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.
[Illustration: 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}
[Illustration: 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.