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In the Home of the Birds
From the cockpit of the seaplane I gazed out upon a vast and uninhabited wilderness stretching north and east along the North Shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The pilot, Archdeacon Robert (Bob) Bryan, was taking me back to Harrington Harbour on the Lower North Shore, where he had hired me, years before, to work with the people on a plan to protect their seabirds. We had just passed the tiny community of Kegaska and were coming up on Cape Whittle, the “elbow” of the North Shore and the uninhabited part of this coast known to residents as “the home of the birds.”
The blue-grey landscape—half freshwater, half forested tundra—was streaked with interconnecting lakes and ponds that drain south to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. At the shore, islands, too numerous to be named, formed a mosaic of land and sea. A protected water passage, or rigolet, stretched about a kilometre inside of tall pink sea cliffs stained with white. From our vantage point of 300 metres elevation I could see changes in the surface water caused by the islands as well as the reddish outflow of freshwater from the powerful Étamamiou River, which originates in the interior of the Quebec-Labrador Peninsula. With no roads in either direction for many tens of kilometres, this had to be the most isolated part of the North Shore.
As I looked out to sea, a familiar chain of offshore islands came into view some 20 kilometres in the distance. The Sainte-Marie Islands loom from the sea as an ancient massif of the Canadian Shield. They are the site of one of the most important migratory bird sanctuaries in the entire St. Lawrence system and form part of a network of sanctuaries that are among Canada’s oldest. Five islands comprise the Sainte-Marie group, the longest one known locally as the “main island.” At its highest point, now visible in the afternoon light, stand the distinctive white facades and red roofs of the light station buildings. Chief among them are the picturesque lighthouse and two residential structures that served for generations as dwellings for the lightkeepers and their families.
This archipelago is where some 15 species of seabirds, which spend most of their life at sea, come to land to nest and rear their young. Common Murres, Razorbills (“tinkers”), and Atlantic Puffins breed in the tens of thousands on the cliffs and rocky shorelines, while Common Eiders guard their eggs in nests lined with down and protected by the sheltering bows of stunted spruce and fir known as tuckamore. Along the banks of sheltered ponds darkened brown by peaty soils, Red-throated Loons hide their nests, while in the upland terrain the Herring and Great Black-backed gulls stake their territories and look for prey. Along the storm-washed cliffs of East and Cliff islands, facing towards the Gulf, Black-legged Kittiwakes and Great and Double-crested cormorants build their nests and stain the rocks with their white, nutrient-rich guano.
Situated approximately 13 kilometres from the nearest point of mainland, the Sainte-Marie Islands are exposed to currents, tides, and winds that contribute to tremendous marine productivity in the immediate surrounding waters. This begins at the microscopic level, continues through invertebrates and fishes, and culminates in the great whales. Generations of fishermen and their families have come to these shores to harvest resources from the sea. Often they found shelter at the large cove between Main and Middle islands.
Strategically located in the northeast sector of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the Sainte-Marie light station is a dominant feature for ships travelling through the Strait of Belle Isle. Due to the height of the land, the lighthouse (which is relatively low) stands nearly 46 metres above sea level. Built during the late 19th century, the lighthouse once contained an exquisite three-cornered brass Fresnel lens from France, said to be so powerful that it allowed light from the lamp—fuelled first by kerosene and then powered by electricity since 1962—to be visible at a distance of 32 kilometres in any direction.
The lightkeepers were a main feature of the Sainte-Marie Islands until the mid-1980s, when most of the functions at light stations along the Lower North Shore were gradually automated. But before the advent of electricity in the early 1960s, three lightkeepers were needed to keep 24-hour watch over the light station and its fog alarm. Each day at sundown, they would light the lamp with alcohol and kerosene and then wind the rotating apparatus with a winch and cable that hoisted a 500-pound weight to the top of the lighthouse chamber.
Flying further down the coast, Bob Bryan and I had now passed the Sainte-Marie Islands and were adjacent to the small community of Chevery at the mouth of the Nétagamiou River. My mind wandered to the former lightkeepers and their families who had served from Cape Whittle to Sainte-Marie to Plate (formerly known as Flat) Island, east of La Tabatière, and finally to Greenly Island near Blanc-Sablon. How fortunate I was to have known Gordon Foreman, Len Chislett, Dave Ransom, Harold Jones, Sam Anderson, Rueben Jones, Jim Jones, Jack Thomas, and their families. There were, of course, many others, but these friends had welcomed the staff and me and taught us in the ways of island living. Fiercely proud of their heritage, they believed in the importance of providing the young people of the coast with opportunities to learn about and care for their birds.
The lightkeepers, while mindful of their official duties to mariners, also served an important, unofficial communications role for the people of the coast. I thought back to many nights on the Sainte-Marie Islands, listening to the lightkeepers chatting on the VHF radio. Reuben Jones’s deep, voluble voice coming from Cape Whittle was most distinctive, and I loved hearing it at night. This being the wildest, most remote region of the coast, his nightly call had a reassuring effect on those of us who listened. “St. Mary’s, St. Mary’s, do you read?” he began. People from “away” may wonder if the lightkeepers ever felt lonely, but I can testify that it was they who always assured us that we were never alone.
My attention quickly shifted to the cluster of islands straight ahead, in particular the largest one that was shaped like a tall rounded hill with a radio tower at its summit. Seconds later, we descended in a swooping arc over several outer islands that comprise the Harrington group: Gull Cliff, Fox, Schooner, Entry, Shag, and Garden islands. I could see details of the wooden houses painted green, yellow, brown, and white. Signs of fishing activity were everywhere: tall wharves made of wood with enclosed work sheds, called stages; piles of aqua-coloured fish net and coils of bright yellow rope; a large orange ball to mark the site of a mooring or a net.
On one island there were bed sheets and scatter rugs hanging from a long line that was strung from a house to an old tree pole propped among some rocks. A black dog was barking at the plane. A woman appeared on the bridge to the house. She waved at us with long, swooping arm motions.
Bob turned our seaplane northwest towards Harrington Island and guided it over the harbour. The large shed on the municipal wharf, the stages, and a collection of colourful fishing boats all cast their shadows on the calm waters of the harbour. It was the supper hour. We made a pass over the heart of the community—the small white church, houses linked to each other by boardwalks, and a hospital building whose windows overlooked the harbour.
Turning east towards the ocean, we flew in a large arc, circling round until we faced southwest towards the long ocean reach some distance from the harbour. Bob checked that the wheels were up, then began a straight descent, adjusting for the wind, studying the waves, and keeping the nose of the aircraft at an upturned angle to the sea. A perfect landing. We each cracked open a window while he taxied into the harbour to the small floatplane ramp by Ransom Point. There, Dave Ransom and his young grandson, Keith, were standing on the ramp waiting to greet us. I thought to myself that Dave Ransom was doing what he had done for years as lightkeeper of Sainte-Marie’s—watching and assisting travellers, ensuring their safety, and welcoming them ashore. A warm welcome is as much a part of the coast as the land, sea, and birds.
Kathleen Blanchard
Montréal
Date de modification : 2008/06/03 – Avis importants
