THE MAGDALENS
From Percé to the Magdalens by sea is about a hundred and twenty miles, but lacking a proper vessel we were forced to return to Dalhousie and there take the International Railroad to Pictou, where a weekly steamer leaves for Prince Edward Island and the “Madalenes,” as the natives call them.
The journey is possessed of both present and historic interest, and the hospitality for which the residents of Pictou are noted assures one of a pleasant stay in their picturesque little town. Here I met a veteran ornithologist—James McKinlay—who, although over threescore and ten and isolated from others of kindred tastes, still possesses the enthusiasm of the genuine naturalist. His collection, the greater part of which he has presented to the Pictou Academy, contains, among other birds, a Brown Pelican, a Corncrake, and a Chuck-will’s-widow—all shot in the vicinity.
The Magdalen steamer is neither a yacht nor an ocean greyhound, but answers very well for the short voyage of a hundred and fifty miles across the gulf. Pictou was left at noon, and the following morning we awakened to find the steamer at anchor off an island with red sandstone cliffs, and green fields rising gently into hills clad with stunted spruce forests. This was at the southern end of the long sand bar which joins these so-called islands; and our destination, Grand Entry, near the northern end of the chain, was reached late in the afternoon.
At this point we embarked in a small sailboat, and in a driving rainstorm flew before the wind across a bay two miles in width, and up an arm a mile or so in length, to the settlement of Grosse Isle, on the island of the same name. The tide was out; Black-backed Gulls were feeding on the flats, and Gannets fishing in the deeper water; Guillemots rose before the boat; a seal showed itself for a moment and disappeared—moving figures in a picture which impressed itself very vividly on my memory. A landing was made with difficulty, and a walk of nearly a mile through the scrubby spruces brought us to the home of the fisher folk, who had agreed to take us in.
If Percé is isolated, Grosse Isle is in another sphere. Even the weekly steamer which plies between Pictou and the Magdalens from May to November comes no nearer than Grand Entry, and its arrival seemed a rather vague incident, made real only by the appearance of mail.
The lobster season had just closed, the “pots” were piled in heaps on the beaches, and mackerel fishing was now the presumable industry of the male population of Grosse Isle. But few fish were running, and each day boat after boat of glum-looking men came in from the sea with often only a few cod to show for their labor. This, however, was midsummer, and the Grosse Isle “season” was in full swing. There was a school picnic one day; on another, service was held in the little white church on the hillside; but, as I considered the deathlike quiet which, as a rule, reigned in the village, I wondered what life must be there in winter. Then the entire Magdalen group is frozen in a sea of ice, which renders communication with the mainland (except by cable, generally out of repair) impossible. When the ice breaks in the spring, seals appear and furnish a hazardous occupation to those who are venturesome enough to go in pursuit of them—a form of sport which I imagine is eagerly welcomed after the lethargy of winter. With us the Magdalens were only a stepping-stone to Bird Rock, but while preparing for the continuation of our journey to that point we took some note of our surroundings.
78. Nest and eggs of Fox Sparrow.
The Magdalens have an interesting avifauna, but it was now the latter half of July and the song season of most species was over. Fox Sparrows, however, were still singing, and their clear, ringing whistle came from the spruces all about. The fogs, so characteristic of the region, seemed in no way to dampen their spirits, and when the gray mists closed in thick about us their notes rang out as cheerily as though the sun shone from a blue sky.
My short excursions, however, were largely made along the beaches in search of some sea waif, and for the shore birds that would soon migrate through these islands in large numbers, or to the cliffs where the Guillemots were nesting. The latter were comparative strangers to me, and I had not become accustomed to the plump, black, white-winged, little birds that sat so lightly on the water. They nest in scattered pairs, in crevices, in the face of the cliffs, where my guide, Mr. Shelbourne, a resident collector, was particularly apt at discovering them.
Grosse Isle is not beyond the range of the nestrobbing small boy, and only the few Guillemots that had contrived to escape him now had young. They were feeding them on sand eels, and with bills full of their shining prey made frequent visits to their nests. The young varied in development from those as yet covered only with the scanty natal down to others half grown and with the black and white second plumage appearing beneath. They were active enough to test the temper of the most patient bird photographer, and the accompanying picture was secured only after many trials.[79]
79. Young Guillemots.
In the meantime we were endeavoring to make some arrangements for our voyage to the Rock, which on clear days could be seen from the tops of the higher hills—a hazy dot in the sea. Imagination peopled the view with Cartier, Audubon, and his successors, and I could scarcely believe that the scene of the wonders they had described was actually on my horizon. But, although only twenty miles away, Bird Rock now seemed more distant than before we had taken the first step of our journey. This in a measure is due to the uncertainty of gulf weather, the strong tides, the sudden and severe squalls, the prevalence of fogs, and the surprising rapidity with which the latter change a sunlit horizon to closely crowding gray walls—all of which make navigation in these waters more than usually dangerous. Furthermore, it is to be remembered that Bird Rock is not a port in which one could seek safety from a storm, but a spot to be approached only in the calmest weather. One might therefore start for the Rock under the most favorable conditions, be caught in a squall and, as a result, find one’s self at sea with the recently desired haven changed to an element of danger.
With the Rock glimmering in the sunlight and apparently almost within reach, it was not easy to believe tales of disaster which had befallen those who in small boats had attempted to reach it, and I was more impressed with its inaccessibility by the fact that only one of the many fishermen with whom I talked, had ever landed on this inhospitable resort of sea birds.
This man proved a friend in need—one Captain Hubbard Taker, of the thirty-ton schooner Sea Gem. I commend him to every visitor to the Magdalens as a man and a sailor. It was when the difficulties of reaching the Rock by small boat appeared insurmountable that Captain Taker returned from a fishing trip to the Labrador coast. He proved to be one of those rare but exceedingly satisfactory individuals with whom anything is possible, or at least who believes it is until the contrary is shown. Could he take us to Bird Rock? “Why, of course; and whenever you are ready.” So without delay we boarded the Sea Gem.