Summer 2011
Machias Seal Island, Where Puffins Pose
By
Bobby R. Harrison
I have always had an affinity for islands, especially those that serve as breeding grounds for birds. Each outcropping amid deep, ominous waters is a unique bastion of life, harboring its own collection of flora and fauna. This singularity is what draws me in. The first island I ever visited to photograph birds was Machias Seal Island, a small, 19-acre outcropping off the coast of Maine. Machias is renowned for hosting one of the southernmost breeding colonies of Atlantic puffins. Critically, it is the only island easily accessible on the eastern seaboard where you can find yourself within a few feet of nesting puffins, murres, auks, and terns.
Since my initial trip in 1983, I have returned more than half a dozen times. Every trip, regardless of the sea conditions or weather—whether it was shrouded in fog, lashed by rain, warmed by bright sunshine, or settled on an ocean surface as calm and reflective as a mirror—has been rich with memories and bountiful rewards. The island itself is unique, as both the United States and Canada claim sovereignty over it. While both countries recognize it as a wildlife refuge, the Canadians keep personnel on the island, and its lighthouse is the only one in the Canadian system still manned. Fortunately, no wars have been fought over ownership, and in reality, the island truly belongs to its long-term inhabitants — the wildlife.
During my visits to Machias Seal Island, I never quite know what to expect. This morning, a heavy fog shrouds the island, but the cacophony of seabird cries tells me I am drawing near. Listening to the blaring dissonance, the outline of the island begins to faintly appear out of the haze, and seabirds start to hurl past the boat. The morning is still young, and like an orange ball, the sun hangs on the horizon, promising a pleasant day.
As the boat anchors, puffins, murres, and auks slip below the watery surface to emerge with beaks filled with fish. Flapping their stubby wings to raise their bodies just out of the water, the seabirds use their webbed feet to run across the surface while gaining speed for liftoff. Although they are awkward fliers, these birds are superb swimmers. Flapping their wings for propulsion, they seem more at home below the water than above. Bird watchers often refer to them as "northern penguins," a fitting analogy, as like the penguins of the Antarctic, these northern seabirds dress in formal costumes of black and white plumes.
Landing on the island is not easy. Climbing over the side of the boat, I steadily eye the bobbing skiff. The boat goes down, the skiff rises, and I step in, taking a seat. This morning there are only light swells, but when we reach the boat ramp, I must still carefully gauge the rise and fall of the surf. Timing is everything. I first toss my gear to a Canadian wildlife officer who meets new arrivals. As the skiff rises with the swell, I step onto the ramp.
After a briefing by the island biologist, I soon find myself in a bird blind strategically placed among the rocky outcroppings. In the depths of the rocks, the seabirds make their burrows, securing their eggs and chicks from marauding gulls and the occasional spring nor'easter. With each visit, I feel as though I am returning home; I am in my element. For an hour or more, I am privileged to observe the private lives of North Atlantic seabirds with a front-row seat to one of nature's grandest spectacles.
Today, I am alone in the blind—a rare privilege. The scene before me is a jumble of rocks, with dozens of puffins and auks languishing in the mist. The rising sun slowly burns the fog away, and the clamor and avian activity increase. Common and bridled murres join the puffins and razorbill auks, and soon, more birds begin to arrive with fish for their young nestled in the burrows below. The most fascinating are the Atlantic puffins. Dressed in their plumed tuxedos and sporting colorful beaks of reds, blues, oranges, and yellows, they earn their nickname, "clown bird." Though their bill seems oversized for a pigeon-sized bird, in all their splendorous color and formality, puffins seem to know just how to pose for the camera. I stay busy shooting frame after frame; I am in birding heaven!
Also nesting here are the magnificent Arctic terns. This sleek, long-distance migrant winters in the Austral spring and summer Antarctic waters before winging north to breed in our Northern-Hemisphere spring. Traveling more than 12,000 miles round trip, it is truly a bird of perpetual springtime.
Sitting alone amid this ever-changing scene of parading seabirds, I am in constant awe of the gifts that God provides. He always puts forth the very best, regardless whether there is someone to see it or not. Today however, I am in the right place at the right time to receive this gift of creative splendor. It seems as though God made this morning just for me, and I cannot help but be drawn to the words of Psalm 37:4, "Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He shall give you the desires of your heart." What more could I ask than this very moment?
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