The House & other Arctic musings

Beat it.

I'm in some pretty good company.

As of today, I'm one of the beat writers for the fantastic bird/birding blog, 10,000 Birds. My "beat" is the Canadian Arctic. And while as a bird writer I probably have that niche sewn up, I keep looking at the other beat writers that are also joining 10,000 Birds and wondering what I'm doing being included with them.

About two weeks ago the core team at 10,000 Birds (Mike, Charlie and Corey) announced that they were adding a stable of writers to their team, each assigned a certain beat. Bloggers and birders such as Patrick Belardo, Julie Zickefoose, Christopher Ciccone, Nate Swick, the awesome writing of Carrie Laben, and Jory Langner.

Then they added more the following week. An international bunch (well to me the first bunch are international as well, being as they are all from the US. But seeing as the blog hails from there...) - Dan Rhoads, the incredibly funny Jochen Roeder, International man of mystery Redgannet, Australia's Clare Morton, New Zealand's Duncan Wright, James Currie and Renato Espinosa.

And if that wasn't enough the third and final wave (which includes me) has such fantastic writers and luminaries as David Ringer, Alan Tilmouth, Bill Thompson III, Sharon Stiteler, Larry Jordan, Rick Wright, Robert Gallardo, Dale Forbes and James Wolstencroft (who gives me great advance warning of the return of Northern Wheatears to the Arctic from their African winter homes).

To say I'm honoured to be included with that bunch is an understatement. I'll be writing about the Canadian Arctic (go figure) about once a month. Look for my posts there on the 25th of each month, starting in about 3 1/2 weeks.

It's a long way until Spring, I hope they like Ravens.

Its gone...

If you've ever wondered what it would be like, the sound, the sensations, to have an F4 tornado to pass over you then you must read Debby's account at Drawing the Motmot.

Debby, an incredible artist and the wonderful writer of Drawing the Motmot, has just posted her experiences sitting in their shelter as their house took a direct hit from a tornado. I urge you to visit Drawing the Motmot every day, but you shouldn't miss this post.

This photo, taken by a storm chaser from the area, was taken about the time Debby and Mike's home was being ripped apart above them.

April First Friday

I almost missed First Friday this month (as I had last month). First Friday, for those who may not know it, is a fiction writing contest over at WildBird on the Fly, the blog run by the incomparable Amy Hooper. The premise is simple, write a piece of fiction of 500 words or less, that must be about birds, or birding/bird watching. No anthropomorphizing of the birds. I've found it to be a wonderful exercise in writing, challenging to find a different story, and fit a story into 500 words. I recommend it to anyone.

Yesterday I saw a note that it was the deadline for April's contest and I had nothing (I had been writing a story earlier but I wondered how it would be perceived and had left it part way through, it wasn't saved and a power outage saved me the decision) to contribute.  So when I saw Amy's note on Facebook I asked her how much time was left, the answer: "3 hours".

So I sat and hammered out a story, and surprisingly won this month's contest (my fourth win).  Woohoo! I wasn't expecting this, and actually find the story a little clunky but hey I'm not arguing. I'm now expecting the Birds of Borneo by Susan Myers in the mail as my prize.

So, head over to First Friday and read my story A Large Bill, and give some serious thought to entering something in May's contest.

First (um, Third actually) Friday - The January edition

Amy at WildBird on the Fly, just released the latest results for the belated First Friday for January. Congratulations go out to the Marvelous in Nature's own Seabrooke Leckie.  She wrote the winning entry this month (sometimes in the last three hours before the deadline - talented or what?) of an unexpected surprise on a Christmas Bird Count.  Way to go Seabrooke.

First Friday is a writing contest put on by WildBird on the Fly, involving writing a 500 word short story themed around birds or birding.  The birds can not be anthropomorphized. Winners are usually announced on the First Friday of each month (this month was late due to holidays and Amy's work commitments.

Go read Seabrooke's entry here.  If you are at all interested here is my entry for January.  I've already got February's entry in.

The Big Year

“This is the last pelagic birding trip I ever take” thought Barney. He had, however, reason to be unhappy with the charter, seeing how he was bobbing alone somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, clinging to an empty ice chest.

Barney was in the midst of a Big Year. Not a record breaking Big Year, a personal one. He had set out January 1st to see just how many species of birds he’d see. This had been his second trip out on a charter, and he’d been hoping to fill in some blanks left from the last one.

It hadn’t gone well. He was in the washroom when someone shouted “Craveri’s Murrelet”, an unexpected bonus bird. He missed it. By the time he made it up on the deck, trailing toilet paper stuck to his boot, it was gone.

Then he forgot “one hand for the boat” and lost his footing hurrying up the stairs when the albatross appeared. He bumped down to the bottom and though he was bruised he did little damage, to himself. His glasses, on the other hand, were finished, one lens broken in three pieces and the frames bent beyond any use. His biggest bruise came from landing on his beautiful binoculars, which were now two not so beautiful monoculars with an almost useless fixed focus.

No, it hadn’t gone well, and he sat gloomily on the deck, listening to others gush over species he was no longer interested in. They were birds already on his year list, and normally he’d still be marveling at them, excited to see such beauty found way out in this vast blue grey expanse, but he knew he’d never see them well. Not with the ancient, cheap, bargain store binoculars that someone on the crew had lent him.

He was trying to pull himself out of his funk when he smelled it. He recognized he had smelled it for some time but was too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize it. He had just snapped his head alert and just got the words “Does anybody smell gas?” out of his mouth when the explosion hit. He flew up in the air like so much debris, and felt warm for the first time since they left the harbour.

That feeling of warmth quickly disappeared as he hit the water, his broken glasses now gone. He reached out and caught hold of the ice chest. He shouted out for others but his ears were buzzing so badly he had no idea whether anyone answered.  He shivered.

The bird landed tantalizing close to him and was slowly making its way closer. It was a murrelet, could it be the Craveri’s? He squinted hard, trying to resolve its features. It was almost close enough, he strained against his myopia. Suddenly it took to flight. He was still staring at the blurry, winged dot as hands lifted him suddenly into the life boat.

They were wrong when they thought his tears were in thanks.

Coffee?

I was quite excited with the news that WildBird on the Fly's First Friday contest was being revived. It combines two of my passions, birds and writing. More than that I find that trying to write a 500 word story, within the constraints of the contest, an excellent exercise for building my writing skills.

I've also been very lucky at the contest, having won twice before. And my luck continues to hold as for some reason they've thought my story good enough to win the revived contest. Kudos to Amy for bringing it back. I encourage anyone who writes to give it a try, the next deadline being December 3rd.

Here then is my winning story...

Coffee?

Tye pulled his jacket tighter around his neck. “Damn wind,” he said to no one in particular. He stomped his feet, willing circulation there, and wondered if he’d get any visitors today. They were a strange lot, the bird people, traveling all this way to see a gull. Of course, once he stopped to think about it, his was a strange job.

Tye was an egg guard, hired by the Feds -- not that he didn’t mind the work, but there couldn’t really be people that would come all this way to steal a bird’s egg. No matter how rare it was. At least he wouldn’t screw up this job.

He’d come up north to make his way in the world, his parents happy to see him out of the house. They’d still hoped he’d go on to University, but he could barely handle high school. They’d nagged at him constantly to get out of the basement, so he did. Took the Pinto they’d given him when he got his licence and pointed it to Thompson.

He found work right away, in the mine. Hated every minute of it. When the foreman caught him sleeping instead of knocking loose rock from the ceiling, he was fired. That night in the bar, he fell in with some tourists, and before he knew it, he was on the train. Brian, who worked for the port, let him crash on his couch and told him about the egg guard gig.

He shook his head again as he raised his binoculars, puzzled by the absurdity of it all. Still it was a beautiful gull, a Ross’s Gull. Until three weeks ago, they were all seagulls to him. This one was small, dainty almost, and he’d never had dreamed a gull could have a pink breast, but these ones did. He looked up when he caught sight of the dust.

The plume of dust told him someone was coming, and soon the taxi pulled up. He smiled when he saw the two Germans get out. They’d been coming every day for the last week to see the bird. Different than the others, they spent more time talking with him, and they always brought coffee. Today was their last day in Churchill. He was glad for the company of someone who preferred him to the bird.

Dieter poured him coffee, while Brigit nodded hello but stood on the opposite side of the road, already raising the binoculars she wore. Dieter looked off the other way, towards the coast, lines creasing his forehead. There was a bear close, Dieter told him, pointing to the coast, and they both scanned the horizon. It was early for bears, and after fifteen minutes, they still hadn’t seen anything. Soon Dieter was pouring him more coffee.

Brigit joined them, so he handed her their thermos. He had already turned back to the coast as she deftly took off the bottom of the jug and slid the dark speckled egg inside.

Winter of our discontent

I'm bereft of any ideas at the moment. I'm staring out at winter entrenching itself for a long stay, howling winds and blowing snow, my mind drifts from topic to topic but they swirl away and I find myself uninspired.  So, there's nothing here this morning, but all is not lost.

If you don't regularly visit Townie Bastard, you should. His writing is always entertaining and he tackles a wide range of topics. If you read nothing else today read his post from a couple of days ago. A very personal account on the death of his grandfather, it is as heartfelt, moving, and well written as anything you will read online.

In Memorium.

Verbal Medicine

One of the things I did when I recently revamped my sidebar and separated the northern blog roll into feeds for each of the territories (and others) was to search out some more NWT blogs. I am very glad I did, for I discovered the wonderful story telling of Gregory Turnbull's Verbal Medicine. The man knows how to reminisce.  Go have a visit and see what I mean. Tell him I said "Hi".

Once upon a midnight dreary

The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe's incredible poem was first published on today's date, one hundred and sixty-four years ago. Poe still rocks. Really. Take some time today and read some of his works. Might I recommend The Tell-Tale Heart, or A Cask of Amontillado.

Our Story - Aboriginal writing challenge

The Dominion Institute, an organization whose mission is "to build active and informed citizens through greater knowledge and appreciation of the Canadian story", has many projects that seek to build on pride in our stories, our history, and our accomplishments.

One of the those projects, Our Story, seeks to engage aboriginal youth in writing about a moment in aboriginal history. An annual event, it is juried by an impressive group of aboriginal authors.  There are two categories, one for 14-18 year old aboriginal youth, the other for 19-29 year olds. The creative writing is to capture moments from any point in history, including legends and recent events. For more details you can check out the website.

Inuit youth have been under represented in the contest and so they are seeking your help in spreading the word in your communities, and through your blogs. I'm learning more and more that through writing, I'm discovering more about myself, my family, and my countries history. Encouraging youth in Nunavut to write may help them discover something similar, and win some great prizes, including $2000.00 in cash, and publication in The Beaver; Canada's history magazine.

The blog ate my homework

One of my favourite thinkers on the web, Dave Bonta, has a blog, Via Negativa, that continually astounds me. That he visits regularly and occasionally includes one of my posts in his Smorgasblog both amazes me, and makes me want to puff out my chest just a little further.

Via Negativa just turned five, which is 109 in human years, and Dave celebrates in fine style with a list of 25 things about Via Negativa. Go pay him a visit, it is always worth your while. 

My title, and the cartoon, are stolen from him. The cartoon is part of a regular feature of his, Words On The Street.