The naturalist realizes with the utmost sadness that the encroachments
of civilization are rapidly changing the conditions of animal life on
this small sphere of ours, and that soon he may find Nature primeval
only in its more remote or inaccessible parts.
Forest life vanishes with the demand for timber, which sends the axeman
in advance of the agriculturist. The tillable plains, prairies, and
bottom lands are transformed by the plow. The sandy beaches suffer with
an eruption of summer hotels and cottages, and within the confines of
civilization only such useless portions of the earth’s surface as the
arid deserts and barren mountain tops, marshy wastes and rocky or
far-distant islets, have been unaltered by man.
It is especially to the preserving influences of island life that we owe
the continued survival of many animals which have greatly decreased or
become exterminated on the mainland, as has been remarked of the Terns
and Heath Hen—two illustrations among hundreds that might be given.
Certain animals, therefore, are not only more abundant on islands, but,
if their home be not shared by man, they exhibit a tameness surprising
to one who has known only the timid, man-fearing creatures of the
mainland.
On several uninhabited West Indian islets the sailors of Columbus killed
Pigeons and other birds with sticks, or caught them in their hands.
Darwin writes of the “extreme tameness” of the birds of the Galapagos,
and tells of pushing a Hawk off its perch with the muzzle of his gun.
Moseley, on Inaccessible and Kerguelen Islands, had similar experiences.
The Albatrosses of the Laysan Islands show far less fear of man than do
barnyard fowls—in short, if it were necessary, hundreds of instances
might be cited to show that distrust of man is an acquired and not a
natural trait of animals.
Having these facts in mind, therefore, I bethought me of some island or
islands which were neither at the antipodes nor either pole, and where
birds were not only abundant, but in such happy ignorance of man that no
difficulty would be experienced in securing their photographs. These
would not only have a present interest and value, but would also form
permanent records of conditions already threatened by the destructive
tendencies of the age.
After carefully considering all the more easily reached islets of the
Atlantic and Pacific coasts, my choice fell on certain of the bird rocks
of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The name bird rock is used in both a
general and a special sense. In the former it may be applied to many of
the rocky islets of the gulf, in the latter it relates exclusively to
_the_ Bird Rocks at the northeastern end of the Magdalen group.
Percé Rock, Bonaventure Island, the Magdalens, and the Bird Rocks
themselves seemed to offer the best opportunities to the bird
photographer, and, accompanied by my best assistant, I departed for the
first named on July 2, 1898.
Percé Rock^{71} (so named because its base has been pierced by the
action of the waves) lies about three hundred feet off the land at the
town of Percé, on the west side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
A semiweekly steamer from Dalhousie, near the head of Bay of Chaleur,
furnishes the regular means of communication with Percé, and the town at
once possesses a distinction over any place on the line of a railway.
For, aside from every other reason, there is a pervasiveness about the
smoke of a railway locomotive which contaminates the atmosphere and robs
local influences of half their potency. Doubtless there are persons who
would be glad to change the aroma of Percé’s fishyards for the stifling
air of a railway tunnel, but give me the pungent odor of Percé’s drying
cod unadulterated.
Even the steamer does not touch Percé, and we were landed by a boat in a
sea just rough enough to make the experience interesting. At the pier no
hotel agent greeted us, for Percé possesses neither hotel nor boarding
house, and summer resorters are almost unknown. This was a delightful
discovery. We had come in search of an isolated colony of birds, and we
found also an isolated colony of man—quaint fisher folk whose _patois_
French had a gratefully foreign sound.
[Illustration: 71. Percé Rock from the north.]
Lodgings were secured at the home of a retired fisherman, and
immediately we sallied forth to pay tribute to the Rock from the nearest
point on the mainland. Its size and precipitousness were both surprising
and impressive. Seen from the land it seemed like the hull of some great
ship which had gone ashore here in the age of the Titans. Nearly three
hundred feet high at the bow, with a beam of about one hundred, and a
length over all of twelve hundred feet, it was not likely to be boarded
by the most nimble seaman.
Doubtless an expert climber, properly equipped with ropes and
assistants, might reach the summit; but as the last man to make the
attempt, some fifty years ago, lost his life, the town authorities have
imposed a fine of five pounds on any one who shall be found guilty of
scaling or trying to scale the Rock, and the law, incidentally, protects
the birds as well as man.
The top of the Rock is occupied by a colony of probably between two and
three thousand Herring Gulls and Double-crested Cormorants. The
guidebooks array these birds in picturesque cohorts which make the
Cormorants’ part of the Rock black, the Gulls’ white; and they further
state that should a black bird chance to trespass on the Gulls’
territory, he is immediately surrounded by a consuming white cloud, and
_vice versa_. But be it said to the disgrace of man and the credit of
birds, that the Cormorants and Gulls nest side by side apparently on
terms of the greatest amity.
At this point it should be stated that my photographic outfit consisted
of an ancient but useful 4 × 5 “Waterbury Detective,” containing a wide
angle, short-focus lens, and designed for general handwork; a 4 × 5
long-focus “Premo” with a 6½-inch trade lens and Unicum shutter, for use
from a tripod or in photographing nests, landscapes, etc., and a 5 × 7
twin lens with a 10-inch lens and Prosch shutter, a camera made
especially for animal photography, but which was undesirably bulky.
None of these was of service in photographing the inhabitants of Percé
Rock from the land, nor could a telephoto be used to advantage, the Rock
being so much higher than the adjoining mainland. From a boat near the
base of the southeast side of the Rock a better opportunity is afforded
for photographing its summit, and the best of several attempts made at
this point is here presented.^{72} Examined under a glass it conveys
some idea of the number of birds occupying the top of the Rock; and
while one regrets that the camera does so little justice to the subject,
one can not but rejoice that here, at least, is one place to which
probably for all time birds may return each year and rear their young in
perfect security.
In crevices in the face of the Rock numbers of Guillemots nest, and
directly above the pierced opening dwell a colony of about thirty
Kittiwakes, who have apparently taken up their residence in the Rock
within comparatively recent years, since none were here in 1881 when Mr.
William Brewster visited Percé.
[Illustration: 72. Percé Rock from southeast end. The Cormorants and
Gulls may be dimly seen on the summit of the Rock.]
Wherever one be about Percé, in the town or out, the Rock is the
prominent feature of the coast line. It dominates its surroundings as a
snowcapped mountain rules its dependent ranges. To the bird lover it
possesses a double fascination, and one is constantly attracted by the
ceaseless cries of the throng of hovering birds, who in some
indescribable way seem to invest their home with a sense of the charm,
the freedom, the wildness of a sea-bird’s life. It is a true _bird_
rock; man has no part in it.
At sunset this bond between the Rock and its inhabitants seemed
especially strong and real. Through a notch in the western hills the
last rays of the sun fell squarely upon the Rock, illuminating it and
the ever-present soaring Gulls after the land and the sea were in
shadow. Slowly the light left the Rock, until it, too, was of the same
gray-blue as its surroundings; then, like the beams from a searchlight,
it struck the circling mass of Gulls, making them seem a flurry of
snowflakes descending into the gloom below.
The pilgrim to Percé Rock will find that the object of his journey not
only exceeds in grandeur his brightest imagination of it, but he will be
further rewarded by discovering Percé itself and the country round about
to be of exceptional interest and beauty. It was the season of
codfishing, and every morning a fleet of a hundred or more stanch little
boats, each with two men, put out into the bay for a day’s fishing.
Their return, late in the afternoon, was an eventful part of the day.
Then the beach was the center of attraction as boat after boat came in,
the men depositing their catch on the sands, then setting up their
tables and “splitting” the cod with surprising dexterity.^{73}
[Illustration: 73. Splitting cod on Percé beach. Percé Rock in the
distance.]
This industry resulted in a singular habit among the Herring Gulls,
which, when first seen, I was at a loss to explain. In a cultivated
hillside bordering the town a flock of about fifty Gulls was observed
eagerly devouring some food, which was apparently abundant.
“Grasshoppers,” I thought, but on investigation the grasshoppers proved
to be entrails, heads, vertebræ, etc., of codfish, which had been strewn
over the fields as fertilizer. The Gulls took wing at my approach, and
perched in long rows on the fences; a curious sight, of which I tried,
but failed, to secure a picture.
It was through these fields, and along the crests of the red sandstone
cliffs northwest of the town, that my walks oftenest led me. A few
Herring Gulls nested on the ledges, and Mr. Kearton might have succeeded
in securing the photographs of them. But I freely confess to an absence
of both taste and talent as a cliffman, and was quite content, under the
circumstances, to view the birds from above. They, however, had no
scruples about approaching me, and uttering a threatening _ka-ka-ka_,
which suggested the voice of a gigantic katydid, circled about my head
or, with an alarming _swish_, swooped down so near me that I invariably
was surprised into “ducking.” Here also were croaking Ravens, who seemed
by no means shy, and on nearly every fence post was a Savanna Sparrow,
by all odds the most abundant land bird observed.
[Illustration: 74. Young Savanna Sparrow.]
Turning from the cliffs, one soon reached the spruce and balsam forests,
with their twittering Juncos, sweet-voiced White-throated Sparrows, Pine
Finches, and numerous Warblers, and following the gently ascending lanes
and pathways leading through the fragrant woods, arrived at the
shrine-crowned summit of Mount St. Anne, twelve hundred feet above the
gulf.
It is a superb view of boundless sea and forest which greets one from
this vantage point—a striking combination of the charms of land and
water. To the south, the Bay Chaleur with its broken coast line; to the
west, a grand panorama of mountain and valley, all densely wooded—the
home of bear, and deer, and caribou; to the north, a foreground of red
cliffs and blue water, and, in the distance, Gaspé; to the east, the
apparently limitless gulf and, seemingly beneath one, Bonaventure
Island, Percé, and the Rock.
It was a view to remember; one, I trust, I may be privileged to behold
again. I longed for time to explore the surrounding woods, but
Bonaventure with its Gannets wielded a stronger fascination, and two
days after our arrival we chartered a cod boat, with its crew, for the
voyage to the Gannet rookeries on the eastern side of Bonaventure,
distant about four miles.
The evident great strength of our craft in proportion to its size made
it seem like a stunted vessel, and her captain and the crew, of one man,
seemed built on the same lines. During the winter they were lumbermen in
the region north of Ottawa, in the summer codfishers. It is doubtful if
they could have selected occupations requiring greater endurance. They
seemed as tough as rawhide, and as rough as pirates.
My good assistant they invariably spoke of as “the woman,” but both
proved true men at heart, and as solicitous for our welfare as though
their own lives of exposure had not trained them to laugh at hardship.
I may seem to give undue attention to the boatmen of a day; but there
are days and days in our lives, and with neither my companion nor myself
will time dim the memory of the day off Bonaventure.
There had been a heavy blow from the east the night before, the tide was
ebbing, and ere we had passed the Rock, and while still under the lee of
Bonaventure, our boat began to toss in a very disquieting manner. As we
rounded the southwest end of Bonaventure we were more exposed to the
action of the waves, but my physical balance was sustained by the
anticipation of seeing “two, tree million of bird,” which the men
declared would soon be visible on the cliffs.
The farther we advanced the less shelter had we from the land, and
finally, passing the northwest end of the island, we were at the mercy
of the full force of a long rolling sea, which made it impossible to
stand, or even sit, without clinging to one’s surroundings. At this
point, I believe, the promise of the most wonderful sight in the bird
world would not have induced me to continue on our course another
minute; but fortunately no promise was required, the sight itself
existed, and under its inspiration I battled with weak nature for the
next half hour with a courage born of enthusiasm and a desire to picture
the wonders of the scene before me.
[Illustration: 75. The Gannet cliffs of Bonaventure.]
On the ledges of the red sandstone cliffs, which rose sheer three
hundred feet above the waves at their base, was row after row of
snow-white Gannets on their nests.^{75} Their number was incredible, and
as we coasted slowly onward, the red walls above us were streaked with
white as far as one could see in either direction, and the hoarse cries
of the birds rose in chorus above the sound of the beating waves. It was
a wild picture, which the majesty of the cliffs and the grandeur of the
sea rendered exceedingly impressive.
How I longed for the internal composure of my boatmen! One moment I
bowed to the waves, the next propped myself against the mast and, held
by the captain, attempted to use the twin-lens camera. Water, cliff, and
sky danced across the ground glass in bewildering succession, as, like a
wing-shot, I squeezed my pneumatic bulb and snapped at the jumping sky
line.
One or two exposures were followed by collapse, and in time by partial
recuperation, which permitted fresh efforts. In the picture presented
the cliff is well shown, but the birds are not so numerous as in others
less successful photographically. And during this time how fared my
assistant? Charity forbids a reply. I will only say that, in response to
a hail from a passing fisherman, our captain shouted, “_Son malade!_”
The supply of 5 × 7 plates exhausted, we came about, and sailing before
the wind quickly reached the leeward side of the island, where, under
the reviving influence of calmer water, we determined to revisit the
Gannets, this time, however, by land.
Disembarking at the fishing village, which is situated on the west side
of Bonaventure, we were soon in the spruce and balsam forests, which
occupy all but the borders of the island, here about a mile and a half
in width. The change from the turmoil and vastness of the sea to the
quiet and seclusion of the forest made the previous hour’s experience
seem distant and unreal. The wind which had roared through our rigging
now breathed peacefully through the tree tops; the heaving, frothy sea
was replaced by stable earth, wondrously carpeted with snow-white cornel
and dainty twin-flowers;^{76} instead of the harsh cries of the Gannets,
we heard the Ave Maria of the White-throated Sparrow. Rarely have the
woods seemed so beautiful. Approaching the eastern cliffs, the trees
became dwarfed and singularly malformed by the winds. Finally they
disappeared altogether, and were succeeded by fields blue with iris.
Never have I seen this plant so abundant. There were acres of flowers
reaching to the very edge of the cliffs, where, with only a change in
the tint, the blue of the iris faded into the blue of the sea.
[Illustration: 76. Cornel or bunchberry.]
We were now nearing the Gannets; desiring to secure a picture of a fully
occupied ledge, I urged due caution, and advanced quietly to the edge of
the cliff. The point was well chosen—almost directly beneath us, and
about halfway down to the sea, there being a broad, rocky shelf so
thickly dotted with nesting Gannets that every bird in the group was
within reach of his immediately surrounding fellows.^{77} It was an
astonishing picture of bird life, but only a fragment of what we had
beheld from the sea. Under the circumstances, however, this fragment
brought more satisfaction than had been before received from the entire
Gannet colony.
The 4 × 5 “Premo” was now erected, care being taken to make no move
which would alarm the birds, and several exposures were made at leisure.
Then changing the lens to an old “Henry Clay,” and attaching several
elastics to the shutter, I prepared to make a flight picture of the
birds as, at the report of my gun, they left their nests. All ready, I
took firm hold of the bulb and gave the word to the captain to fire.
The result may fairly be called a failure. As far as we could determine,
the birds gave no evidence of hearing the shot or the others which
followed, and our best efforts did not succeed in making a single Gannet
leave its nest. Like Darwin’s Hawk and Moseley’s Penguins, these birds
seemed happily ignorant of man and his ways. One could doubtless descend
to their ledge without causing them to leave it.
[Illustration: 77. A ledge of nesting Gannets. About four hundred birds
are shown in this picture.]
It is conceivable that the wearing of Gannets’ heads, or feet, or wings
may some day become fashionable, but unless the demand be urgent and the
price sufficient to tempt men to risk their lives, the Gannets will long
continue to nest on the cliffs of Bonaventure.