Newfoundland: Day 2

By the time I went to bed at the end of my first full day in Newfoundland, I had already forgotten about the terrible travel troubles I had experienced just twenty-four hours earlier.  I was thinking instead about the wild and wonderful gulls, the great camaraderie within our group, and the beautiful landscape through which we would be traveling the next morning.  The nightscape outside drew me to my window, just as it had the night before.  But it wasn't raining this time.  The weather had eased a bit, and the lights from the city shone more brilliantly against the harbor.

I fell sound asleep, unperturbed by the reflected lights of the harbor coursing through my window.

The next morning, we awoke bright and early, eager to get a head start on our adventures.  We wouldn't be scanning for gulls today.  Our desire to find a Yellow-legged Gull was growing more intense by the hour...You could see it in everyone's eyes...It was the subtext of every conversation...But that search would be put on hold today.  Instead, we would be traveling south along the coast, entering new habitat, hitting some boreal forest before reaching the extreme southeastern point.  Here's a map so you can see where we were, and how little of Newfoundland we would actually cover!

See St. John's there in the lower-right?  That was our home base, but today, we would be driving south along the coast, all the way to Cape Race and back.  Dave Brown, our guide, reminded us what we might hope to find.  Anything new would be exciting, of course, but many people were thrilled with the prospect of finding Dovekies, cute little alcids (penguin-like birds) that you can only find in the winter.  He put our chance of success at around 10%.  Many people asked about the likelihood of finding a Willow Ptarmigan, an adorable all-white grouse with feathered feet...Dave answered that it was "possible" but not probable.  To a birder, however, "possible" is all one needs to hear.

Because we had arisen before the hotel restaurant had opened, we stopped for breakfast in that ubiquitous Canadian institution, Tim Horton's.  It's kind of like a cleaned-up version of Dunkin' Donuts, just enough to get you going in the morning.  Inside, I had my first exposure to the bizarre array of local Newfounland accents.  For some speakers, their accent was so strong, I questioned whether they were speaking English.  It's this lilting drawl that sounds like a combination of inflections from Maine, Ireland, and Georgia.  Over the course of my four days there, I would often find myself in close proximity to some local residents sharing a conversation, and more often than not, I couldn't understand a single word they said.  Yet our guide, who had grown up in Newfoundland, exhibited little more than a slight traditional Canadian accent (traditional from our point of view).  Newfoundland is quite the melting pot.

Energized and ready to go, we took off and headed south.  Along the way, we climbed in elevation, and eventually entered some beautiful boreal forest habitat, filled with spruce and fir trees.  Periodically, Dave would spot a bird flying across the road, and we would stop and get out, anxious for anything to pop up and put on a show.  A Northern Shrike alit on a tree nearby, but didn't stay long.  A Boreal Chickadee called and also made an all-too-brief appearance.  However, a confiding group of Gray Jays were much more accommodating.

Probably one of the cutest birds out there!

They clearly had no fear of us whatsoever, and as Gray Jays often do, they approached unwarily, perhaps hoping for a handout.

"Maybe if I'm extra cute, I'll get some treats..."

"This should do it."

"Hmmm, time to be extra adorable."

"I can has Tim Hortonz?"

"Ah, the hell with it.  Kamikaze!!!!"

The Gray Jays did not leave empty-handed.

As we continued our journey south, we frequently would stop along the edge of small bodies of water and scan.  A Common Merganser popped his head up, and we tallied several Green-winged Teal as well.  But we got really revved up once we came upon an inlet, offering good views of the shoreline and the ocean beyond.  Many, many Black Guillemots sat calmly on the water, periodically spreading their wings and nose-diving beneath the surface.  Red-necked Grebes, Common Loons, Greater Scaup, and Black Scoter were called out as the group panned left and right with their scopes.  At one point, the blur of a passing shorebird caught our eyes, and after following it down the beach, we were able to identify a lone Black-bellied Plover.  Our hunt for the plover had led us away from the main group, though, and therefore we were some distance away when the call came in over the FRS radio.  A voice crackled, "We have a Dovekie."

We sprinted back, and other birders from our group who had wandered away also came rushing in to line up the Dovekie.  Luckily, it stayed just long enough for everyone to get great scope looks...About a minute later, it took off for the open ocean, and disappeared.

We had overcome Dave's "10% chance" of finding the Dovekie, and so freshly renewed with optimism and vigor, we proceeded south, feeling more confident than ever.

The landscape was beautiful.  Periodically, we would leave the coastline, and then we would find ourselves surrounded by ponds, forest, mountains, or more open flat land covered with stunted shrubs and willows.  Every chance we had to get out of the car was another opportunity to soak in the scenery.

We continued south, but the weather began to deteriorate.  A harsh wind had picked up, and it was beginning to snow.  Appropriately enough, a flock of Snow Buntings swept past us in the opposite direction.  Dave also located a surprise Dunlin, feeding calmly in a small marsh just off the road.  For now, we were determined to push on, though our hopes of reaching and traveling all the way around the southern tip of Cape Race were diminishing.

We hit the shore one more time, and found many of the same seabirds as before.  But a wave-lashed rock a hundred yards away intrigued us, as it seemed to be crawling, ever so slightly, with the movement of tiny creatures.  The rock seemed to be alive, and every time a violent wave would crash down upon it and recede, the rock would then resonate with a flurry of agitation.  We needed to get closer.

Driving down the road toward the sentient rock, we spied a kind of driveway that jutted out into the ocean in the right direction, but which was lined with a shoulder-height wall of concrete.  Still, were we to stand on tiptoe, we might just be able to peer over the wall and stare directly at the rock in question.  We parked and strode down the driveway.  At the end, as close to the rock as we could manage, we approached the wall.  Luckily for us, a narrow "sidewalk" had been built right along the border, and scrunching our tripods legs to fit within this raised platform, we were just able to peek over the top of the wall.  The rock was now but fifty feet from us.  At first glance, it looked like the rock was simply covered with seaweed, which wiggled and writhed with the ebb and flow of the waves.  But then, there was some scampering about...a few short legs here and there...and a closer look through the scope revealed that the rock was covered by dozens of Purple Sandpipers:

You might have to click on the picture to see them.  There's quite a few hidden there!

The Purple Sandpipers would feed as close to the edge of the water as they could, and instead of escaping before the oncoming waves crashed down, they would allow themselves to be ravaged by the onslaught.  When the waves receded, they would shake themselves off, as if only mildly irritated, and immediately resume feeding where they pleased.

We had hoped to go further, but at this point, the weather had worsened still, and Dave Brown determined that it would be safest to return to St. John's.  We were disappointed, as birders always are when their progress is halted, but content with the day's discoveries.  Then again, you never know what a change of plans might lead to...what unpredictable consequence might befall us?

On the return trip home, we retraced our route, and passed again through an area of open flat land covered with rocks and stunted shrubs.  We were driving about 60 or 70 miles and hour, all in a line, with my car at the tail end.  Therefore, shivers still run down my spine when I recall Dave G.'s clarion outburst from the backseat: "PTARMIGAN!"

Without thinking, I allowed my reflexes to take over.  I screeched to a halt and began to turn around, while at the same time calling over the radio to the other two cars, "We have a ptarmigan!  Repeat, Car 3 has a ptarmigan!"  Within seconds, I had spun the car in the opposite direction, and was now proceeding slowly down the road, allowing Dave G. to guide us.  Such a precious opportunity, this chance to find a Willow Ptarmign in winter plumage along the side of the road...And as we approached ever closer the spot where Dave had signalled us, my breath was short.  But Dave G. was right, and just where he had spotted it moments ago, solemn amidst a pile of rubble, sat my life Willow Ptarmign.

Luckily, Dave G. didn't mistake the ptarmigan for a snowball.

He seems a bit wary, but beautiful all the same.

All the cars returned and got to see the Willow Ptarmigan.  In fact, the bird didn't move a muscle the whole time we were there, except only once, when he looked the other way and peered at us with his opposite eye.

He never took his eye off us.

You can perhaps just make out some black at the base of the tail on either side.

Our prior disappointment at having curtailed our progress south was quickly replaced by the joy of such a great sighting.  One of the benefits of having lots of eyes along...You can see in every direction.  Thanks, Dave G.!

We returned to the hotel for a nice dinner and a rehash of the day's events.  We unfortunately sat far too close to the restaurant's "musican," a kindly gentleman who performed loud renditions of old favorites (older than I am) on an extremely out-of-tune piano.  His repertoire hadn't changed since the previous night's meal, either.  But nothing would bring us down that night.  Before long, however, at the end of every day of birding, no matter how wonderful, thoughts and plans for the next day begin to surface...Strategies and predictions begin to emerge...The adrenaline begins to surge...We were still missing one bird.