Part 12

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.

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.

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}

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.

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.

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.

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.