A long walk at Shubie Park

It’s a long walk day.

Most days fall into the short-walk category — a leisurely circuit of Point Pleasant Park with a little middle-aged pretend jogging thrown in. Or maybe a hoof to the library from our north-end Halifax home — a more daring perambulation, I grant you, given the number of drivers who seem intent on snapping my tibia.

Between my fear of compound fractures and an aversion to concrete and noise, city walking isn’t my thing. So in between the times in the backcountry at places like Keji, it’s Point Pleasant or, when I need a good stretch, Shubie Park in Dartmouth.

“Going for a long walk today,” I tell my spouse as I lace up my Salomons. This won't be news to her.  We've been around each other long enough to have the mood-gauging thing down pat.

I don’t play sports and I’m not much for the gym so when life's sturm and drang gets under my skin, it's time for a long walk.

And there’s been plenty of drang to go around in this longest of years. I and the 54 remaining members of the Halifax Typographical Union have been on strike for over 375 days now. If you're in the market for an experience that invokes stress, uncertainty and a deepening sense of helplessness and low self-esteem, I heartily recommend it.

So here I am in the Shubie parking lot going through the usual routine for a January walk: Tighten the straps on the camera-laden backpack, don the headgear and then the decisions: Gloves or warmer but more awkward mitts, scarf or no scarf, earbuds or headphones? 

I scan iTunes for my musical mood and given my psychological state (see above re. 375 days), a wailing blues-rock vibe would be appropriate. So with Steven Tyler screaming about being back in the saddle again, off I go.

I usually head off past the duck pond directly to the back trail toward Lake Charles. But if there’s been a good rain recently, I stop to check out Lock 2 near the Fairbanks Centre administration building. When there’s a lot of water going through the system, it’s an impressive sight.

A long exposure of water falling into Lock 2 near the Fairbanks Centre administration building at Shubie Park. The lock was one of nine in the Shubie canal system built beginning in the 1820s. (JOHN McPHEE )

There are nine locks in the Shubie system, which was built in the 1820s to facilitate shipping from Halifax through the Shubenacadie River system to the Bay of Fundy. Only one — on Grand Lake in Wellington — remains in operation.

Lock 2 is one of  three that have been “restored to preserve their unique fusion of British and North American construction techniques,” according to Wikipedia.

From the main part of the park, it usually takes only five minutes or so to reach the near shore of Lake Charles.

Today it's a bit longer because some parts of the trail are icy with a skim of snow. That makes for perfect arse-over-teakettle conditions so I stop to put on my YakTraks.

The ice treads make for a noisy crossing of the wooden bridge to the back trail that runs parallel to the lake. To the right beyond a thin screen of pine and birch, Lake Charles is an expanse of white. 

I'm no fervent patriot but there are few things more Canadian to me than a snow-covered lake bordered by the dark woods.

In the case of Lake Charles, it's also bordered by the houses on Waverley Road. Shubie doesn't offer a total escape from civilization. Besides the houses, there's the constant hum of traffic on Highway 118 and glimpses of stores at Dartmouth Crossing.

But there’s much in this 16-hectare urban park to replenish the nature-loving spirit. In spring and summer, the trees are alive with the sounds of warblers, white-throated sparrows and and song sparrows.

Osprey, also known as fish hawks, return to the same nest every year on a hydro pole overlooking Lake Charles. (JOHN McPHEE)

Even the hermit thrush, more common in the deeper woods, can be found here.  I’ve never actually seen one in the park (they’re regular visitors to my campsites at Keji)  but I’ve certainly heard them.

Their song sounds like the coolest flute solo ever. One evening last spring a hermit kept me rooted to the spot for about 20 minutes on the part of the trail that curls around the far shore of Lake Charles.

In contrast to this reclusive songster, it’s hard to miss Shubie’s most famous avian residents. Ospreys return each year to a nest on a hydro pole overlooking the lake. I’ve spent a lot of time in their company watching the parents fly back and forth from the nest to the lake keeping the young ones fed.  

Today only the remnants of last year’s nest can be seen, waiting for spring when the ospreys return from their winter home in Central and South America.

The only bird life making itself known today are the ubiquitous and aggressive black-capped chickadees that flit directly across your path in search of a handout. This behaviour is unfortunately reinforced by the folks I often see feeding them by hand.

This glacial erratic boulder appears to have been chipped by stonecutters who used the rock to build the canal in the 1820s. (JOHN McPHEE)

And no matter the season you’ll see American red squirrels and chipmunks scampering around, also on the lookout for a treat.

But one of my favourite natural attractions at Shubie keep conveniently still and don't beg for a handout.

The park is a fascinating place for geology buffs. The most obvious geological features are the huge boulders left in the wake of the ice ridge that moved from the Arctic across much of North America about 20,000 years ago. These rocks, known as glacial erratics, can be found throughout Nova Scotia's woods.

Look closely and you'll notice some of the erratics at Shubie are jagged and chipped. Stone cutters used the huge boulders as building material for the canal back in the 1800s. 

OK, time for a break and some munchies. My usual rest stop is a worn bench on the lakeshore in the area known as Vivien's Way.  It's named after Vivien Srivastava, a zoologist and naturalist who was tireless in promoting and designing the Shubie trail network. She died in 2004 and one of the paths she favoured was named in her memory. 

Vivien's Way is a side trail that begins on the northern shore of Lake Charles. It's named for zoologist and Shubie trail designer Vivien Srivastava (1931-2004). (JOHN McPHEE )

A light snow has started to fall, painting a delicate trim on the evergreens and birches. Time for some lighter music, a little Loreena McKennitt maybe. You'd be hard pressed to find a better soundtrack for a long January walk than To Drive the Cold Winter Away. 

Sometimes I continue past Vivien's Way into the Portobello section of the trail but the sun is already getting low on this short winter's day. I hoist my backpack, tighten the straps and begin to retrace my steps along the lakeside path.

Finding stillness

Keeping still isn't easy out here in the world.  

Just try it. If you stand still long enough in public, even in a park like this in the middle of the city, odds are you'll get a visit from the local security forces.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"Just keeping still, officer."

Likely that won't be a satisfactory answer and more questions, at the least, will follow. But today, as is the case on most days, there's a camera in my hands. It's like a magic talisman that keeps questions at bay.

"What are you doing, sir?

"Taking photos of birds, officer."

"Oh. OK."

So it's acceptable to just to stand here in the relative silence of this less-trodden part of Point Pleasant Park and .... wait.

What I'm waiting for is a common yellowthroat, a visually striking little warbler that resembles a masked bandit with its band of black around the eyes. I heard its distinct  'witchety-witchety" call as I walked by and I may have spotted him flickering through the bushes.

I keep still, camera on and with the proper bird-friendly settings. I study the small slice of the wooded world in front of me and open myself up to it, alert to any movement or sound in the shadowy underbrush. After a bit, I realize I'm enjoying the moment just as much as I might enjoy getting a shot of the yellowthroat.

Many years after I wrote this column, I finally got a decent shot of a common yellowthroat. - John McPhee

Too often, even in the real woods, not the reasonable facsimile of the urban park, I see a bird or snake or deer, and the urge to record and crystallize the moment overtakes the moment itself. I want the photo NOW. 

It's not a natural skill for me, keeping still. I'm the guy whose legs are jittery and bouncy beneath the desk at the office. I'm impatient for that red to change to green, dammit, I've got places to be, not here at the traffic lights where we supposedly spend an average six months of our lives. 

So I've learned to appreciate the times like these when I will myself to become part of the scenery and simply stop.

No yellowthroat. Too bad. The only shot of one I've taken is pretty weak.

So the only documentation will be these words and the memory of stillness on a summer day. That will do. 

Welcome back

The song sparrows have returned to Point Pleasant Park. ​This guy was quite co-operative as I snapped shots from about three metres away on April 4, 2013. This isn't unusual - I've found they are content to let you linger close by as they belt out their mating message. He had lots of competition that day as he traded melodies with at least two other males in the vicinity.

 It always lifts the heart to hear the song sparrow's melodic serenade for the first time in the spring. These chubby, dishevelled-looking passerines often return to their northern breeding grounds when there is still snow on the ground, as early as mid-March. 

A few hardier specimens spend the winter in Nova Scotia, as well as Ontario and other parts of southern Canada. But most escape the cold in the southern United States. They can be found as far north as the Aleutian Islands in breeding season. ​

Identification please

The wood chips are flying on a blustery early spring day in Point Pleasant Park.

No the park crews aren't taking down trees in this precious green space in south-end Halifax. The workers are, in fact, hard at it widening drainage ditches along the park roads in preparation for the spring rains.

The only woodworker in sight is of the avian kind. A hairy woodpecker is earning his lunch of insects and other delicacies on a tree trunk in the southern-most tip of the park near the shore. I've watched a lot of woodpeckers at their task over the years and every time, their tenacity and resilience amazes me.

Look close for the darting tongue of this pileated woodpecker on the hunt for a tasty insect in the bark. - john mcphee

Most woodpeckers aren't hardy looking types - the glaring exception being the outrageous pileated woodpecker (above). But what they lack in size and muscle, they more than make up for it in work ethic. This hairy is is aware of me and I'm creeping up pretty close camera in hand, but he continues to hammer away at the bark.

When I posted my shots of this guy on the Nova Scotia Bird Society's Facebook page, I called it a downy woodpecker. BUZZZZZZ. Wrong answer. I was quickly made aware of the error of my ways (most politely) by one of the many experienced birders. The hairy and downy are very similar in plumage with their black and white bodies and red caps. But the hairy is a bit heftier and has a longer beak, which I did know but missed with this specimen.

What's in a name?

Despite the daily and disturbing loss of species - whether naturally occurring or as a result of human activity - the variety of different animals and plants in the natural world is mind-boggling.   And I'd really enjoy being able to quickly ascertain the type and genus of everything I come upon.

But to call me less than visually perceptive would be giving myself credit. Some people can quickly make the connection in their head with plumage patterns, colour and body shape and voila, "That's a northern three-toed woodpecker, not a black-backed woodpecker." I'd be still fumbling through my Petersen guide long after many birders had identified and moved on.

the bark chips fly as this hairy woodpecker looks for lunch in a maple tree at point pleasant park. - john mcphee

 My auditory memory is more reliable. Perhaps because I've got decent musical pitch, I can pin down a bird song fairly quickly, even if it's distant and I only hear it once. But unfortunately most things in nature don't sing - so the tree that hairy woodpecker was exploring was also a mystery to me when I started writing and wanted to add that detail.

Now that's more a matter of being more excited about the bird (or insect or whatever)  and not taking the time to note the context, which is just as important. If I'd stopped, taken a good look at the tree and took some notes and detailed photos, likely I could have pinned it down.

Alas, I had to turn once again to my online support community and as usual, I was impressed by the depth of knowledge among nature lovers in Nova Scotia. Just from a Google map photo, a bird society member was able to talk in detail about the possibilities.

He did immediately identify the general species, which I truly wish was some obscure park variety. Sigh. A maple. Yes, one that has been extensively pruned and the leaves were in curling winter mode but still, a maple! Either sugar or red. 

Now Googling "how to improve your visual observation skills in 10 easy steps"....

Just ducky

“Tufted duck! Tufted duck!”

The urgent call rings out just as our group had crossed a busy road in Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia, planning to warm up with a cuppa at a nearby Tim Horton’s.

We draw some curious looks from the occupants of passing cars, outfitted as we are with binoculars, cameras and spotting scopes.

We dutifully make our way carefully back to the cove shoreline and start scanning  for the unusual specimen. The tufted duck is usually found only  in Europe and Asia but it’s been spotted more frequently in North America (according to my Roger Tory Petersen guide.)

The defining characteristic of this small black and white diving duck is a tuft of feathers that curves downward from its head.

The observer who identified the duck and called us back, Clarence Stevens Jr., tries to narrow down its location among the mass of birds offshore to the rest of the group. An expert birder, he’s the author of the Birding in Metro Halifax.

As for me, I wouldn’t know a tufted duck if it waddled up and introduced itself.  But I try to track it down in my 10 by 50 binoculars and yes, maybe that one has the tell-tale crest. Hmm, then again maybe not....

a pair of american black ducks whiz by hartlen point, nova scotia. - john mcphee

Sewer strolling

I’m taking part in what the Nova Scotia Bird Society calls a “sewer stroll” on a blustery winter day. No, we’re not getting a tour of the municipal sanitation system. The facetious name refers to the fact winter ducks, gulls and alcids (duck-like birds such as razorbills) often congregate near sewer outflows to grab some dinner.

Sewage, it turns out, is quite the delicacy for fish. And they must come close to the surface to nibble away, making them easy pickings for the water birds.

By the end of the morning, we had spotted many of the duck species that frequent Halifax Harbour, including red-breasted mergansers (with their signature punk hairstyle), common eiders, bufflehead, goldeneye and of course, the ubiquitous mallard.

Besides the tufted duck, some of the more unusual finds were dovekies, a cute little diving bird in the alcid family, snow geese, one very rare Ross’s goose and Eurasian wigeon at Sullivan’s Pond

The expedition included several sightings of unusual land birds, such as a lovely northern mockingbird (below) on a lane in Eastern Passage.

A northern mockingbird perches in a backyard in eastern passage, nova scotia. - john mcphee

Just ducky

But it was the incredible variety of sea birds that stuck in my mind after the trip. My exploration of the birding universe has mostly involved land birds, particularly the many varieties of warblers that grace our province from spring to fall.

You can get up close and personal with a warbler, if you’re lucky. Not so with sea birds and maybe that’s part of the attraction - they have an aura of mystery as they live out their lives in the watery offshore world.

That also creates some frustration, obviously, for the folks trying to observe them. But when they venture close enough to shore, ducks make much more co-operative photographic subjects than the flitting behaviour of perching birds on land.

Photography has become a big part of my ventures into the natural world, whether it’s the daytime exploration of the bird world or observing the equally varied sights of the nighttime sky.

When it comes to water bird photography, two words sum up the first priority: big lens. Even when sea birds are helpful enough to come closer to shore, you’ll need magnification to capture any kind of detail.

While today’s image stabilized lenses make it much easier to get a decent hand-held shot, the other crucial tool of the bird photographer is a tripod. I’ve found that images taken on a mounted camera, particularly using a “live view” screen for focusing, are much sharper.

My tripod does the job but I’ve found that my 250mm lens doesn’t quite cut it.  So it’s into the bank account I go for a longer lens, something in the 400mm range.

As if my geek factor wasn’t already apparent, I’ll remove all doubt by saying I’m really excited at the prospect of filling the frame with one bird.

Now to find a map of the local sewers....