Team Logs

Gulf of Maine Expedition Nova Scotia Journals
August 16 - September 15, 2002

Pat Hudson's notes from Nova Scotia
Hurricane Gustav

Natalie's notes from Nova Scotia
The Acadians of Nova Scotia
A Bountiful Catch

Dan's notes from Nova Scotia
Entering Nova Scotia
Huntington Point, NS, Arrival
Nova Scotia's Fundy Coast

Sue's notes from Nova Scotia
The Hardest Thing
Fog Magic
Generous Offerings
Two Sides to any Story
SAFE . . . OR NOT?
Thank You, Nova Scotia

Rich's notes from Nova Scotia
Landscape Ecology and Birds
Fundy Fog
Marine Mammals of the Gulf

Pat Hudson's notes from Nova Scotia

Note: As part of our educational mission, we have been joined by other paddlers for one- and two-week intervals. Pat Hudson, of Barrington, Nova Scotia, is the organizer of our Clark’s Harbour event on September 28th, the end of our five-month journey. Pat is also a kayaker and joined us from Meteghan River to Yarmouth. Although it should have been a week of paddling, we were caught by Hurricane Gustav. Pat clearly writes about her experience the night of Wednesday, September 11th.

Hurricane Gustav

Where were you camping during Hurricane Gustav? Myself, I was a guest paddler with the Gulf of Maine Expedition for the week of September 8th-14th.

On Tuesday mid afternoon we glided into Mavillette Beach, all of us making a graceful, dry landing, some a little more graceful than others, but hey... graceful was never one of my strong points! A sunny dry afternoon, we were graciously given permission to pitch tents near the parking lot overlooking the picturesque Mavillette Beach.

Wednesday a.m. our plans were to paddle to Bartlett's Beach then on to Yarmouth for Saturday Afternoon. After getting the 6:00 a.m. forecast it was decided we should stay put for the day as the surf was too rough to start out. Mid morning it began to rain and get windy as predicted, a tropical storm is going to pass by (through) us in the next 24 hours. I invited ourselves to Donna and Bob Carters home for a traditional maritime salt fish and pork scrap dinner. After all us filling up on a great meal and listening to the weather report, giving hurricane winds up to 70 knots and heavy rain, do you think we had sense enough to stay in out of the rain? I don't think so!

So off to the camp grounds we went, and immediately crawled in for the night. A couple of hours later, I awake to pounding surf and gusts of wind bowing my tent in like the supports were wet rawhide. After laying there for many hours holding the tent up with my hands and realizing everything around me was soaking wet and daylight long off, I grabbed my flashlight and wrapped myself in a dripping sleeping bag. I headed for the nearest tent for refuge which happened to be Donna and Don's tent. They took pity on my dilemna and soon wrapped me in a fleece blanket and sleeping bag.

There I contently lay working myself through the crack of their therma-rest, only to awake with a stream of rainwater running the full length of the tent. Thanks gang, you're Great!

Natalie's notes from Nova Scotia

The Acadians of Nova Scotia

On August 28th, as we paddled along the upper reaches of Annapolis Basin heading towards Annapolis Royal, we skirted along several miles of dykes. At high tide, the dykes were 12-foot tall walls made of huge basalt boulders. Every half mile or so, the wall turned back for a few dozen feet and a strange looking round concrete structure sat about four off the water. Behind the dykes were vast expanses of marshland. I started putting the clues together and thought we must be paddling along what was once rich Acadian farmland.

The dykes, I would later learn, have been rebuilt multiple times in the last 250 years and the round concrete structures are the modern day version of the Acadian farmers engineering genius.

The Acadians were among the original French settlers to the Bay of Fundy shores. Their ingenuity in learning to farm along the vast salt marshes of the Bay was formidable and dates as far back as 1640. Recognizing that the marshlands of the Bay of Fundy were incredibly fertile, they devised a system of farming based on controlling the flow of fresh- and salt-water and transforming salt marshes into tillable fields.

The system was simple: they built dykes, or long walls, running parallel to the sea to keep the seawater out. Back then, the dykes were built from wood rather than rock. Then they built a series of sluiceways at strategic intervals along the dyke to let the fresh water drain out of the marsh. Within the sluiceway was a flap that let fresh water out while preventing salt water from entering. This mechanism was known as the aboiteau and was the original technology behind the round concrete structure I saw along the modern rock dykes. Construction of these systems was a community affair as all Acadians within any region relied on the reclaimed marsh for subsistence.

English settlers often chastised the Acadians as lazy peasants because they were not busy clearing forest land and building up fields on harsh soil. The Acadian system of farming was, instead, quite sophisticated and likely more fruitful, too. In a few years time, once the freshwater had sufficiently drained out the salt, the field became ready for seeding and planting. Wheat and other crops were grown in these reclaimed marshlands, enough to feed armies of soldiers, as well as communities of Acadians.

Acadians were a peaceful people. They resisted being absorbed into any side of the French and English conflicts, preferring instead to be left alone to farm and live along the shores of L’Acadie.

However, the English settlers and army feared the Acadians were a threat to their sovereignty in the region and they also envied their rich farmlands. So great was the English fear and animosity towards the Acadians that it sparked one of the most traumatic periods of expulsion in the Gulf of Maine region. In 1755, “le Grand Derangement” began. This was a period of three years when thousands of Acadians were rounded up against their will, shepherded into boats, and sent down to the English colonies in what is not the United States. The Acadians were dispersed among the colonies who were none too pleased to inherit the refugees.

Within a few years time the French and English conflicts settled enough to allow those Acadians who wished to return home. Unfortunately, enough years had passed that their lands and homes where now settled by English families. The Acadians often found themselves homeless in their own homeland. Many stayed in the American colonies (some settled French Louisiana and came to be known as the Cajuns – a variant of Acadian), some moved to other regions of Canada, and some settled in new, less fertile lands within Nova Scotia.

Pubnico is one of those places. Pubnico lies in Lobster Bay in southwest Nova Scotia. I visited Pubnico in 1996 when I spent a summer paddling around most of Nova Scotia. I was delighted to find I could put my native French to good use in talking with the fishermen and local folks. Despite the atrocities of centuries past, 10% of the Nova Scotian population is of French origin, and at least four% still speak French.

For the rest of our journey around the Gulf of Maine we will be skirting along the French shore and continue to explore the history of the Acadians. Perhaps it is my own French-speaking heritage that draws me to these people and their history. Perhaps it is simply compassion.

A Bountiful Catch

Sandy Cove, on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia, is the only sand beach for 30 miles around. It is a gorgeous spot with a fish weir on the western edge and a wharf on the east. As we paddled toward Sandy Cove, a man ran towards the shore, enthusiastically waving us in. It was Peter Wandle who owns the home at the top of the wharf telling us our timing was perfect: Stanley Stanton was about to seine the weir’s catch and he encourages tourists and other spectators to watch. It was looking to be a big one because two boats instead of one came from New Brunswick to buy the fish. Peter was right to be excited. Watching the weir fish being hauled was one of the most amazing things I had seen so far on this journey . . . certainly a trip highlight.

We paddled over towards the weir and met Stanley and his crew of fine men. They generously invited us right into the weir, certain we could watch without getting in the way. My excitement was beginning to grow! We had been paddling by many inactive weirs all along the coast of New Brunswick (less in Nova Scotia) and only a few active ones. I had a picture in my head how they haul the catch in this traditional, low-tech fishery, and now, here was an opportunity to watch it up close.

We felt fortunate to happen upon Stanley Stanton who took lots of valuable time explaining how things work; and also what does not work anymore. Stanley wants the outside world to understand his fishery before it dies out. We have heard there used to be anywhere between 12 and 30 weirs on Digby Neck, Stanley’s is the last one operating. He figures he has about five to six years of fishing before the large seiners catch all the stock. He tells his 15-year-old son not to count on being a fishermen, even though it is all their family’s men have known for generations. Like many inshore fishermen I have met, Stanley is passionate about his work, frustrated about the declining stocks, and certain the large high-tech offshore vessels are to blame. It is a complex issue with a countless opinions, but today was about learning an old traditional fishery, not talking politics.

The shape of the weir is the secret to successful catches. A line of wooden posts (six- to 12-inch- diameter trees cut on nearby land) is driven deep into the ground four to six feet apart. The line starts near the high tide line and runs a few hundred feet towards the mouth of the cove. There, the line of posts runs in the shape of a huge rounded heart, heading first out towards the open water to form one half of the heart, then rounding back into the cove for the second. Where the two halves connect at the top of the heart, a 30 foot wide space is left open. This is where the boats enter and exit the weir. It is also where the fish enter the weir.

To make a weir active, a net is hung from one post to the next along the line of posts and down to the ground under water. When schools of herring are running at high tide, they often tend to follow the shoreline. When they run into the net, they follow it into the weir and get stuck. Few of them manage to find the route back out because once in the net the school tends to keep circling and circling rather than poking to find an exit. A few high tides and the weir should be ready to harvest. Stanley says back when there were still lots of big cod, he would invite his friends and neighbors to drop a line in the weir to catch the big fish – his license did not give him permission to catch them. Once the cod where removed, then he would begin the process of seining in the catch.

Four boats worked this catch. Two were big hold boats, or “carriers”, from St. Andrews, New Brunswick, which would carry the catch across the Bay of Fundy to Black’s Harbor, New Brunswick, where it would be sold to a cannery, canned, and sold as sardines. Stanley’s punt was a 20-foot open boat he and his crew of five (including his son) used as a working platform. Two women were also on board as guests, one the wife of one of the men and the other a friend of Stanley’s family. The final boat was an 10-foot polyethylene dory with an outboard motor.

The punt entered the weir first, heading to the inner-most end of the weir, directly across from the entrance. One of the men attached the beginning of the seine net to a large post. Then, using a gaff hook – not the motor – to move the punt, the men pulled the boat forward from one post to the next. Moving along the weir they continually dropped the seine net down into the water. The net was long enough to reach the bottom, the top was equipped with floats. One line was attached between seine net and weir post about halfway up the side of the weir to keep the net in place. Probably some fish were lost to the space outside the seine net, but they were kept in the weir by the weir net. They would be caught on the next round.

When they reached the top of the heart-shaped net, by the entrance to the weir, another line was attached to a post. Then, Stanley’s brother Victor hopped into the dory, which they had been dragging behind the punt until now, and motored back to the end of the weir where the seine was attached to the first post. Here he attached a final line to bring the whole net together in a circle. This net only covered half of the weir but the second haul would cover the whole weir. The harvest was too great to catch all the fish in the first shot.

At this point, the men on the punt began to haul in a line from below the water surface. The punt was equipped with a long 20-foot roller-winch system that ran along the top of the port (left) gunnel. They wrapped the line around the tube a few times and set the winch to automatically start rotating to help draw in the line – when the put pressure on the line, the winch draws it up, when they ease off, the winch spins within the bunched net. Soon, I noticed that a clump of cinched-down netting came up. This was the bottom of the net, closed together so the fish could not get out from below.

By now, one of the two big carriers had centered itself lengthwise in the middle of the weir’s opening. With the help of Stanley’s son zipping around in the dory, the carrier was affixed in place by a few lines to the weir poles.

The two men on the carrier tossed a line to the men on the punt. Pulling on that line, the punt closed the gap in the space between the two boats. All the while they used the roller winch to haul more and more netting onto the punt. The net still left in the water began to balloon under the pressure of the captured fish. I paddled closer and saw a mass of silver still swimming around on the side of the net which kept getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

Finally, when the two boats were only twelve or so feet apart, a huge hose, ten inches in diameter, was lowered into the mass of fish. The vacuuming process began. Fish were vacuumed up the hose to the carrier. The net was continually pulled in as fish were vacuumed out and into the carrier. The ballooned net got smaller. Up in the larger boat, a plastic-windowed chamber had water flushing continually through, and on the other end there was an opening where fish poured out directly into the carrier’s hold for about 30 minutes as the gap between the two boats closed in.

Meanwhile, the water in the weir shimmered like a sequined dress. A thick, shiny dust exploded within and around the net as more and more fish were rubbed against each other and against the net. Scales floated everywhere and fish who escaped from the net floated or swam listlessly throughout the surface of the sea. I reached down and caught one with my bare hands.

Stanley kept shouting over bits and pieces of information about what they were doing, trying to project his voice over the loud hum of the vacuum hose. The first carrier was finally full – 46 hogsheads (a hogshead is the historic unit of measurement for this fishery; one hogshead is 1,200 pounds). They could have taken on a bit more but the first seine net was now empty. After all the lines where untied the first carrier backed out of the weir entrance and was replaced the second, bigger carrier.

The second seine was around the entire perimeter of the weir. They used the same process – gaff-hooking their way down the posts, dropping the seine net, hauling the purse together, drawing the net onto the punt, and vacuuming the catch into the hold of the big boat (96 hogsheads was eventually hauled in).

One of the workers chatted with us about the whole job and asked questions about our kayaks. Well into the conversation, another worker yelled at the first to remember his task, and a third man chuckled, “It is always like this when there is a lady in the weir!” There was lots of laughter and banter all around. The ribbing amongst the men and with us was healthy and good-natured. The atmosphere was quite high. There was excitement in the air. It was a good catch.

Dan's notes from Nova Scotia

Entering Nova Scotia

We arrived in Alma, New Brunswick, near noon at high tide on August 9th. This allowed us to unload our gear inside the harbour at the doorstep to FreshAir Adventures where we were camping for our stay, courtesy of the generous owners, Allen Moore and Joe Miller, and their staff. Our plan was to give our presentation at Fundy National Park on the 10th and leave on the 11th or 12th to paddle across the bay to Chignecto Point.

The first half of the plan went smoothly, unfortunately, the second half did not. The weather and tides were against us. Due to the tides draining the harbour, we could only load and paddle our boats out of the harbour for two hours either side of high tide. We could have done this by starting at daybreak. However, we also hit a period of morning fog followed by high afternoon winds. By August 12th it became evident that we were going to have difficulty getting across to Huntington Point, near Hall’s Harbour, on mainland of Nova Scotia by the 16th for a reception scheduled for us unless we took some action.

On the afternoon of the 12th we contacted Martin Collins, lobster fisherman and owner of the boat Fundy Mist, who agreed to take us across Chignecto Bay to Refugee Cove the next day. However, one does not just jump on a boat and leave on demand from the harbour at Alma. The trip had to be planned so we would leave at two in the afternoon just as the lobster boat would float, cross the bay, round Chignecto Point, unload our gear and boats, and give Martin enough time to get back to the harbour while there was still enough water in it to float his boat.

We left Alma at two with patchy fog, wind, and choppy seas. As we got out into the bay the winds lessened and the seas were less disturbed. We had a one-hour crossing followed by a cruise down the beautiful coast of the Chignecto Provincial Park past Seal Cove and the Three Sisters rocks. We rounded Chignecto Point in some turbulent waters then settled in to a quiet Refugee Cove to unload.

Refugee Cove is an enchanting place. Framed by steep cliffs at the sea, a narrow valley reaches back into the hills. A broad shingle beach provides ample place for camping with views out to sea and in to land. A little exploration reveals relics of past use of the area as a lumbering center. We found old anchor moorings, dams, and a kiln, all within just a few minutes of walking around. As the tide runs out, a steep beach and towering rock forms are revealed. Our one night stay has made us determined to return to this coast for more exploration.

Huntington Point, NS, Arrival

On August 14th we were pleased to wake up to calm seas, little breeze, and only slightly foggy conditions. It was a perfect day for a 16-mile crossing of the bay. Our only concern was for currents we might face with the running tides.

The first leg of the journey was from Refugee Cove to Advocate Harbour. This section is along the coast and with calm seas was a leisurely and scenic paddle. We had planned to arrive at the Advocate Harbour beach about half an hour before low tide in order to make an assessment of the rest of the crossing. We timed it perfectly.

The weather and seas remained stable, so we decided to do the remaining nine miles of crossing past Cape D'Or to Huntington Point. We passed the Cape just as the tide was turning, so were crossing with the tidal current pushing us up the bay.

The crossing was a good lesson in navigation and use of the global positioning system (GPS). Sitting still and drifting on the current, our GPS showed we were traveling at 2 knots. Of course, this was 2 knots up the bay, not toward our destination. Because of the tidal flow, we had to set the boats at an angle to the current and ferry to make a direct line for our landing. The offset was as much as 20 degrees for much of the crossing as the tide was moving across our path at 180 feet per minute. However, after 4 hours and 9 miles of paddling, we made a perfect connection with Huntington Point.

When we reached the stony "beach" at Huntington Point, we were greeted by Clara and Ray Jefferson, who own a cottage by the shore. By the time we unloaded our gear and boats on their lawn, they held a shorefront welcome party with cold lemonade, tea, and cookies. A number of friends and neighbours dropped by to welcome us and talk. The pleasant and generous folks of the Huntington Point community made us feel very welcome to Nova Scotia.

By late afternoon we were well settled in the Blue Cottage, one of the quaint concrete structures built by Charles Macdonald during 1930s. Our stay here promises to be a memorable one as we take a few days off from paddling to explore the area and meet with local people.

Nova Scotia's Fundy Coast

To appreciate the special quality of Nova Scotia's Fundy Coast I must first mention New Brunswick's coast. That coast is remembered as tall cliffs broken at intervals by big river valleys with large shingle beaches at the sea. While there were signs of human use there was little development and little contact with people. Concentrations of population were far inland.

Our first exposure to Nova Scotia's coast found us dropped by fishing boat at Refugee Cove in the wilderness of Cape Chignecto Provincial Park. This site had much the same feeling as the New Brunswick side. For me, this campsite experience is the most memorable of the trip so far. I felt a great attachment to its quiet, remote landscape and its history.

However, once we left Cape Chignecto, I found the Nova Scotia coast to be in great contrast to the New Brunswick experience. The upper part of the coast has the seaside cliffs of North Mountain, at their most pronounced at the magnificent Cape Split. As we paddled down the coast toward Digby the coastline became more gradual as it changed from cliff to lava flow like edge.

Where the New Brunswick coast is a geological adventure, the Nova Scotia coast is a cultural adventure. What I found special was paddling along a coast punctuated by a series of small ports and towns, each with its own particular character.

The list bears mention – Baxter's Harbour, Halls Harbour, Huntington Point, Canada Creek, Harbourville, Morden, Margaretsville, Port George, Port Lorne, Hampton Beach, Phinneys Cove, Young's Cove, Parkers Cove, Delaps Cove. Here we find a string of settlement “beads” connected by the string of mostly natural and undisturbed coastal edge.

Just inland from this edge, within minutes drive across North Mountain, is the agricultural and developed Annapolis Valley. My fear is that the "beaded" character of the coast will be lost over the next 50 years, that coastal edge building will gradually meld the beads into one long chain of development, that the special character and sense of place of the little coves and harbours will be lost.

To me, the economic and social vitality of these community beads is best served by maintaining and emphasizing their concentration and uniqueness rather than spreading and homogenizing them. It is the contrast of the towns within the natural coastal setting that gives this Nova Scotia coast its distinctive character, a character that makes for a wonderful place to live and an interesting place to visit.

Sue's notes from New Brunswick

The Hardest Thing

I am frequently asked what the hardest part of this journey is. I now have an answer to that question . . . DEPARTING.

Each day of our journey has two parts, the adventure of the paddle and the adventure of finding our night's accommodation.

As we move up the Bay of Fundy, this process has become easier. There is much greater public access and many beaches from which to choose than in the southern portion of the Gulf of Maine. Our schedule is set, so we know when we have to be at certain towns. What we don't quite know is what the reception will be like and who will be there when we land. This fills us with anticipation.

Our latest reception, at Hall's Harbour, Nova Scotia, consisted of cold lemonade and cookies on a red bench in front of Raymond and Clara Jefferson’ s cottage. Aunt Ina, at 92 years old, was the perfect hostess. The next day consisted of a more formal reception organized by the friends of the Charles Macdonald Concrete House Museum. An engraved kayak paddle was presented to us by the Hon. David Morse, Minister, Nova Scotia Department of Environment and Labour.

So the landing is great fun. We meet new folks, get to shower and “explode” all of our gear onto someone's lawn or living room floor, eat, drink, and chit-chat.

Over the next day or so, via presentations, tours around town, shared meals (and sometimes a beer or two), plus lengthy discussions of local environmental issues, friendships start to develop. You know if you stay much longer, you will be immersing yourself into their world, joining in to fight their battles and developing those bonds of friendship.

But . . . just as you are at this point . . . you have to move on. The schedule demands that you be in another town on another day with another group of folks anticipating your arrival. So you reverse the process of a few days ago and start collecting all your gear, condensing it so it will again fit into that small boat, and wrench yourself away. It is hard. I always want to stay longer.

The positive side of this struggle is that doors have been opened which will stay open. Connections are being made which will carry us far into the future. It is just hard at the moment.

Fog Magic

Fog Magic is a wonderful childrens book set in Blue Cove (Whites Cove in real life), Nova Scotia, on Digby Neck. Greta, the young heroine, finds a doorway through time. This doorway allows her to visit the close-knit community of Blue Cove which existed 100 years earlier. The fog provides the magical portal.

Today, I am feeling a little like Greta. We have just come from a visit to the real Whites Cove where we, along with 20 community members, picnicked on the very hill mentioned in the book. Our portal though time was provided by our kayaks.

But I am a little ahead of myself. Let me back up to Annapolis Royal, where we met with Mark Dittrick, a local environmental activist and Sierra Club representative. Mark's current concern is a basalt quarry which is being proposed for Digby Neck which could have a great environmental impact on the land and the surrounding waters. The location of the quarry? Whites Cove, Greta's Blue Cove in the book.

Upon learning of our planned route along the outside of Digby Neck, and knowing our mission was to identify issues of concern to the Gulf, Mark asked if we would like to stop for a tour of the proposed quarry site. We agreed.

What met us as we landed was the church picnic scene right out of Chapter 10 in Fog Magic. Kids were running over the rocks looking for seals. The ladies had the sandwiches cut and quartered. The tea and coffee was hot and plentiful. The muffins were warm and the seafood chowder was steaming. It was a scene as old as the hills . . . a community of caring people brought together for a picnic and a cause. They were all there to make sure we understood what was at risk in their community and to make sure we understood the enormity of their concern. The men had created "Stop the Quarry” signs and had erected them all over the base of the hill.

The group stayed for several hours eating, chatting, and, for our part, learning: learning of their passion for the place they call home, learning about the threat they were facing, and learning of their concerted efforts to combat this threat.

Just as in the book, the time with this magical community was limited. However, in a twist from the book, it was the community folks who left us to go back to Little River. We got to stay and share the cove with the memories of the people who inhabited homes above those old cellar holes long, long ago. And, as if on cue, we woke up the next morning to a very thick fog . . . the first we have had since arriving in Nova Scotia.

There are no coincidences.

Generous Offerings

A fresh apple pie and a dozen butter cookies turned up at our camp site this morning. This is particularly remarkable when I tell you we are camped on a cobble beach on the north side of St. Mary's Bay, totally alone except for the hum of a boat tending the aquaculture pens directly in front of us.

The gifts were from Lew and his wife Beatrice, who turned up on their ATV last night as we were cooking dinner. Both in their 70s and only married for three years, they drive the beach every day for their own entertainment.

We learned a lot about Lew's history as a local fisherman, how the Groundhog Day Storm wiped him out, and how there used to be a herring weir just to the right of our camp site.

What continues to amaze me is how eager folks are to help us. Last night, after meeting us, Beatrice went home and baked an apple pie, to be delivered by ATV on Lew’s morning rounds. This is just the latest of a long string of generous offerings, which include places to stay, invitations to tea, places to leave our van, and offers to drive us to town for supplies.

A gentleman I was chatting with at a Rippleffect – Rippleffect is our fiscal sponsor – event in Portland, Maine, summed it up well. It is part of human nature to want to help each other. With the church playing a smaller role in many peoples lives, a lot of opportunities to help through that channel are missing. So people are looking for other ways to help. When they see something interesting happening, backed by good intent, they are delighted to contribute. We have been the lucky benefactors of many peoples wish to help.

I recently spoke with Don Rice at the Annapolis Royal farmers market. Don is an environmentalist and extraordinary potter from Bear River, Nova Scotia, whom I admire greatly. He gave us some feedback that our paddle is already having a positive effect by causing conversations to happen that would not have happened without us. Our neutral political stance makes it easier for people in different political camps to talk about us and the issues we are observing.

So as we approach the end of the paddling portion of our journey, it is rewarding to hear that our main objective, raising awareness about the Gulf (or the Greater Bay of Fundy as some Noa Scotian locals call it) is already being met.

Thanks, Beatrice, for the pie. It was greatly appreciated at dinner. And thanks, Don, for the kind words of support. They meant a lot.

Two Sides to any Story

The large pile of bloody flesh on shore caught my attention. Even with binoculars, I could not tell exactly what I was looking at. So we headed to shore to investigate. As we climbed the cobble beach, the figures came into focus. The first two bodies were of young seals, their eyes open, their heads covered in blood. The third body, the one I had spotted from my kayak, was much larger, much further decomposed, and still had a large rope around its torso.

Darrin Kelly, a field naturalist, was with us for this leg of the trip. He picked up a piece of driftwood and poked their skulls. There was no resistance. The skulls had been crushed. We were looking at the remains of three seals who had been clubbed to death. I had not expected to see this sight in Nova Scotia.

A few miles earlier we had passed an active fishing weir. Was there a connection here? Had the seals been unwelcome visitors at the weir and been dealt with?

I took pictures of those seals, the most unpleasant pictures I could compose, thinking I would use them in some anti-seal-killing campaign down the line. Who could do that to such cute mammals? I spent many days thinking about those unfortunate animals and the cruel way in which they had met their end.

A few weeks later we paddled into Sandy Cove on Digby Neck. As luck would have it, the herring weir was about to be seined . . . that is, the boats were about to haul in the catch. We were invited to go into the weir with the seiner, watch, and take pictures. A rare opportunity.

So we spent the next few hours watching the process. We watched the net being closed, the herring being drawn in to a smaller and smaller space, and finally watched their sparkling bodies shimmer in the water as the net tightened. Suddenly you could see the herring at the surface, thousands of them.

I was particularly interested in watching the men aboard the smaller boat. Six men, including a father and his fifteen year-old son were all working together to collect the catch, all seasoned veterans. They were a smooth team, all knowing their part of the operation, earning a part of their years wage from the sea. By the end they had collected two boat-loads which were shipped off to Black's Harbour, New Brunswick, with a truck full of bait left over for the upcoming lobster season. A good day's work.

We spent quite a bit of time with those men, were invited on board the boat for a tour, and were given more than enough fish for a wonderful meal. We learned that about 40% of the weir owner's annual income is produced by this fishery alone.

As we paddled out of Sandy Cove the next morning, we passed close to the weir. There, inside, having a fine dining moment, was a very large seal. Suddenly, in a moment, I was seeing the other side of the story. I was seeing the seal as a predator, a threat to the income of hard working fishermen. Putting names and faces on the fishermen and getting to know a little of their world was changing the filter through which I was viewing the world.

What would I do with that seal if I relied on the herring for my livelihood? Would I kill it? If so, how? I learned that seals do not "use the front door", they dig under the nets to gain entry. So stopping them is not feasible. But knowing my sensitivity to killing any living thing, I would have a hard decision to make. I absolutely know I would not club it, but could I shoot it? Or would I be happy sharing my catch with it? With one, maybe, but how about with more? As the seal population grows in the Bay, the problem is not going to go away.

So I sit here typing, glad I do not have to make that decision, and being less eager to denounce the men who do. I will return from this trip a little wiser.

SAFE . . . OR NOT?

At the beginning of the trip, we confidently packed a lot of high-tech safety equipment. We felt safe — confident that we were well equipped. We have learned, however, over the course of the trip, that each piece of equipment has its limits and there is no replacement for good, old-fashioned, low-tech knowledge.

VHF RADIO:
Yesterday, our group split up for the day. Nat and Rich went to Digby, Nova Scotia; Megan, Darren, Dan, and I paddled up Bear River to visit the Solar Aquatics Wastewater Treatment Facility (a.k.a. Living Machine – visit www.annapoliscounty.ca for more info on this method of treating human waste) in the town of Bear River. Since these destinations are about 10 miles apart, we agreed to check in with each other at 4 p.m. on our VHF radios to report on our location and expected arrival time back at camp. In a worse-case scenario, if we had not made contact by 7 p.m. we would start worrying and by 8 p.m. we would take some action. The plan seemed simple enough. It never dawned on us that we would be unable to connect.

At 4 p.m. we, the Bear River group, started calling. (Later, we learned that Nat and Rich were also trying to call us.) Nothing. We left the radio on, turned to channel 16, to ensure not missing a connection. We heard Canadian Coast Guard comments and voices from other larger boats, both using high-powered radios, but heard nothing from the rest of our group. This pattern continued all the way down the river, a time span of about 1½ hours. It was only when we exited the mouth of the river and could actually see the island on which we agreed to camp, that we got a response. “I read you loud and clear,” replied Natalie. Of course, by that time, we could almost paddle over and talk with her.

Lesson: The low-powered, hand-held VHF radios kayakers use are great “line of sight” communication devices. On the open water, for hailing each other or larger ships, they work extremely well. If hills are involved, reliability drops. It is important to recognize the limits of VHF radios.

RADAR REFLECTORS:
Each of our kayaks were equipped with a radar reflector. If you look at pictures of us, it is the large round thing on the stern of each boat. At the beginning of the trip, these were metal foil-covered cardboard. These cardboard reflectors lasted for about a month before starting to disintegrate due to exposure to the elements. We replaced them with all-metal ones which are doing much better in resisting wear.

However, on the lobster boat ride from Alma, New Brunswick, to Cape Chignecto, Nova Scotia, we were able to have a look at a radar screen from the viewpoint of a fisherman. Wow! What an education. There are a lot of little marks on that small screen. Dan and I started to question how much of an aid these devices were to our visibility. These folks are out there working and hauling traps. We would be very easy to miss.

Once underway, the nose of the boat rises. It was very difficult to see over the nose of the boat. Kayaks immediately in front of the boat would be very hard to see.

Lessons: If someone is out looking for you, these reflectors may help. But do not count on being seen if nobody knows you are there. Plan to be the one doing the avoiding. Good situational awareness skills are important, and be sure to know where shipping lanes are.

Note: Dan has chosen to remove the reflector from the back of our tandem kayak.

FOG HORNS:
We started the Expedition in Provincetown, Massachusetts, with two kinds of fog horns. We all had one of the compressed-air canister models and Nat and Rich had a newly-devised plastic model which had two halves. The latter lasted about a week before they came apart and fell overboard. The former, being carried on deck, continually got accidentally blasted as we wrestled to attach spray skirts or reach for snacks. The one time we all reached for them in a brief emergency, three out of four did not work: one was out of gas, one had lost its nozzle, and one was too rusty. The situation passed safely but not without comments regarding equipment reliability. Should we plan to purchase a new canister every few weeks? An expensive proposition.

Instead, we opted for a new one-piece orange model which you put to your mouth and blow into. Although it sounds loud from our perspective, while being ferried from Alma to Cape Chignecto we noted that the sound emitted from any of these devices has very little chance of being heard over engine noise. They would be effective only if the boat was moving slowly and paying attention.

Lesson: Plan to be the one doing the avoiding. Do not count on being heard. In foggy conditions, send out a “securité” message on your VHF radio so boats in the vicinity know your location and direction of travel.

GLOBAL POSITIONING SYSTEM UNITS (GPS):
I deliberately kept my GPS inside a waterproof container. It contained 326 waypoints, all entered from past trips or in preparation for this one. One day it simply died – dead – all my waypoints gone.

For navigational purposes, however, our group was still OK. Nat, our chief navigator, had not yet gone high-tech and was still using a map and compass. This loss was a major one for me, and an insignificant one for her. She just kept on checking her charts.

Nat has since purchased a GPS and is becoming a very proficient user. But if information does not match up, she always believes the chart. Smart woman!

Lessons: Upon its return, a month later, from a visit to the Garmin repair shop, I learned that moisture had leaked in, attacking the electronics, and done it in. I was informed that I should have been opening the waterproof bag every day and drying it out. Live and learn. A GPS is a great addition to a strong base of navigational skills; it is not a replacement for them. I think I will take a navigation course when I get home. Those charts have lots of information scattered all over them.

CELL PHONES:
While cell phones are very reliable in urban areas, this does not hold true on the coast. We have experienced many “dead zones” while trying to connect to the outside world. Other times the problem was with too much cellular traffic and we would simply get a busy signal. In either case, we do not get through.

Lesson: Like radios, these devices are great when they work and frustrating when they do not. If money was no object, a satellite phone would certainly solve this problem.

There are three more safety devices we have not yet used on this trip: whistles, flare guns, and our epirb (an automatic emergency signaling device). We sure hope we never have a reason to use the latter two. But if we do, I hope they perform up to expectations. At least I know I can count on the whistle!

Thank You, Nova Scotia

The Nova Scotia section has been an absolute delight! Some delights came to us . . . others we traveled to.

From Hall’s Harbour to Annapolis Royal we were joined by Darrin Kelly and Megan Gahl on the water. Darrin's sense of humour and Megan's spiritual sensitivity were very welcome on the trip. It was a delight to get to know two of the original planning members of this Expedition.

Megan and Darrin had been team members long before Dan and I came on board. To quote Natalie, "Their role was to help envision this trip." Unfortunately, they were at a time in their lives where a two week section was the most their schedules would allow. So it was a treat to be able to share some paddling time with them. As we near the end of our trip, it seems appropriate to look back and say thanks to all the people who came before us and who helped manifest the wonderful times we are now enjoying. Thank you all!

Now on to the delights we paddled to. As we approached Annapolis Royal, we could hear bagpipes. Never before have I had a Town Crier and a bagpiper announce my arrival in a town while a flock of folks waved from the town wharf. What a thrill! The hospitality shown by Andi Rierdon, her husband Steve, and their friends, culminated in a delicious pot-luck dinner the evening of our slide show. How very Nova Scotian! Thanks, guys.

I have always loved Sandy Cove, a large, sweeping sand beach half way down Digby Neck. I now have many more reasons. When we landed, we were met by Mark Dittrick who informed us that we were invited for supper at Eugene and Marilyn Stanton's home: the fish chowder was on and the tea biscuits were in the oven.

Upon arrival at the Stanton’s, we were introduced to many members of the "Stop the Quarry" committee, a passionate bunch of locals who are committed to stopping Digby Neck basalt being shipped down to New Jersey to be made into highways.

The next day, as we paddled through Petite Passage the next day, we heard a loud bellow. Our newly made friends of the night before had decided to give us a final salute. They were on the far side of the Passage blowing conch shells. Being “conched” through a passage marks another first for this trip.

Belliveau’s Cove was celebrating the official opening of their Farmers Market and a new interpretive boardwalk. Robert Thibault, Minister Department of Fisheries and Oceans, was on hand to cut the ribbon and chat with us about our mission.

Tim Surette, Area Director of Department of Fisheries and Oceans for Southwest Nova Scotia, was our host. He combined with the local tourism and recreation folks to expose us to many elements of Acadian culture, music, history, and cuisine.

So thanks, Nova Scotia, for the warm welcome shown to the Expedition. Now I know what the rest of the world knows . . . your hospitality is first rate!

Rich's notes from New Brunswick

Landscape Ecology and Birds

Since the beginning of the Expedition I have been keeping two daily lists of birds that I have seen or heard: one for birds identified while we are paddling, the other a list of the birds in the vicinity of our campsites. As a scientist and naturalist, this is just part of the way I document my observations I always carry a field book for notes and observations. Although my brother Rob teases me for being a "lister", now, over 100 days into the Expedition, some interesting trends have begun to emerge.

The scientist in me likes to carefully document my observations. Data is good . . . that has long been the mantra of the research environments in which I have worked. The birder in me certainly has a voice as well, wanting to list my observations, racking up state, province, country, and regional totals for ultimate inclusion in the American Birding Association's annual Big Day publication.

With those compatible interests, I developed a protocol for documenting my observations. This Expedition is about the coast of the Gulf of Maine and surrounding environs. Therefore, all of my observations are of the same geographic area.

The next issue that needed to be addressed is one of quantification. During the Expedition, I chose to simply list the species. In the case of Bald Eagles (Haliaeetus leucocephalus), I try to note the number of adults and immatures. If the sighting is of a rare, unusual, or uncommon species, such as members of the Family Alcidae or alcid family (e.g., Atlantic Puffin, Fratercula arctica, and Razorbill, Alca torda), I make additional notes on number, location, and behavior.

During the day, as we are paddling, I track all species observed between our morning's launching point and our afternoon's landing site. Upon arrival at our days campsite, I begin a list that concludes with our departure, whether the next day or several days later.

Birds are fascinating to watch. One of the many reasons I am drawn to them is their role in the landscapes that surround us. Some birds, such as American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos), adapt easily to a broad range of conditions; some fit right in the human landscape of metropolitan urbanity (European Starling, Sternuys vulgaris and House Sparrow, Passer domesticus, readily come to mind), and yet others have specific requirements for which natural communities they will tolerate (Bicknells Thrush, Catharus bicknelli, is a prime example with its summer habitat restricted to northeastern U.S. mountaintops and Atlantic Canada coastlines). The following are some observations from the Expedition on the interrelationships between avifauna and landscapes.

Many of the birds we have identified are migratory, so it is to be expected that we saw them at the beginning of the Expedition, back in May, and now that fall is approaching, some of the northernmost breeders are already beginning to head south. This is especially true of many of the shorebirds, such as Black-bellied Plover (Pluvialis squatarola), Semipalmated Plover (Charadrius semipalmatus), Greater Yellowlegs (Tringa melanoleuca), Sanderling (Calidris alba), Semipalmated Sandpiper (C. pusilla), Least Sandpiper (C. minutilla), White-rumped Sandpiper (C. fuscicollis), and Short-billed Dowitcher (Limnodromus griseus), as well as Red-throated Loon (Gavia stellata) and Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus).

Storm-Petrels have been one surprise! Previously, I had thought of these as relegated exclusively to the pelagic zone, far from shore. As we crossed through the Muscungus Bay area of Maine back in mid-June, the first Wilson’s Storm-Petrels (Oceanites oceanicus) and Leach’s Storm-Petrels (Oceanodrama leucorhoa) of the trip we abundant, doing their butterfly dance just above the water. Neither were again observed for several days until we paddled past the Gott Islands on the eastern side of Penobscot Bay July 1st. Storm-Petrels sightings stopped until our crossing from Cape Chignecto to mainland Nova Scotia, when easily 100 Wilson’s Storm-Petrels were observed in the fog. In each case, sightings were so frequent, that I had to wonder if we were in a breeding area. And if so, why such a limited geographic area? John Anderson, professor of biology at College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor, could only confirm breeding of Storm-Petrels in the Gott Island vicinity. If they are not breeding in the other two areas, why so many Storm-Petrels? Two ways in which all of these locales are similar is their undeveloped nature and proximity to spruce/fir shorelines.

Double-crested Cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) is abundant on much of the coast of the Gulf of Maine. It is doubtful that a single day has gone by when they were not observed. However, what is noteworthy is the drastically reduced numbers of them along the New Brunswick coast. Since July 25th, when we left the shelter of Passamaquoddy Bay and the surrounding islands, the numbers of cormorants have been few. Paddling along the bold cliff shore to Saint John, there were days when Cormorants could be counted in the single integers this pattern changed in Saint John with proximity to Magawonowish Island, a major waterbird colony. The pattern of limited Cormorants has repeated since we left Saint John. Cormorants are a fish-eating bird. As we have traveled up the Bay of Fundy, signs of modern-day commercial fishing activity have been scarce. Perhaps there is not enough food to support a vigorous Cormorant population. Or is it the lack of islands, which Cormorants seem to prefer for nesting and roosting?

The dearth of Canada Goose (Branta canadensis) has been striking! All trip, we may have seen less than 100 total! Was our launch date of May 4th too late to see their migration? Is the Gulf of Maine not along a major flyway? And what of the increasing number of localized populations; populations that are staying put on the mown lawns and golf courses to which they are so attracted? I know that further south on the Atlantic coast they are present in significant numbers.

Encounters with Osprey (Pandion haliaetus) was a daily occurrence. I have observed two since leaving Maine. In the states, reintroduction programs have been wildly successful at reestablishing nesting Osprey throughout the New England coast. Certainly a territorial species such as Osprey would have produced enough offspring that there would be a trickle-effect north. Perhaps there is an issue, as may be with the Cormorants, of inadequate food supply.

Laughing Gull (Larus atricilla) comes and goes. From Provincetown, Massachusetts, to the Cape Cod Canal (May 10th), they were a daily occurrence and easily the most abundant gull. Laughing Gull went unobserved until we reached the Maine border May 27th. Through much of the Maine coast, they were a regular, if sporadic, species. However, the further east we paddled, the less frequent our sightings of Laughing Gull. It is a coastal bird, but most range and distribution maps show it petering out at the Maine/New Brunswick border.

This border seems to be the transition for many other species as well. Biologically, the St. Croix River, the boundary between Maine and New Brunswick, is not a significant barrier, especially to birds. However, the plantlife makes a noticeable transition from the mixed-species (hardwood and softwood) Northern Forest that begins in the Boothbay region to a more boreal forest on the New Brunswick side of the St. Croix River: Red Spruce (Picea rubens) dominates with Balsam Fir (Abies balsamea) also a significant forest constituent. The bedrock, while highly variable, is largely granite, pyrite, and sandstone, with regular eruptions of volcanic intrusions. It is also the beginning of the Bay of Fundy and increasingly significant tidal ranges. It would certainly be interesting to look more closely at the role these various features play in avian ecology.

Only one Common Murre (Uria aalge) was observed, and this was along the precipitous cliffs south of St. Martins, New Brunswick. This lone individual was entirely undisturbed by our presence. Common Murre is known to breed on Machias Seal Island, as are Atlantic Puffin and Razorbill. I certainly had hoped to see more or all three of these species.

Black Guillemot (Cepphus grylle) is the most abundant of the alcids. However, it was not until late June, as we paddled through Penobscot Bay, that we saw our first Guillemots. Black Guillemots, in their black breeding plumage with a large white patch on their wings, are readily identifiable, and they were with us for the remainder of the Maine coast and on into Passamaquoddy Bay. However, this is another species that went unobserved for the remainder of the New Brunswick coast. As we paddled the ten-mile crossing from Cape Chignecto to Huntington Point, Nova Scotia, we finally saw another Guillemot. As to the question of why here and not along the stark and bold coast of New Brunswick, much of it habitat I would have thought ideal for the Guillemot, I have no answer.

Our sole Atlantic Puffin was observed July 14th off The Brothers Islands. These islands are nearly ten miles from shore, barren, uninhabited, storm-tossed in other words, perfect for members of the alcid family. It was here that we also saw our first Razorbill. Unlike the Puffin, or the Murre, here we saw dozens of Razorbill.

Flycatchers and warblers, while observed in small numbers throughout our journey, have been regular occurrences. However, species diversity has been low. It was our first stop in mainland Nova Scotia that pushed up the number of species, and that significantly. Five additional species of warblers were identified my first morning out in mainland Nova Scotia: Tennessee Warbler (Vermivora peregrina), Cape May Warbler (Dendroica tigrina), Blackburnian Warbler (D. fusca), Bay-breasted Warbler (D. castanea), and American Redstart (Setophaga ruticilla). It may not necessarily be that the habitat suddenly improved to the ideal forest; rather, a combination of low shrubs and apple trees, both of which brought the warblers lower and more readily into my field of view, and their aggressively foraging in preparation for migration. Admittedly, Huntington Point had the greatest diversity of forested habitat that I had observed in several months. All of this surely helped in adding five new species to my list.

This is a qualitative synopsis gleaned as I skim through my field notebook, largely inspired by the good birding of Huntington Point, Nova Scotia. Stay tuned this winter when I have a chance to more formally review my avian observations and begin to interpret the trends.

Fundy Fog

The Bay of Fundy is noted for its fog. Martin Collins, of Alma, New Brunswick, told me that he once saw 38 days in a row of fog. We might not have had fog for 38 but it seems that it has been a constant feature for the Fundy landscape for the better part of two weeks.

Today is Thursday and the second day in a row without fog. If you have spent any time in fog, then you can feel the clamminess on your skin, the damp hair; tents, sleeping bags, clothes, everything has a damp edge to it.

And if you wear glasses, it is next to impossible to keep them dry, as I can attest. Even if there is no wind, the water droplets in fog seem to have an affinity for glass surfaces.

There is a long-held wisdom that there is no wind in fog. While this is not true, our experience has been such as to largely support that belief. Paddling in fog is different than paddling when you can see your destination, or at least a waypoint. You have to be much more aware of your environment: tide, current, wind, drift. Before the advent of handheld GPS (Global Positioning Systems), you would take a compass bearing, allow for drift, estimate the time it will take to get to your destination, and paddle ahead. Slowly.

GPS does not eliminate the need for navigational skills, but it sure does make it easier to "see" the far shore, at least virtually.

I have noticed that when we are paddling in fog, whether making a crossing or hugging the shore, we tend to paddle more slowly. There is something psychological about paddling in fog. Maybe it is a deep-rooted feeling to go slow to avoid running into shore . . . or a reef . . . or another vessel.

We pay close attention to our VHF radios. If there is other boat traffic out there, staying tuned to channel 16 is one way we might find out. Being proactive on channel 16 is always a good idea as well. If we are crossing a river, channel, bay, or any other span, in the fog, we will sign on channel 16, the international emergency and hailing frequency and announce ourselves. This type of call is known as a “securité” call. A typical call might go something like this:

"Securité. Securité. Securité. This is the Gulf of Maine Expedition. We are three kayaks crossing from Cape Chignecto to Hall's Harbour on a bearing of 180 degrees. We expect the crossing to take four hours. Gulf of Maine Expedition standing by on channel 16. Clear."

As we paddled past the cliffs of the New Brunswick shore, they would rise starkly from the water and disappear into the fog above. Although I knew that the cliffs were generally in the 80- to 100-foot range, it would be easy to think that they climbed all the way to the heavens.

Crossing from Cape Chignecto to mainland Nova Scotia we were fog-bound the whole way. This was a "thin" fog with visibility ranging to several miles. Still, to leap forward into a ten-mile crossing, unable to see the far shore, blindly trusting to navigational technology, can cause one to be a bit anxious.

Paddling in fog sometimes has an ethereal feeling to it. We were paddling across Muscungus Bay, Maine, in a dense fog. Out in the bay, with no land in sight, a bird flew by. It was a Wilson's Storm-Petrel! A short time later, another flew by. And another. And another. There must have been dozens of them, out flying around, doing their butterfly walk on the water trick, entirely heedless of our presence. They would emerge from the fog, only to disappear moments later. That was one of the stillest days I have ever paddled in.

Marine Mammals of the Gulf

The are a wide variety of marine mammals that spend some, or all, of their lives in the Gulf of Maine. Most of these are infrequently seen, however, when you do, it can be a magical moment. On the Gulf of Maine Expedition, we have been fortunate enough to have several of these moments.

One of the most recent is certainly the most memorable. In Huntington Point, Nova Scotia, we were joined by Megan Gahl and Darrin Kelly, both of Bar Harbor, Maine. On Monday, August 19th, we left Huntington Point, paddling south and west in the direction of Yarmouth. As we were paddling past Canada Creek, I was closest to shore, looking toward Natalie in her solo Necky Looksha IV HV and Darrin and Megan in their tandem Northwest Kayaks Seascape, when, perhaps 50 yards out, I saw a spout!

Reflexively I pointed and shouted, "WHALE!!!"

Slowly, the long, dark back of a whale emerged, arcing through the surface of the water, sinuously curving back into the shallow depths. A WHALE!!!

We were all exhilarated! Dan and Sue, a short distance ahead in their tandem Necky Nootka Outfitter had been able to look back and see the whale, too. We sat still in our kayaks for a long time -- perhaps five, maybe ten, minutes -- hoping for another glimpse of the whale. Although that was not to be so, I am sure the adrenaline rush of witnessing such a magnificent creature from our kayaks is indelibly burned into all of our memories.

Shortly after it dove, Darrin, Megan, Natalie, and I began discussing the whale. Was it a Minke? No, it was too long. Was it a Humpback? Maybe, but I countered that I had not seen a dorsal fin. A North Atlantic Right Whale! Eubalaena glacialis!

Natalie looked at the nautical chart and saw that we were in shallow water, approximately five meters. Darrin offered that it is not uncommon for Right Whales to be in shallow water; in fact, on Grand Manaan, he has seen Right Whales surface with mud on their snouts.

A North Atlantic Right Whale! We just witnessed 0.3% of the entire North Atlantic Right Whale population! It is estimated that there are approximately 300 Atlantic Right Whales in existence.

The Right Whale gained its name because it was the "right" whale to hunt for commerce. Unfortunately, it has never recovered from the heavy toll taken by that industry. Today, the North Atlantic Right Whale is still under threat, this time from a several different fronts: commercial ships which sometimes strike and injure or kill this slow-swimming behemoth, as well as from anthropogenic pollution.

Not quite so dramatic but equally exciting was our only other whale sighting to date. Back in southern Maine, off Old Orchard Beach, Natalie and I saw a Minke Whale (Balaenoptera acutorostrata).

We were paddling along talking, while Dan and Sue were a considerable distance in front of us, when I saw the unmistakable back of a cetacean surface just to the right of Natalie. In my excitement at seeing my first-ever whale from a sea kayak, all I could do was sputter to Natalie, "RIGHT!!! RIGHT!!!" Natalie looked at me, so again I shouted, "RIGHT!!! RIGHT!!!"

Finally comprehending my garbled exuberance, Natalie looked to the right in time to see the signature dorsal fin of a Minke Whale . . . that, coupled with its significantly smaller size left little doubt as to its identity.

Although the sighting was brief, it was incredibly exciting. In order to pinpoint the location, we referred to our nautical charts. We were about one mile off Old Orchard Beach. However, we were struck by the unusually shallow depth for seeing this whale. We were in an area that appeared to be part of a large, shallow delta off the Saco River: a mere 19 feet deep.

Normally, that might have been the end of the experience of that particular whale, however, the next day, as we were crossing Casco Bay, we were closely monitoring our VHF radios for marine traffic. In the morning, the U.S. Coast Guard came on announcing an entangled whale off the mouth of the Saco River. For much of the rest of that day, as we paddled, we listened to Coast Guard radio traffic variously announcing the location of the whale or seeking information on its whereabouts. Natalie and I surmised this was the same whale we had seen the day before.

The day after that, two days after our initial sighting of the Minke Whale, we landed on Eagle Island, on the eastern side of Casco Bay (Eagle Island is now a state park but used to be the summer home of Admiral Perry, famous for his Polar exploits). since we were paddling past Eagle Island, we had to stop and visit this famous landmark. Although his home -- which has been turned into a museum -- was closed, we met the caretaker. In speaking with her, the subject of our whale sighting came up, along with the previous days' radio traffic. Much to our delight, the caretaker told us that as of that morning's news, she heard that the whale had been successfully disentangled.

Our brief ten-second sighting of the Minke Whale had turned into a three-day experience.

Both North Atlantic Right Whale and Minke Whale are "baleen" whales and filter-feeders: they feed by filtering planktonic species through their comb-like baleen, or whale-bone.

Harbor Porpoise (Phocoena phocoena) are regularly seen members of the toothed whales. Some days we see dozens of Harbor Porpoises, some days only a few individuals, and at other times we can go for days, weeks even, without a sighting. How many Harbor Porpoises we have observed this trip is impossible to accurately estimate, but surely 100 is not unreasonable.

Our experiences with Harbor Porpoises has been less dramatic than those of the two whales described above. That said, seeing Harbor Porpoises is always exciting . . . to think that this six-foot long wild animal is so close is excitement enough.

Harbor Seal (Phoca vitulina) are another species that has been equally as abundant, if not more so, as Harbor Porpoise. While we were paddling along the coast of Maine with its year-round lobster season, it was not uncommon to regularly see a lobster buoy and think it was an Harbor Seal -- all too often did an Harbor Seal turn into a lobster buoy. Just when we were getting complacent, discounting possible Harbor Seals as lobster buoys, we would be wrong.

Once we crossed the border into New Brunswick, the situation changed. Canada has strict seasons on the lobster fisheries. And those seasons ended before our arrival. Now, if we see what looks to be a seal, it generally is (sometimes there is occasional rogue buoy, possibly set by a person who chooses to disregard the law).

Coming from a background of kayaking the Maine coast, with its countess islands and shoals and reefs, I am accustomed to seeing seals hauled out on these landscape features. In New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, islands and shoals and reefs are far less abundant, so the seals haul out on mainland shores.

Regardless of the difference in locale, I still thrill at seeing Harbor Seals each and every time.

One of many memorable Harbor Seal experiences was as we paddled up to Keatings Sand Beach, between Port George and Port Lorne, Nova Scotia. The coastline there is largely tall, steep, basaltic and igneous cliffs. The day was calm with a mild wind quietly blowing out of the northwest. We were at least 1/4 mile out from shore when we heard an eerie, plaintive moan, loudly resonating off the cliffs. Darrin, Megan, Natalie, and I were paddling close together and we all stopped to listen. We had all heard this sound before and knew it was Harbor Seal. Generally, I have heard these sounds late at night, while I am huddled in my tent and the seals are sounding off, for what purpose I can only guess; I have also heard this sound when they appear to be alarmed.

We did not see our first Gray Seal (Halichoerus grypus) until the Gott Islands, southwest of Mount Desert Island, Maine. Whereas Harbor Seals are small, reaching about five feet in length and up to 250 pounds in weight, Gray Seals are enormous in comparison: up to eight feet and 800 pounds. Gray Seals are not only easily identified by their significantly larger size, but also by the tell-tale "horse-head" shape of their head.

Generally, we have only seen the Gray Seals in single or small numbers. Paddling between Bear Brook and Bishop Brook, on the Nova Scotian coast one day, I saw what I initially took to be a rock sticking out of the water along an otherwise nondescript shoreline. As I came a bit closer, I thought I detected that the rock moved. Looking through my binoculars I saw a large Gray Seal in shallow water, craning its head aloft. What I took to be other rocks nearby proved to also be Gray Seals. All told, I counted at least 15 Gray Seals in that one spot.

What other marine mammals might we see during the remainder of our journey? Although the list of candidates is long, I long to see another whale.