In anticipation of a busy time, photographically speaking, I’m trying to keep up with posting recent images while offering only reduced witty repartee.
Unfortunately I have no images of the following event: We were in Halifax, as we often are these days, well Mondays and Fridays anyway, and Jim Edsall found a Prothonotary Warbler at Hartlen Point, the famous Hartlen Point that is. Sandra normally shows good judgement, I may be the only lapse she will admit to, but this time caution went out of the window and we went for it. We read up on the site and hoped that we had hit the right buttons on the iPod to keep the relevant web page offline, we hadn’t.
Arriving at the golf course that is part of the Hartlen whole, I called Ronnie and asked how to find Jimmy’s Lane, the locale for our grail. The reply was to go to the sixth tee, but where exactly was that? I broached the subject with a probably octogenerian chap who, it transpired, hailed from Boston, the real one in Lincolnshire, England, and not the one that thinks it is Irish because ten generations ago someone had a wild night drinking Guinness. He was a golfer, no not a rodent that lives in burrows, that would be a Gopher. He knew the tee well and would convey us as fast as his golf cart could carry us. Sandra had a seat, I had to be a pseudo golf bag and cling to the rear, I cling well.
We charged headlong across fairways that other golfers were currently using, while all the time sharing a conversation re our common ancestry. My family on my mothers’ side are from Lincolnshire too. My life flashed past at roughly 11kmph, it was interesting but with hindsight I may have been a tad reckless drinking such large amounts of Watneys Red Barrel one eventful evening in 1977. We arrived at the tee and our driver did a sharp u-turn and headed back to his slightly bemused playing partners.
When you are lost, it does not matter if you know where you are if you don’t know where that is. I had already texted Liz and Angela to ask where to go. Liz responded first as Angela was swimming, she had an idea of where we needed to be but Bell™ in their wisdom, could not provide cell service to that particular tee so the phone rang, (Eastern Whip-poor-will for a tone, really makes people sit up), or it bingly-bingly-beep-beeped with a text but then the signal packed up. Liz did send a map which got through and got us off the course, well we joined a four and played our way back to the Clubhouse after a fashion. Once back in the car, Sandra’s sanity returned and a Mango smoothie was called for.
It turned out that we had walked the fabled lane but the warbler had skipped anyway. It didn’t help that it was around 30°C and early afternoon either. By the time we made the parking lot Angela had dried off and showed up while Liz was already crossing the course to go look for the bird. Next time I go to Hartlen Point, and there will be another visit because it looks like a great place to bird and ode, I will be better prepared. Map, compass, water, snacks, GPS, flare-gun and a crash helmet in case I get another lift!
In the evening Sandra and I did a little ride around CSI. It was a lovely tropical evening with swaying trees and dusky maidens emerging from the water, turns out they were demonstrating oil spill control (in an Impotent (sic) Bird Area – are these people truly stupid?) and missed a bit. As we left Daniel’s Head dusk was falling and, by the roadside fish plant we espied an immature Yellow-crowned Night-heron out in the open.
Earlier in the ride this Merlin proved how confiding they are, unlike those wimpy American Kestrels that spook every time.
After touring The Hawk, a treat that allowed Sandra to enjoy the spectacle of the red chair before it mysteriously disappears – small treats go a long way – we checked out Stumpy Cove where another Yellow-crowned Night-heron danced the seaweed fandango. Sadly it was just out of range for the camera and the light was iffy anyway.
And now to today 8/20/16 and Sandra and I had to go to the big city, for us that is Yarmouth. Now, if the Big Easy is New Orleans then Yarmouth might be the called Bog Coma. Actually I rather like Yarmouth, it might not fizzle but it is cosy and comfortable. After visiting Canadian Tire and noting that the Snowy Owl was back on display in the hunting section again and thereby suggesting that any dumb f&%$ with a gun can shoot one, we visited Cape Forchu where a Northern Waterthrush did what they do best, skulked.
Around J30 of highway 103 lots of Common Nighthawks were busy stocking up for the move south.
Back to the owl business and I reported it to the DNR again and asked that they note that it is not a quarry species, at least then the message might be clearer. Thankfully, most hunters will know that owls are amongst the many species types off limits, so perhaps they too could spread the message to the conscience-lite amongst their number.
Finally – we have had a few complaints from the residents at the corner of New Road and Atwood on The Hawk regarding the use of ‘the call’. If visiting, please give this corner a wide-berth, playback wise – we don’t want to antagonise locals and make birding the area uncomfortable, thanks.
Juv Bonaparte’s Gull that has been around the deep pond at Daniel’s Head recently.