Part 2 - The Tablelands Begin

We arrived at Crater National Park at dusk. My bird finding guide to Australia promised Grey-headed Robin and Bridled Honeyeater in the car park (parking lot for us foreigners). Through the gloom we could make out a few birds, but morning would come soon enough, and with it, better light.

The Cows in this part of Oz are tough!

 That night began the "camping". I use quotation marks because, while we were certainly camping, invariably it occurred in spots where camping was, shall we say, not an official use of the area. That particular evening, we raised out tents in the car park.

The sun rose, but the forest remained dark. True to the book's word, the robin and honeyeater where easily found poking around just outside of our tents. With those two in the bag, the birding would get tough as we set out to try and find a Victoria's Riflebird. Foreign bird sounds reached my ears, and the novelty of a wholly new ecosystem stimulated and confused my senses. Peering into the dark canopy I searched in vain. Thankfully I had companions, and Nicole, in top form, had spotted one for me. My first bird of paradise! Like so many times in my life, that unbridled boyish joy could not be contained. A moment to savor in what I hope is the first of many as I journey through life. As is the case with most of the wonderful birds and places I dream of, my hope is that I reach them before the proverbial "progress of man" does. Better yet, I hope that from their shaded rainforest homes, the birds sing out to remind us of the world's endless forms most beautiful, lest we fire up the chainsaws and make our planet a much lonelier and poorer place.

 Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, my hunger for new birds enveloped me as I eased into my element. Through the park we went, binoculars poised and ears tuned to even the faintest rustle of leaves. However, the tropics can deny even the most ardent pursuer their catch. The Golden Bowerbird and the Fernwren would not yield from the gloomy forest regardless of my internal yearnings. 

Nicole taking a break from birding

 With only 12 days and lots of ground to cover, it was time to move on. As we began the slow drive out, not one, but four Southern Cassowary wattle on to the forest road. Two adults and two young, we couldn't' have been any luckier. Ignoring us, they worked the road and then as quickly as they came, melted back into the forest. These birds, with insanely powerful legs and a don't mess with me attitude, are the guardians of the forest. They eat up to 50 different kinds of fruit and maintain its diversity and health by propagating seeds throughout the forest.

Slipping by.

 This trip is going to be one hell of a ride!

Part 1 - Etty Bay and Australia Day

It was to the promise of spectacular endemic birds, saltwater crocodiles and ancient rainforest that me, Nicole, and her friend Ali undertook an ill-planned adventure. Now perhaps ill-planned is not the right term. You see, when your objective is birds, and the location happens to be in the tropics, no amount of planing will save you. You have to go with the flow, make on-the-spot decisions and live with the results. Its a thinkers game. Maximize the number of endemic birds with the limited amount of time and money that you have and hope you make the right choices! And in an expensive place like Australia, limited funds do become a problem if you're not frugal!

Rental Car = $600
Binoculars = $400
Bird finding guide = $40
Swimming Trunks = $5
Ball cap = $7

Birding roadtrip in Australia = Priceless!!

So off we went. Roundabouts, Macas, wallabies and the prospects of new and exciting birds blurred together as I took to the road on the left for the first time! The great-barrier reef and greyhound hopping were done (tales for another post) and it was time to head out of Cairns to the Atherton Tablelands, Marreeba, Mt Lewis and the Daintree Rainforests.

This is great! With a vehicle, the birds will fall like republican presidential candidates, hard, fast and in quick succession.

Out of the city and at the first birding stop we get......................................nothing. No Pratincoles or Little Curlews to delight us, only empty sod farms and one freshly road-killed Sharp-tailed Sandpiper. Ironically, I was incapable of finding an alive Sharp-tailed Sandpiper in Australia or New Zealand despite concentrated efforts. Naturally, this bird now ranks very highly on my nemesis list which I keep in my head. For the record, this list also includes other great luminaries such as the Audubon's Oriole, the Manx Shearwater and the Sabine's Gull.

Contemplating the lack of birds (the sod farms were behind me)!

With this scintillating start we made another important choice. Our original destination was Crater National Park in the Atherton Tablelands and while Southern Cassowary range throughout the area they weren't a guaranteed thing. Consequently, having received some intel on a can't miss spot for this species we adjusted our plan. The thing is, it was quite out of the way, but with a bird like the Southern Cassowary, it's one you just can't miss.

With figurative dollar bills flying out the end of the tailpipe, we arrive at Etty Bay. This should be a cinch. Oh right, it's Australia Day and the place looks like Miami Beach during Spring Break...... just our luck. With a sheepish air, we take to the water for a swim thinking the birding gods would not be favoring us today!

Lost in thought, Nicole suddenly loses her mind and starts yapping hysterically. Sure as hell, a Cassowary is strutting down the lane toward the beach oblivious to the drunk revelers. Looks like our luck had turned. We spend the next 20 minutes or so following the bird around as it searches for fruit amongst the people and cars. We even posed for a few pics before finally making our exit and hitting the road.

Working the beach away from the party-goers.

Posing in front of the star attraction.

An Ode to the Tip

In a place that conjures up thoughts of a bleak grey existence, punctuated by tall rises and strip malls, there lies an apparent enigma. It exists as you break away from the endless city and across fields of corn and tobacco that fuel our own self-destruction. Past cottages, full of temporary relief and cheap beer, past gas guzzling SUVs towing equally gas guzzling powerboats, and past shops selling vanity and excess.

It is Southern Ontario's wild. Long Point.

Thirty-five kilometers of land, with an unbroken shoreline on one side, and a thriving bay on the other, it is the antithesis of Toronto. At its end, the feather in its cap. A Long Point Bird Observatory field station. The Tip.

For five weeks, August through October, I had the pleasure of calling the Tip my home.

Access is by boat and cell reception is minimal. The power is solar, and supplies few. It is Southern Ontario's version of island life. Windswept and lorded over by a lighthouse, its sandy soil and phragmites choked ponds become the back drop of one of nature's finest events, the fall migration.

Forsaking their temporary homes in the north, birds, of all varieties, pour south. Instinct and urgency drives them, and the Tip becomes both a refuge for this southward journey and a vantage point from which to witness the spectacle.

Simply sit, watch and listen.

On a good day, the warblers pour off the lake, diving into the vegetation bordering the beach. Thrushes, viroes, and sparrows stalk the willows and wild grape vines, while sapsuckers, nuthatches and creepers scale the poplar trunks. Skeins of geese pass overhead, while the finches chiurp away in bounding flight. Over the water, gulls, cormorants and ducks stream by, indifferent to our scopes and notebooks. All are being driven by the change in season, and by the most fundamental need, survival. Some will not travel far. Others are just beginning their trek which will take them to the heart of the Amazon and beyond.

Positioned at the end of this somewhat unassuming stretch of land, I was privileged enough to share in its beauty and secrets. I was privileged enough to have brief glimpses into the birds' frantic and fascinating lives.

At the station, we trap and band birds for research. Every morning from August until November, birds are caught, banded and released. For 60 years this has been happening at Long Point. The wealth of data collected is used to inform us of our feathered companions' doings, and to aid them in their struggle against the never-ending onslaught of human kind. In my time, I banded 888 individuals of 77 different species. I marveled at the feistiness of a Yellow-throated Vireo, of the softness of a Saw-whet Owl and the adorableness of a Yellow-bellied Flycatcher. I was joyed by the cryptic beauty of an American Woodcock, the flashiness of a Canada Warbler and of the character of a Red-breasted Nuthatch. Each species, and each bird, unique and wonderful in its own.

In reflection, surrounded by the birds, restlessly moving onward, my soul was transported to a distant past. My conscious was connected to the primeval urge to be a part of the seasonal movement. And when the birds took off, so did I!

Winter Wonderland - Part 6

It's coming on Christmas, they're cutting down trees, they're putting up reindeer and singing songs of joy and peace....

And while I hope for a white Christmas and snow, I think back to the end of October, the North Cascade Mountains, and the magical winter wonderland me and Tim found ourselves in on our quest to see White-tailed Ptarmigan.

We had driven from Ontario, across the prairies, into the Rockies and back out again. Across the forests of Montana we had gone, and through the dry country of western Washington. Finally, we came into North Cascades National Park in Washington, as a light snow was falling. Being dark when we arrived, we took a pre-dawn walk the following morning up the Pacific Crest Trail to search for Boreal Owls. As the sun came up, we were lost in the moment as the shimmering light reflected on the spruce and fir trees covered in snow.

At some point in life, one may think that scenery and the outdoors will get old. That the thrill of seeing snow capped mountains, rolling prairies and rocky hills will wane, replaced by an air of indifference. Clearly that is fool's talk. The beauty, peacefulness and raw power of our planet's landscapes will never cease to amaze and inspire. That morning was no exception.We carefully plodded back down the trail, not wanting to break the stillness. It was as fine a morning as it gets, Boreal Owl or not!

The dawn at Rainy Pass

Back at the car, we cruised the highway, which has to be one of the nicest roads I can recall having driven. Usually I'm not a big fan of the paved way, but if you've got to burn some rubber, this is the road.

Scenery wasn't our only objective though. The North Cascades are home to the Northern Pygmy Owl and with all birds that have eluded me thus far in my life, I was jonesin for a sight of these beauties. So we drove and stopped. We got out of the car, listened, played a few owl toots, got back in the car and repeated. After numerous stops, Tim's fine hearing caught the toot of a responding owl. Sure enough, there it was, perched way up high. However, the views were rather unsatisfactory, and it quickly flew off before we could get the scope on it. We would have to hope for another.

Sure enough we did. But this time around, it was prime time. An owl perched beautifully at the top of a tree down the valley right at our eye level . Then with some tooting of our own, another owl joined the first and we watched in awe as the two dueled with their beaks. What a bird and what a place!

Northern Pygmy-Owl

 

Wait, what about White-tailed Ptarmigans? Isn't this a tale about Ptarmigans?

What about them indeed! Well that was the second part of our journey.

Driving through old growth rainforest, with Red Cedars as wide as our car and covered in the most ancient looking moss, we arrived at the snowline with a somewhat wild plan. We would hike up the Sahale Arm trail, camp as it got dark, and continue up to the glacier and back down to the car the next day. Hopefully, we'd see the elusive Ptarmigan feasting on willow buds. Or perhaps enjoying being the same color as the snow... white... There was an obvious flaw in this plan. There was snow, it was white, and there was lots of it. Even if we could navigate the trail, would we even see the birds buried in willow thickets covered in snow? We started the trek regardless of the improbability of spying these creatures, and wouldn't you know, more snow began to fall. As 5pm rolled around, it was getting time to camp.

Now in this case we could have easily erected the tent, set up shop, made some hot chocolate and oatmeal, and gone to bed. But Tim, perhaps inspired by the great white north and its inhabitants, or perhaps channeling some of John Muir's spirit, or even perhaps simply delving into slight madness, decided we should build a snow fort right where we stood, half way up the bloody mountain. And so we did. Three hours later, we had an enclosed snow dome. Why we did this still remains a mystery. It was cold, wet, and rough going. We'd whip out the fly tent, drag it up the trail, dump fresh snow on it, and haul it back to our fort to build up the walls. Like I said, after three hours of this, it was done. Crawling into our fort, we snuggled into our sleeping bags, and tried to ignore the bitter cold that night as we dozed in and out of sleep. The next morning, once we were packed up and out, we were no worse for the wear.

Tim lighting a pipe beside our snow fort!

 Too bad we didn't get far. Not long after setting out, and with 3 feet of snow having fallen overnight, we were soon up to our waists and snow blind. With white everywhere and the trail no longer visible, we had to concede defeat and turn back. No Ptarmigans and no glaciers.

No worries though. We had immense Doulas-Firs and Red Cedars to marvel at on the way down, and while Tim hummed the notes and rhythm to some Bob Marley tunes, I sang the lyrics, bringing a little bit of Jamaica to the Cascade Mountains and the Chesnut-backed Chickadees that were listening.


"Don't worry, doo ba doo waaaaaay da, about a thing, doo ba doo waaaaaay da, Because every little thing, is going to be alright, doo ba doo waaaaaay da."

And so on...

And worry, we did not. The Sooty Grouse on the other hand, probably had just cause to worry. Tame as a chicken, and feeding on the road edge about a half click before we made it back to the car, Tim (à la ninja) crouched, crept over to it, and snagged it. After a brief discussion about eating it (I was opposed), he set it on its merry way. After all, you can't eat your lifer Sooty Grouse now can you? In fairness it wasn't my lifer, having gotten the species 20 minutes prior to this incident, but it definitely ups the stakes of the story if this was my lifer bird.

Before

After

Back at the car, our trip was coming to a close. The ferry to B.C was the next morning and the camping was done. We made a few more birding stops that day, before car camping in the parking lot of a grocery store, and left the next morning thinking it'd be hard to top this trip off.

In fact, the birding wasn't done, as the ferry ride plus the subsequent birding around Victoria, turned out great, and I think I ended with 5 or 6 lifers that day. Regardless, the treks in the Mountains were definitely over. It was back to civilization, Halloween parties and getting a job!

The last stretch out of the Mountains

Beauty!

Specimen Ridge - Part 5

The Tetons were behind us but the adventures were not. We rolled north into Yellowstone National Park with the idea of hiking Specimen Ridge. In the back country permit office we hammered out a plan. We park at one end of the trail, hitch a ride to the other side, camp 1.5 miles of the trail along the Lamar River, and hit the ridge the next day. The next day we would hike the 32km with all our gear and it would turn out to be one of the best days I've ever had.

It was nearing the end of the day by the time the car was parked and we were ready to rock. Worried we wouldn't be able to catch a ride, we need not fret as a family, decked out in hunting camo and driving a pick-up truck, told us to hop on in. Cruising through the Lamar Valley in the back of a pick-up is DEFINITELY the way to go.

Rolling in the truck

As we set out across the valley floor toward the river the excitement was already building. This IS the spot for Grizzlies and Wolves in the park and we were fully expecting to encounter one of these creatures on foot.

However, we were ready. Pre-trip, I had purchased what my cousin affectionately referred to as the "the bear shank". Yeah, it was a big ass hunting knife and I wasn't going to be afraid to leap on a charging Grizzly and thrust the point of the blade into its neck, thus slaying the beast, saving the day, and being a badass the rest of my life! Ha! ...we also had bear spray so perhaps no heroics would be required...

Tim rocking the bear shank

We had a raging blaze (à la fending off elephants in Kenya size) going at camp by the time the sun set and we were set for the night. We encountered no bear of wolf but did have to shoe away two Bison in order to pitch the tent. Perhaps the morning would be different.

Sun going down over the camp

 And it was. Taking a page from the voyageurs, we worked up an appetite before eating breakfast. Having successfully forded the icy cold Lamar river, we ate oatmeal and drank water which smelled like bison shit, but what's a man to do. Thankfully the filter did the trick, and we were not plagued by any bowel discomfort.

Up the far bank we went, and were just beginning the long steep trek up the mountain side when from the corner of my eye I saw it ambling in our direction. Perched on a little rise, we watched as a very large and old looking Grizzly climbed up over the bank, and proceeded to walk beneath us. I'll admit it, I was very nervous. Tim, he was unfazed! Wishing the bear a fine morning, he fulfilled a long held desire to encounter a Grizzly in the backcountry! We were ecstatic!

Scarface, 21 yrs old!

And then the excitement never faded. As we were pushing ourselves up and almost to the peak, in what truly felt like magical fashion, Tim raises his bins to a nearby tree to behold more awesomeness. Rosy-Finches! Grey-crowned, and to my absolute joy, Black! As I write this two months later, it still brings a huge smile to my face and a wonderful laughter! For a birder from the East, Rosy-Finches hold this mystical status. Elusive denizens of the Mountains, I have been dreaming of seeing these birds since I first opened a bird book of North America!

Grey-crowned Rosy-Finches

With Rosy-Finches and Grizzlies fueling our spirits, we raged the peak and tore across the mountain ridge leaving elk bones and bison in our wake. I yelled out to the world and couldn't have been happier!

With the music of Howard Shore in my head, we hiked, ran and birded the rest of the 32 kms as if we were born to do it.

  Specimen Ridge you were wonderful!

 

Over the Divide - Part 4

I woke with the sun, energized and ready to go. In my plaid flannel shirt, I split wood to replace the logs we used the night before, and fired up the oatmeal. Packed up, cabin swept, it was if we had never been there. 

Setting out along the trail, the early morning was as good as it gets; the fresh brisk air, the Tetons with halos rolling over their peaks, and the sun twinkling off the light snow making the world come alive!

Grand Teton Behind us!

Me soaking up the beauty!

This lake was a bit too cold for us!

It was then we tackle the ascent. 2.4 miles and 3000 ft straight up of switchbacks. Pushing ourselves we finally made it up and the world turned to white. 

The ascent

The world in white and blue

Catching our breath we took it all in, though only for a brief moment. Quickly crossing the saddle, we stopped at the edge and the fun began! The whole mountain slope was icy snow. Far below amidst the trees, the trail was visible, but from up top it was nowhere to be found. Perched on the divide, the wind howling its icy song, we were stuck.

Paintbrush divide: bracing myself against the wind

Sliding down was out of the question. The snow was an ice sheet and the slope was littered with jagged rocks. Peeking out here and there was the form of possibly a trail. Taking an initial leap of faith, we jumped down off the divide on to where we presumed the trail to be. Safely landed we attempted to switch back our way down. Somehow we started to make it. At points the snow was light enough to pound out footholes, at other times not so. Thoughts of the Path of Caradhras crept into our heads.”If we cannot pass over the Mountain, why not pass under it”. The fellowship may have had the luxury of turning back and going through Moria, but we did not!

Looking back after our initial leap!

In the cases where the snow was ice hard, Tim, with heavier boots, had to whack away and lay out the holes for us. At one point, I grasped on with my fingers to the footholes, before I would have started an undesired and uncontrolled slide down. Re-distributing my weight, I pulled myself back into a crouch and laughed to the mountains. Tim’s rage meter was off the charts, but at the same time he was in the zone! Focused, we painfully made our way down to the fluffier snow. Then, with alpine meadow underneath, we did our best imitation of kids sliding down the local hill after the first real snowfall of the year, by running, sliding on our butts, and howling with laughter and joy to the trees and the re-emerged trail!

Tim blazing the trail

The outline of the trail on the slope

Almost home free.

Our reward for braving the pass: A Female Ducky Grouse

Having braved the path of Caradhras, the remaining 6 or so miles felt like a piece of cake! Also, having past a ridiculously pretty young women in the company of a bearded hippy dude, made us consider that perhaps we ought to grow beards as well!

Later, Tim told me he had been quite scared up on the slope, where I had to admit that I wasn't scared at any point. However, the next days would bring some fear for me, where Tim would remain cool as a cucumber. At any rate, we came off Paintbrush Divide mountain men at last!

To the Divide – Part 3

Tim called it the hike of death. I just think of it as a hilarious, exhilarating, awesome and completely unexpected adventure. Here is part one of the tale.

 It started out well enough. First though, I needed to summon the spirit of the Rohirrim for our quest!

Summoning the Rohirrim

We hiked along Cascade canyon. With a picturesque river winding down the middle, tall spruce and pine along the valley floor, and high mountain ridges and meadows on either side, we were soaking up the beautiful surroundings. Stopping by a pool in the river, it was time for a bite of oatmeal.

Prepping oatmeal

Now I should let you know at this point that it was not raining, but our tent was wet. So was my sleeping bag and my pad. The reason was the night before it had poured, and well you know the drill. However, I'm thinking that we'll make camp with a few hours of daylight and be able to air out the tent, my bag was only somewhat damp, and the pad dries quick. That's of course when the rain started. We had just finished our food and were just continuing on when the sky let loose. Okay maybe it will let up... Nope! Instead it starts hailing. Disappointment starts to set in. I know that if it doesn't clear soon we'll arrive soaked, with our sleeping shit already wet, and probably freeze that night in the sub zero temperatures. Keeping mental track of how many hours it'll take to return to the car if necessary, we hike diligently onward. It's at this point, in a miserable soaked state, that I practically walked into a moose. The moose was also looking like it was in a miserable soaked state. Without even breaking my stride I quickly turn and walk back down the trail. This was not the time to go moose riding!

This was the right time to ride a moose!

Not a beast we were keen to tangle with, we cut off to the left of the path to out flank it. This is not before Tim attempted to grab a pic, aborting the idea as the moose started towards him looking pissed! Scrambling away we laughed it off, and continued on. The rain finally let up but we were soaked! Right through my coat, boots, rain pants and all.

Still not ready to give up, we continued onward to camp. Then like a holy beacon of light we spotted it. Well Tim saw it first, but I realized quickly what it meant. A cabin. 

Tucked away in the fork of a great canyon, and nestled amongst the towering conifers was shelter. Off the path we went. Popping inside we were greeted to a rustic cabin equipped with the most glorious thing of all, a wood stove, and in the attic, cots! There was no question... we'd take shelter in the cabin for the remainder of the evening and night, and hit the trail the next morning when the weather was supposed to be clear. Firing up the stove, and with hot chocolate on the go, we could not believe our luck! I even found a small guitar with the bottom three strings still on, and rocked out some reggae tunes as our belongings dried. The only thing missing was beer and babes, and sometimes in life you can't have it all! 

A wood stove fire and hot chocolate never felt so nice!