which is pretty normal for this time of year. It also shouldn't come as a surprise that vehicles really don't like the cold. A couple of days ago our truck gave up the ghost and refused to start, plugged in or boosted. It is probably the starter.

So knowing that I had a Christmas Bird Count to do today I planned on travelling by snowmobile. And although we have two, one of them was being used by Leah's brother. So this morning I went out to warm up the four stroke, but it wouldn't go. The battery was dead. This would be a Green CBC, done on foot.

At 11:00 am Travis and I set out.  He wanted to visit with his cousin on the far side of town, so he'd walk with me for the first section of the search. For those of you who do not know what the Christmas Bird Count is it is an annual count of birds that has been going on for over 100 years. It takes place every year between December 15th and January 5th and is one of the biggest citizen science projects there is.  Data compiled during the hundreds counts each year is instrumental in showing trends in bird populations.

Our route took us across the sea ice, my plan to count the Ravens at the dog teams, which are always good producers this time of year. There was a lot of activity at the teams, but not the type I anticipated. Pretty much every team had someone there, readying them for a race, and putting dogs in their traces. A lot of people meant no Ravens and by the time we left the sea ice we had only seen seven Ravens, silhouetted against the dark sky.

Yes it is dark, well twilighty now. We are only a week and a half from the Winter Solstice. The Sun's arrival is over four weeks away. I left Travis and headed to the dump.  By the time I reached the dump road I'd seen Fifty Ravens, and by the time I'd left there another seventy some more. The half moon was rising above the hills as I contemplated climbing up to the most scenic sewage lagoon in the world and try and find some ptarmigan.

At the end of it, I decided to head back to town and try for another species, for yesterday evening a friend let me know that he'd been hearing redpolls near his house.  Heading there would maximize my light for the search for a bird I knew would be around.

Turning back to town I discovered that the slight wind had been at my back on the walk out.  It wasn't much of a breeze but I could feel its bite as I headed back in. As I reached town I turned up to the highest street, next to the tundra below the hills that surround town. Almost immediately I saw what would lead to my first surprise of the day. For there were two young boys walking around the tundra above town, and they seemed to be stalking something. As I got close I could see that they were indeed chasing something, four Rock Ptarmigan, which were easily evading them. I did not expect to see them in town, and had given up getting to a place where they might be.

I continued on to my friend's house, where I hoped to hear the redpolls.  As I stood there I noticed a Raven jumping back and forth that seemed to be after something. And then a flash of white, and the binoculars revealed another Rock Ptarmigan, probably from the same flock and separated.  As I walked to where it was I came across the boy's footprints, so that is no doubt what happened.

But there were no redpolls, and I'd walked a long way in the cold and the thought of some hot stew and coffee drove me home. And to my next surprise for a species I had given up on.

As I neared my house I heard a twittering and looked up to see a flock of Hoary Redpolls flying overhead, almost right above my house! I quickly counted eleven, although there were more and they disappeared into the growing gloom. Then I put the charger on the snowmobile, played with the dogs, and headed inside.

Playing in the dark

I know I've been a bad blogger.  My muse is on vacation.  But, I do have a new post up on 10,000 Birds.  Dark deeds, indeed.

Maritima

They are late migrants here, and stand out once the Baird's Sanpipers and others.  Here is a Purple Sandpiper from the other day, when all the other waders had fled these shores.

Playing chicken

Growing up in rural Manitoba where and when I did, I called Sharp-tailed Grouse "Prairie Chickens". There were real Prairie Chickens that owned that name, but I didn't know that. They were a bird I never knew.

There was a time though, when there were many of them in the area I grew up in. Even when native Prairie gave way to farmer's fields the agricultural methods then, the grain harvested in stooks and then threshed, were much kinder to Prairie Chickens than modern methods. As that style of farming gave way, the native prairie already gone, the Prairie Chickens disappeared.

These days Greater Prairie Chickens are on the verge of disappearing. The native Tall Grass Prairie they rely on is almost gone, and modern agriculture is not kind to them. The remaining birds are scattered in pockets in a fraction of their former range. I have never seen one. It is likely, the way things are, that I never will. They do have a their champions though, and given half a chance they could be saved.

I first met filmmaker (and ATV stuntman, a story for another time) Timothy Barksdale in 2006. He was one of our first clients at the B&B. He, along with his producer and a second unit cameraman, had come up to Arctic Bay to search for and film Ivory Gull for an upcoming series on rare birds. People like Tim were the best thing about running a B&B, and we had long conversations from everything from Ivory Gulls, to Ivory-billed Woodpeckers, to hollondaise sauce. I also got the chance to see great film, film that shone even before it had seen any editing. He has mad wildlife cinematography skills.

Last Dance of the Prairie Chicken tease from Timothy Barksdale on Vimeo.

Tim's current project, a film on the plight of the Greater Prairie Chicken, is almost done. It is in the final stages of post production, geared to be shown on PBS. But its not there yet, and Tim's company needs help in getting it finished. 

Battle on the Booming Ground on Kickstarter, has been set up to find backers for the final push on the film. If you can spare a few moments, and more importantly a few dollars, check out Tim's work on Vimeo and then get on over to Kickstarter and give him a hand.

I'd like to see a Greater Prairie Chicken some day.