Feeding Your Family by Hunting Discussion

     I received a package from North Pole, Alaska today. I opened it up to find two precious pints of home-grown honey with a thank you note enclosed. This package was not from Santa, rather, a fellow named Eric. Here is how it came to me.

     We cross the Yukon River on the ferry at Dawson City early in the morning headed toward Tok, Alaska via The Top of the World Highway in the Yukon and the Taylor Highway once in Alaska. It is mid-September and this highway will soon close due to winter arriving in the high country. Autumn colours are brilliant and there is little traffic on this high mountain road. Once in Alaska, we decide to drive slowly toward Eagle, AK. To see what the country looks like. We are met by several vehicles, obviously hunters and we wonder what they are hunting for. I stop behind a fellow who has just loaded a bull caribou onto his trailer and we chat. “It is caribou hunting season,” he explains. This hunter is from around Anchorage and is here to fill his tag with one of the “Forty Mile” herd of barren ground caribou. He is excited to have made his harvest to provide meat for his family. www.hunt.alaska.gov

Forty Mile Caribou Bull

     I find out later that the Forty Mile caribou herd has about 50,000 members and migrates across this section of the Taylor Highway annually at this time of year. Alaska game managers are allowing 340 bull caribou to be harvested in this region. My guests are not too happy about this hunt as we are all on a photo safari and hoping to get some great shots of caribou. This is the emotional conflict between hunters and environmentalists we are all part of in this modern day.

       Do we agree with hunting for subsistence or trophies or not?

      It really doesn’t matter what we think, this hunt will go on and we will have to work with or around it. We will have to be very careful that we do not cause any conflicts and that we do not get mistaken for a caribou. As we continue our drive I pause often to talk to hunters walking the road or sitting watchfully for game. We try to be respectful and understanding of their hunt.

Distant Caribou Herd

    I spot a herd of about 30 caribou making their way up an open hillside and think we may be able to intercept them from the other side. As we drive up the road we see that a hunter has also spotted this herd and is preparing his stalk on our herd. We find the right place to begin our stalk and with cameras loaded we begin our stalk that I estimate to be about half a mile up hill. We struggle up the hill and start hearing rifle shots when only half way to our expected interception point. We count at least ten shots before all is silent and we are near the ridge line. I spot a hunter, rifle slung on his shoulder so we continue our advance. He has a caribou down and is examining it as we approach. “How many did you get,” I ask with a smile on my face.

     “Only one,” he smiles back sheepishly. “Pretty bad shooting on my part. I was running up this ridge and breathing pretty hard so had a hard time getting this bull. I sure am happy now though, I have meat for my family.” We chat for a while and explain what we are doing. “I am real sorry that I interrupted your chance at getting photos of this bull,” he apologized. “I sure hope my buddies come up and give me a hand to get this caribou down to the road,” he smiles wistfully. “I have my work cut out for me now but it is worth it.”

     We leave the hunter to his work and make our way along the ridge line to where I finally spot what I think is the remains of the herd we were stalking. They are a good mile ahead of us across a valley and making their way up another ridge. We sit down to enjoy the spectacular scenery and watch how effortlessly the caribou make their way through the timber and up the hill. It is a good spot to sit and marvel at the size of this country and how small we are.

Chicken Mascot

     As we continue our drive south toward the small settlement of Chicken we discuss the pros and cons of hunting. My guests are wealthy men from big city China and have never hunted or gathered for their families. They have never had the opportunity or need. Neither had their ancestors. These men have ideals of where they get their meat; from the butcher down the street. They are also noticing the equipment that the hunters are using. 4x4 trucks worth more than $50,000.00 towing enclosed trailers containing ATV’s as well as the guns and miscellaneous gear worth probably in excess of $100,000.00 totally. “If you have that kind of money, you probably don’t have to hunt for your food,” my skeptical guests note. They do have a point there.

     What they don’t understand is the age old quest and tradition of man providing for his family through his hunting skill and matching wits with the game. My guests suggest that, “it does not seem fair to hunt using all this expensive equipment and high powered rifles. They see that the challenges might be equalized if they used a bow and arrows where they would have to get very close to their quarry.”  I have to agree with them on this and try to explain how bow hunting might work with caribou.

     Of course, the gun ownership debate comes up. They do not understand the right or desire to bear arms in the USA or Canada. In China, they are not allowed weapons of any kind. One of my friends find a couple of cartridge cases and asked me if it would be okay to take them. I said to go ahead. One of his friends said, “No, you can’t take it home. They will confiscate it from you.” He goes on to explain, “The authorities may think that he is trying to build a weapon and the empty cartridge case will make it easier for him to do so.”

     We see several caribou and moose being hauled out in the backs of pickup trucks and trailers, antlers proudly mounted prominently on the tops of their loads. Most of the kills we see are well taken care of. We do see some hides and gut piles left beside campsites and in ditches, abandoned to the wild scavengers.

      “Is there no requirement to use these skins?” the photographers query. I explain that the only requirement is that the hunters salvage all edible meat but they do not have to keep the skin. This seems to them to be wasteful, especially to one who had just purchased about $700.00 worth of tanned fox skins to take home for decoration. This very intelligent man does not see the hunting/trapping connection to his purchase of wild fox skins that have been trapped in this wilderness and sold to him through a couple of middlemen. The trapper also used his skills to harvest these fox skins to help provide for his family. He wonders if foxes are raised on a farm as if that would make the fox’s life-sacrifice any different or humane. I do allow that the farmed fox death may be more humane than the wild trapped one but the death of the fox is inevitable in either case.

Ptarmigan Changing Colour

     The next day we return to the Chicken region to try for caribou photos. (Chicken got its name because nobody could spell Ptarmigan, the bird found most commonly in this region). www.chickenalaska.com We find a spot that caribou seemed to wander through and where we had a great spot to sit still and watch from. Hunters drive past continuously and some even stop to visit us. Two of my guests have wandered down the road while another sits patiently for a stag to appear in front of him. I am talking to a pair of hunters about their success. “My wife got her first caribou yesterday,” the husband proudly boasted. “She made a great shot,” he beamed as she sat there modestly trying to hide her pleasure. “We are now trying to get a moose. That would give us all the meat we will need for the year.” He explained. This couple did not have expensive equipment, rather, rode double on an older quad towing a homemade trailer.

Caribou Stampede

      As we chat I am watching the ridge across from us in time to see the most memorable sight of the trip. Down the ridge, through the scattered black spruce timber tumbled a large herd of caribou. Close to a hundred animals poured down the hill, across the small river and up onto our side and out of sight. I rush down to gather my lone guest in hopes of intercepting the herd before they all disappear. He has not seen them yet but thankfully he gathered himself and gear into the car without argument. He is as amazed as I am to this spectacle.  Another car has intercepted the herd as we arrived at the road crossing and the caribou are milling about, somewhat confused. Several more have paused in the timber above us and they soon begin to backtrack. We retreat to our parking place to watch. We get settled just as a hunter comes around the corner and spots the herd about 300 yards up the hill. He stops and quickly gets out with his rifle. I watch as he takes aim over the roof of his older Ford pickup. At his shot, I see a bull go down. The hunter is watchful and sees the caribou struggle back to his feet. He shoots a second time and the solid hit can be heard from our vantage point. This time the bull stays down. I quietly monitor the bull and the hunter as he makes his way up through the timber trying to find where his animal went down. They are very close together and the bull hears the hunter and struggles back to his feet. The hunter hears him and soon the final shot echoes over the valley. I watch as he carefully examines his animal. After about half an hour I watch as he struggles down the hill with the hind quarters slung over his shoulder. That is quite a load he has and I have to admire his strength. I meet him as he splashes across the river with his load. He is very happy and says, “Now I don’t have to tell my wife I am coming home empty handed. We have meat. She’ll be happy.” He proudly exclaims. “My name is Eric and I live at North Pole and work part-time and part-time in the military. We have six kids and my daughter was supposed to be here today but her friend is moving south so she wanted to spend time together. We can sure use this caribou,” he states. I shake his hand and tell him my name and mission.

     “Can you use a hand to get the front half out of the bush?” I ask him. He looks at me like I am crazy but shrugs and happily accepts my offer of help. I can hardly keep up to him as we climb the steep hill through the shin-tangle to his kill. The caribou has a great rack and will make for a nice trophy to remind him of this hunt.

     He has used a reciprocating saw to help with the butchering. “It works great he says and is not too heavy to pack.” He explains that he learned about it while helping out with road-kill collection which he also volunteers at. “It is very easy to use to quarter an animal like a moose to make it easy to load or to butcher. We use it all the time,” he tells me.
     Eric shoulders his rifle and I take the saw as we each grab hold of an antler. Good thing it is downhill but we struggle with the brush and hidden gullies for half an hour before we have the carcass at the river’s edge. Eric goes to get his old quad and we soon have the quad, caribou and gear tied down in his pickup. We shake hands and I offer him a business card as he thanks me profusely for the help. “I’ll send you some of my home raised honey for your help. I surely do appreciate it. You saved me a lot of work and time. I can send honey to Canada,” he tells me.

Barren Ground Caribou Bull with his Herd

     Lately, I have been waffling, riding the fence on the hunting debate. I don’t hunt any more but was raised on wild meat and did hunt for a few years to help feed my own family. I know the thrill and challenges of the hunt and enjoyed it for years. Hunting was a big part of our family culture. Meat hunting slowly evolved into trophy hunting through the natural competition that men get into by comparing antler sizes of their kills. Even the large antlered animals were used as meat but we refused to hunt once the rut was on for the deer and moose we desired. Even though the large antlered trophy game is easier to get when they lose their survival minds to a sweetheart, their meat is tainted and inedible while rutting. I think these experiences with the hunters we met on out Yukon and Alaska tour have reminded me and rekindled my understanding of hunting.

     Trophy hunting for carnivores such as bears and the big cats is something I still do not agree with. I do not see the need to kill a large bear, for instance, just to prove how tough you are. This testosterone fuelled desire to demonstrate to the world that you have total dominance over the world’s great predators is one of the personality traits I once had that I am not very proud of. I know of many other men who also enjoyed these hunts who have now come to understand, after time, the fragility of life and Mother Nature’s requirement for the big predators and in their role as habitat managers. Just because we have moved in and crowded out the wildlife does not give us the right to rid the world of the natural predators. We cannot do as good a job as they can.

Cow Moose with Calf

     Some people still need or like to hunt to help feed their families and I hope that they will be able to continue to enjoy the hunt and pass their skills on to their next generation.

 

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Yukon Tour, Dempster Highway Adventures

     Since I heard of the Dempster Highway many years ago, I wanted to drive it. I have now completed the 1475 kilometer round trip from Dawson City, Yukon www.dawsoncityinfo.com to Inuvik, North West Territory www.inuvik.ca and back to Dawson. My first impression is “overload”. Overloaded on scenery, overloaded on vastness, distances to see and drive, overloaded on mud, snow, dust and potholes in areas, and unbelievably void of animals. There has to be wildlife, but we did not see anything on the two day drive north from Dawson City, Yukon. On our way back we did spot a Musk Ox and one berry-feeding black bear.

Lone Bull Musk Ox

     It is hunting season in this region so most of the wildlife has probably dispersed to safe hiding places, secure from meat and trophy hunters.

     The Dempster is named for Sgt. W.J.D. Dempster who was sent to find the famous  Northwest Mounted Police (NWMP) lost patrol during the winter of 1910-11. Four members of the NWMP became lost and disoriented during their regular patrol about 30 or 40 miles from Aklavik during a bitterly cold winter and all perished. Sgt. Dempster used basically the same route as the highway as he patrolled this vast region of land between Dawson City and the Mackenzie Delta region. This is also the region of one of Canada's most interesting manhunts in 1930 for the Mad Trapper of Rat River.
     The highway construction began in the late 1950s and finished during the 1970s to provide access for oil exploration in this region of the North Country. The unbelievable scenery has since attracted tourists from around the world and it is not difficult to see why.

Dempster Highway

      My guests and I marvel at the silence of the land. There is not much traffic so we often had several miles of country to ourselves to relish and absorb the silence. With the peaceful sense of silence is the odours of purity and frozen cranberries and earthy moss. Taste the berries, tart and juicy cranberries and lignon berries before the bears and birds gather them.

Moss, Lichen and Lignon Berries

Bend down to touch and feel and fondle the earth covering mosses, lichens, bearberries and other widely varied ground cover, growing low to the ground for protection from harsh climate amongst flora neighbours and protective swales. Gnarly and wiry dwarf birch and willow grow just tall enough to gather sunlight but low enough to protect each other from winter’s ravages of wind and blowing ice. These shrubs also grow just tall enough to hide a full grown grizzly bear from view so constant vigilance is required. Do not fear, we make enough noise breaking trail that any bear would have to be deaf and senile not to know we are in the area. www.wildlifeviewing.gov.yk.ca

     Feel the wind, chilly already in early autumn. You need a good windbreaker with fleece and wool under layers as well as a hat and gloves. Take a layer off as the sun appears from behind the clouds, warming the optimistic land and traveller. Lie back on the soft carpet and gaze up at the clouds and the peaks as the sun warms and rejuvenates your body.

     I wonder at the variety of land as we drive north through the Yukon Territory. www.yukoninfo.com    Boreal forest merges into the rugged Tombstone Mountains with broad valleys and rugged peaks. Vast distances of mixed coniferous forest blends with aspen/birch mixed with tamarack and black spruce. Then, there are the miles of strictly lowland meadows and taiga rolling onto forested shoulders of rough mountains, brilliantly coloured reds and yellows, orange, green and purple. I drive through several miles of pure black spruce forest, something I have never seen before. It is beautiful in its own distinctness. There are the miles of seemingly recent forest fire scars that turn out that is almost as old as I am.

Recovering Burn

Land recovers slowly, in human terms anyway, from life generating fire. There are miles with no tree in sight and we begin to think we have finally travelled beyond the treeline only to discover that we have been going uphill for many miles before dropping down into the next drainage system and back into forested valley bottoms with accompanying creeks and rivers.

     We pause at the Arctic Circle signpost for photo ops and scenery pictures. Later we receive a certificate at Inuvik visitor center as “Arctic Circle Chapter Order of Adventurers.”

     We cross the Peel River, a river threatened by mining interests and held off by native and environmental groups struggling to “Protect the Peel.” www.protectpeel.ca Ft. McPherson sits near the banks of this river after crossing northbound by ferry. 70 kilometers north we cross the Mackenzie River at Tsiigehtchic, formerly known as Arctic Red River. This is one of Canada’s longest rivers draining one fifth of the country. The river here is more than one half mile wide and runs deep, swiftly and grey with silt from recent rains.

     This highway is a gravel surfaced road. In places it is hard packed, almost like pavement. In some sections it is cratered with undercarriage punishing potholes, some filled by camouflaged, windshield- splattering muddy water. Dust trails billow behind for a few miles before slowing us down by soupy mud that turns our white rental vehicle into an indecipherable colour. At higher elevations of the mountain passes, we encounter fresh snow, cleared now from the road but the ditches and hillsides are still well blanketed.

Fresh Snow Fall

Soft shoulders, construction and, maintenance zones large trucks and campers slow our progress but for the most part we travel at about 70 to 80 kilometers per hour. Road and ferry reports go to www.dot.gov.nt.ca A couple days ago, the two ferries were sidelined while new approaches were constructed after high water washed the old ones away.

     All around us is the wild beauty of this vast, empty land. Autumn colours dazzle our eyes in brilliant sunlight then are shrouded by valleys filled with fog. Mountains capped by fresh snow blind us before becoming muted by clouds of grey and white. Distant veils of rain, cooled to snow up top promise rainbows if timed just right by sun angles. We don’t need more colour to tease our senses but it is welcome enough to pause for photos. We all marvel at the clear air, especially after the rain and the sun bursts from its cloudy covering.

     Inuvik, itself, is at the end of the road, for now. Road construction will restart during the winter season on a 137 kilometer all-season gravel road that will connect Tuktoyaktuk to the rest of Canada. Currently there is only an ice road crossing this landscape during the winter season. This new road is expected to be completed sometime in 2018.

     Inuvik sits on the shoreline of the massive MacKenzie River delta, a vast region of cultural, wildlife and habitat diversity. This is a full service town with all amenities to provide for a comfortable northern lifestyle. We stayed at the reasonably priced and comfortable Arctic Chalet www.arcticchalet.com who also offered several tours including dogsledding and flightseeing cultural tours to Tuktoyaktuk and Herchel Island. The visitor center provided valuable advice for things to do in the area.

     The Dempster highway is a challenge due to the varied terrain and road conditions that can occur on any remote gravel road. We encountered dust, mud, pot holes, road construction and maintenance, long hills and curves as well as long distances between services. You need a reliable vehicle with good tires and full fuel tank. It is important to drive to the road conditions and slow down when meeting other vehicles. Give large transport trucks room and if they catch up to you, let them pass. If you see something you would like to stop to examine or photograph, pull well off the shoulder on a stretch of road where you can be seen. I fuelled up at Eagle Plains,  www.eagleplainsmotel.com the halfway point of the highway. We also stayed for the night at this hotel, lucky to have reservations for. We did not have reservations for the ride back so drove the full distance from Inuvik to Dawson City in about 12 hours. I would like to thank Driving Force Vehicle Rentals www.drivingforce.com for supplying the right vehicle and equipping our Ford Expedition with the right tires for this road.

     This is a vast land and I have to admire the people who have lived with it for centuries. The native peoples hunted, fished, travelled and thrived all seasons here. They had to contend with weather, terrain, wildlife and of course mosquitoes and horseflies in summer. I also have to admire the first prospectors, trappers, explorers, police and preachers that ventured here. They encountered many challenges that caused severe injury and even death while trying to wrest the natural resources from the land. Today, our modern adventurers, the truck drivers, who deliver vital goods through all weathers, winter and summer, contend with difficult roads and weather conditions relying upon machinery and skill to get them safely to their destination.

Sunshine on Top of the World

     I am sure that all who have ever lived or traversed the landscape have often paused to admire its natural beauty.  In September, when we are travelling here, we are awed by the autumn colours. If we were to see a painting done up with all the colours the artist could splash on his canvas, we would wonder if it could be real or is there some abstract, artistic license taken here. We now know that no exaggeration is require beyond Mother Nature’s natural palette.

Playful Black Bear

 

 

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Yukon Tour 2

     My heart is pounding, my lungs gasping, my legs are burning as I slowly ascend the moderate trail above the Canadian Parks Service visitor center beside the Dempster Highway at Tombstone Park in the Yukon. I was advised by a 20-something, fit looking man that it would take my guests and I about half an hour to reach the top of this trail. What the H... does he know? I was young too, once, and full of hill-climbing vigour and optimism. I still have the optimism.

It Isn't the top of the World, but it is a Significant Victory

     We are a group of four men, two over 60 one just under and one 40 something. I am the tour leader heading towards Inuvik, N.W.T. and beyond. Our common bond is our love of the wild places and wildlife photography.

     We met a few days ago in Whitehorse, Yukon and have a good start on a month long tour of the Yukon Territory, some of British Columbia and ending at Edmonton, Alberta. It is early September and the aspen are brilliantly shrouded in their golden finery and tamarack are beginning their color change. Berry bushes and shrubbery range from brightly crimson to a fine red wine and burgundy colour. It is a great time to visit Yukon; past mosquito and black fly hordes, into bright autumn colours and few tourist clutters.

Moss and Lignon Berries

The further north we go, the less leaves are on the shrubbery. Weather is crisp in the morning, sometimes even frosty but has warmed nicely by early afternoon. There is a fresh dusting of snow above treeline to remind us that it could drop down to highway level any day. We hope for a nice spell of Indian summer.

Begin the Dempster Highway

     This morning, as we begin the Dempster Highway, we decide that a bit of fresh air and exercise will be good for our constitutions after a late night photographing northern lights at Dawson City’s “Midnight Dome.”

Midnight Dome

     We meet two young, Swiss sounding girls coming down the hill. They give us the once-over and cheerfully natter in passing, “15 minutes to go, it is well worth it.” They are being nice to us I’m sure. One half hour later we wheezed and panted to the top.

The Trail Winds Up and Around

     It is pretty good scenery but our biggest victory is that we made it. We made it to the top and back down without having a heart attack or breaking a hip. With a profound sense of accomplishment and relief, we each savour our own victory. As I follow my shadow down the hill I proclaim to it; “We are men, we can still do fun things!”

My Shadow Leads

 

     I bet we enjoyed ourselves more and remember this trail longer than those youngsters who have yet to feel the senses of doubt and fear that we are getting past our prime and will soon be confined to the arm chair in some nursing home with our kids wiping the drool off the corner of our mouths saying. “There, there Dad, you have a good day. I’ll see you next week.”

 

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Yukon Tour 1

     It is great to be alive! Once again, I am privileged to be able to enjoy Mother Nature's great bounty. I left Edmonton and drove to Whitehorse in Yukon Territory over the past two and a half days. Tonight and tomorrow I will meet my guests who will be travelling with me through this spectacularly beautiful land.
     On the 2000 kilometer drive north I enjoy many fantastic sights that make a long journey so enjoyable. Once again I am proving that the destination is not the thing so much as the enjoyment of the journey. I miss many opportunities that time and daylight do not allow more perusal but, I enjoy much.
     Just west of Grande Prairie, Alberta, I come upon a field of sunflowers, something I have never seen before. They are beautiful, especially with the late sun shining through brilliant yellow flowers. It will be very soon that this field will be alive with seed loving birds of all descriptions but for now grasshoppers click and scatter from my footsteps.

Sunflower Field west of Grand Prairie

     As I drive the famous Alaska Highway enjoying the scenery, I think of the hundreds of trips that my Dad made up and down this trail in various trucks. From the dusty, muddy, snow covered and often icy track winding around corners, up and down hills and across narrow bridges in the 1950s through the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and 1000s; six decades of successfully delivering loads of passengers, freight, fuel and mail. I marvel at the changes this highway has gone through in those years. Look at the lodges and garages, once vital, that are now closed. One of them that he knew well was Summit Lake Lodge, at mile 392, where I worked for a summer in 1970.

Summit Lake Lodge

     It was a happening place back then and I am sad to see it now with broken windows, neglected roofs and smelly, crap covered floors. This place was once someone's pride and dreams. In my mind, I can still hear the juke box crying out the hit song by Doug Kershaw, Diggy Diggy Lie, Diggy Diggy Low, played over and over whenever the waitress got a tip. As I paused, I can hear echos of an old Jake Brake barking as a Canadian Freightways truck rumbled around the corner, thundering past the old shop, chased by a cloud of dust around the lower corner and out of sight and soon, sound. The highway is now paved and straightened, not nearly as challenging as it once was. Today, the trucks are also much more powerful, comfortable and capable of pulling urgent loads of freight to the north country and back.
     I drive through a recent burn where I can still smell freshly burned wood and duff. Several miles burned off, renewing the forest landscape. The whole forest I drove through has, at one time or another, been burned off and rejuvenated into diverse habitat for flora and fauna. It is beautiful now, in a harsh way.

Fresh Forest Burn

     I enjoy seeing caribou, moose and bison along the road in many places. It reminds me to slow down and pay attention to the road, especially at night. Wildlife can be everywhere.

     Autumn has arrived, more brilliant as I travel north. Golden aspen, crimson fireweed, muted in places by furry seeds, dark red shrubbery and the many greens of sunny or shaded coniferous forest lining the mountain sides and river valleys.

Autumn Colors Sept. 3/ 2015

     I pause at the Tlingit village of Teslin on the 70 mile long lake of the same name. Pulled up on the sandy shoreline are two native canoes, not carved from a tree, but rather, made of lighter fiberglass. A carved one sits on display in the nearby boat shed.

      I enjoy talking to the native museum receptionist who is trying her best to celebrate and honor the Tlingit way of life but cannot do so because of the lost salmon run. Over fishing has reduced the numbers of salmon that survive the arduous journey up the Yukon River to their lake where they traditionally had plenty of salmon to preserve. Now they must purchase fish from neighbors near Atlin. I find it sad to see a way of life lost with little hope.

Cow Moose Grazing

I look forward to the next three weeks in this magnificent land. It is so much.

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The Churchill Maternity Ward

     For the past two months I have been privileged to work at Churchill, Manitoba. As I wander around this seemingly desolate and chilly place, I notice an amazing array of new life happening. Babies are emerging from their dens, nests, gravel bars and the deep, cold waters. Doting and protective parents are busy sheparding, feeding, protecting and teaching helpless youngsters. These youngsters come in all sizes, shapes and colours. They are tiny to large; some cute, some "cuteugly", the kind that only a mother could love and protect.
     Regardless, all have to mature quickly in preparation for approaching harsh winter. Most will take on the winter challenge by migrating various distances.
     I have been watching an Arctic Tern family brood their egg on the gravel slope of an abandoned railway road beside one of thousands of ponds in the region. I found the nest by walking too near and being viciously attacked by two angry adult terns, then the whole tern neighbourhood turned up to chase me off. My hat protected my head but droplets of blood appeared on my camera trigger-finger. Pretty intense for a few moments for all of us. Over the next couple weeks I watched from a respectful distance to finally witness the hatchling hiding amongst sparse grass dependant upon grey spotted camouflage and very excitable parents to protect it from predators such as wandering humans, dogs, gulls, ravens and foxes.

Arctic Tern with Hungry Baby

   It made it out to a flat rock surrounded by water which lessened the danger by about half. I wonder if it swam or was carried out by a parent?

Arctic Tern with Capelin

     While perched on this barren rock for the next couple weeks, both parents hauled fish after fish to the ever hungry little bird. They coaxed it to eat, they oriented the fish to the correct head-first swallowing position, I watched daily to see any progress knowing that time is running short.

Arctic Tern Feeding Baby

For some time, it did not seem to be advancing but then I saw new feathers emerging rather quickly, flight feathers and adult looking plumage now adorns the baby. Mom and Dad are now trying to teach it to fly and catch its own food. By early September, the tern family will begin the longest migration of all wildlife on earth. They will fly a convoluted route to Antarctica, a distance of some 30,000 kilometers.  I think it will make it. Isn't Mother Nature amazing?

Cuteugly Gull Babies

     This tern family is not alone in the two acre pond. Herring gulls have hatched their fuzzy chicks and they are growing rapidly. Green-winged teal babies are scurrying everywhere, How do they know to dabble rather than dive?

Protective Herring Gull

     Phalaropes, and shorebirds bob rapidly for hidden meaty treasures along the muddy shoreline. Canada Geese herd their families over grassy taiga while Sandhill Cranes peck dropped grain from the railroad track bed. Snow geese have now began to drop onto the mudflats of the inter-tidal zone of the Churchill River estuary along with thousands of Canada geese. There is the worry that geese are eating themselves out of house and home in the north, damaging their own habitat to the point that many will starve to death.
     Tundra swans and their four cygnets have been seen on one of the many ponds near town. Warblers, swallows and sparrows wage a losing battle at mosquito population control.

Tundra Swan Family

     In the river estuary, thousands of Beluga whales have had and are raising their grey coloured babies where the water is warmer than in the open Bay. They are also here to feed upon spawning Capelin, a skinny, sardine sized fish. The baby whale is about five or six feet long and weighs around 150 pounds when born.

Beluga Whales

     Also wandering around the town fringes are polar bears with their youngsters never far from mother's protection. The cubs were born in late November and have already made their first trip out onto the ice. Now they lounge around the beach feeding off mother bears rich milk gleaned from her fat reserves until they can head back to the ice in October or November to catch seals.

Nursing Polar Bear

     The northern regions of Canada are a giant maternity ward. Millions of birds fly here to raise new families annually. If I was a bird, why would I fly all this way when I could raise a family in southern Canada instead? Apparently their success ratio of raising young is much higher in the north due to fewer predators.
     What a fantastic world Mother Nature has designed.
    


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Our Little Lake

Grebe Babies and the Pelican
     A few weeks ago, I noticed a nest made up of mud, sticks, grass and garbage settled by an obviously incubating Red-necked Grebe. Its mate paddled, dove and groomed in the small pond nearby. The nest was partially screened by a clump of over-hanging willows so I had to very cautiously approach along the pond bank. I was concentrating on the body language of the grebe so closely that I almost stepped on a Canada goose nestled onto her own downy nest. After apologizing profusely to the agitated goose, I stepped back and settled down to watch both setters for a few minutes. I was unable to tell if either incubator were male or female by looking. After a while the grebes gingerly changed places, after a raucous discussion, I assume about equalized parenting duties.     

Dinner is Served

     I watched both nests for the next few weeks with little change. One morning the goose was gone leaving only the feather lined nest. I never did see any goose family here. The grebes continued to set until on the 2^nd of June, there was a distinct rustling under the wings of a protective setter. The swimming grebe seemed to be unusually aggressive towards my approach too, so I settled down in my usual spot, but now the stinging nettles had emerged. I noticed too late to prevent a stinging reminder on my exposed hands and wrist. It wasn't too long until a tiny head poked out into the sunshine from beneath protective parent wings. A tiny body with black with white spots and a stubby little beak searched for a meaty meal from a swimming parent. It was only a moment before it was rewarded. Two other similarly dressed chicks also clambered their way into the open in hopes of a meal. The grebe whose job it was to gather and feed the clan got right to work; diving, gathering, swimming and feeding, back and forth while the setter watched calmly. For an hour or more, I watched this family dynamic until, with another vocal discussion about parenting, the adults switched places.
     The grebes ate mainly small fish, minnows about an inch or two long. I was not sure that the little guys could swallow them, but down the hatch they went. I watched for two hours one morning and the fishing parent had very little time to groom itself. Back and forth it swam and dove for fishy meals. I noticed that the new nest keeper was very restless and had a hard time getting comfortable. It stood up and circled, dog-like, trying to find a good position whilst not stepping upon a chick. Every time it stood, the chicks would slide down its back tumbling in complete disarray to the nest. One even got dumped into the water where it naturally took to instantly. After a couple of circles, it managed to scramble back into the nest, then into the comforting warm embrace of parent wings.

Beakful 

     As I sat enjoying the grebe family, an American Pelican paddled along the opposite shoreline, also scooping up beakfuls of tiny fish.

Gottcha

 I’m always reminded of the limerick by Dixon Lanier Merritt when I see these giant white birds:

A wonderful bird is the pelican

His bill will hold more than his belican

He can take in his beak

Enough food for a week

But I’m dammed if I can see

How the hellhecan.

Running Liftoff

     The black tipped wings with orange colored bill and feet seem to highlight the brilliant white plumage of this big bird. They are very graceful swimmers and fliers but seem quite ungainly while walking on the beach. It does take several feet to lift off the water on large powerful wings but once free of the water seem to be quite effortless in flight. I have most often seen pelicans in groups rather than single birds like this one.

     This little lake is a drain-water pond that accepts rain runoff from Sherwood Park. The water level  fluctuates with the weather. It has become very valuable habitat for many creatures residing in the city. I have seen and heard coyotes and red fox as well as several species of birds. The bushes and water provide welcome places for kids and adults of all ages to enjoy a wee bit of nature in the city.

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Wild/Feral Horses Visit

     There they stood, far across a valley in a yonder opening, four, that I could see, beautifully coloured horses, peacefully grazing against a cutblock-scarred back drop. I had just attempted an approach to a larger band of horses with foals at side but they were off and running into tall timber and over yon ridge before I barely got started up the hill.

Wary Horses

I sat down and glassed the countryside with my binoculars and spotted the remote band. Two were white bodied with dark black manes and tails connected to brown heads. One was dark brown and the other was a dark grey, almost black from where I sat.
     I carefully mapped out my route and began the stalk. I wear camoflage-coloured clothing and carry my Nikon camera and a small backpack with a few essentials with which I am sure I can survive a couple of nights out if required in an emergency situation. The valley I have to cross does not look too bad from where I sit, but once on the trail, it becomes steeper and longer. I wonder if it is a bit beyond my physical abilities but forge ahead anyways. The anticipation and excitement of the stalk and hopes of seeing these four at close range encourages me onward. There is also a pole corral over there that I would like to look over to see if it is still being used as a horse trapping pen.
     After crossing the ankle deep, clear flowing stream I make my way up the hill and into a cutblock alive with pine seedlings and fresh growing grass. The block has been replanted, probably four or five years ago. I follow a restored road into the fringe of a second block where I am expecting to see the grazing horses, hopefully before they spot me.
     There they stand, heads down, munching on fresh green grass in a shallow swale dotted with belly-high willows and scattered black spruce. I approach from behind the trees, quietly and slowly, moving only when all four heads were down.

Itch to Scratch

     One of the white horses lays down and rolls in a well used wallow, then gets up and shakes or rather, shivers, like horses do. I think they are going to continue to approach my position but they turn off and head away slowly. After they move up behind another clump of mixed conifer, I hurry forward as best I can and manage to get within about 50 yards, where I snap a few photos. They move along slowly, secure in their senses that all is safe. The wind is in my favour, the sun is at my back so all is right for my stalk. As they continue to graze away from me I continue my approach, slowly and cautiously out into the open, maintaining my distance.

Master Stallion With His Band

      The dark stallion finally notices me. He is visibly shocked that I have been able to get so close. "Where did you come from'" is his sudden expression of alarm and warning to his girls. He runs directly toward me, ears forward, eyes locked long mane and forelocks flying in disarray. Magnificent was all I can say to myself as he prances and circles. He stops while his girls prance off to stand on a ridge about 75 yards away. What a pleasure for me, what a memorable sight to see. We all stand still, analysing each other before he steps off, herding the girls back a few more yards. He always stands to one side but in position of defence if required.

Herd Master

     We jockey back and forth for a couple hours. I sit down on a stump, he edges nearer. I move sideways, hoping for a different background while they watch. After getting several photos, I decide to leave the horses in peace and check out the old corral then make my way back to my vehicle.
     I thank my wild acquaintances and head back, pausing at the old wooden corral. It was no longer in use and in a state of disrepair so I am happy to leave it and begin the long hike back to my vehicle.
     I am about half way up the other side of the valley when I hear the bark of a motorcycle from back where I had come from. I sit down in a bit of a clearing to allow my pounding heart to calm and glass the area the bike is coming from. Suddenly, my band of horses appear along a pipeline, maybe half a mile from where I had left them. The  snorting, barking motorcycle appears heading toward the horses. The band takes off with the bike behind. The bike is not pressing hard, but still hard enough to give the wildies a frightened run. They all disappear from my view but the sound of the bike echos without pause, over the hills for a few more moments.

Dirt Bike Harassment and Old Trap Corral

     The harassment these horses are getting is not fair to them. This past winter, several were rounded up, sanctioned by our Alberta Environment watchdogs. There are many more rumoured instances of horses being harassed by many other users of this wild country as well, and now, I have actually seen it myself. Perhaps I am also an unwelcome guest in their home pasture as evidenced by the fear of the first band that vanished at my approach. They will move off as every vehicle encroaches into their comfort zone, probably because of the actions of a few people when they think nobody is watching.       Perhaps, in my quiet approach, I am helping to train the wild horses to trust all people. They may become too trusting, to their peril. Is my curiosity and wish to publicize the plight endangering the wild horses and threatening their freedom or indeed, their very survival.
     I do intend to try to visit the wildies once in a while and take a few guests out as well. I will continue to document what I see. I will continue to spend time with these beautiful, wild or feral horses, or whatever we want to label them. They are magnificent testament to survival in this resource ravaged environment, marred by massive cut blocks, oil leases and pipelines, gravel pits and cattle grazing leases. I, for one, say, "let them wander."

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