Puffin

 Puffin

In June, we ventured a few hours out of the Northeast Kingdom to see one of the Atlantic’s amazing seabirds. We drove east through the White Mountains and wound our way to coastal Maine. We boarded a large boat in mid-morning and steamed out of the harbor toward Eastern Egg Rock. We were excited about the excursion, but it was raining slightly. Then it rained harder. We approached the island (i.e. the rock) and it rained harder. The boat circled the island (or at least half-circled, staying out of the wind), and we got some very wet looks at Atlantic Puffin.

Atlantic Puffin taking off from the water. Eastern Egg Rock

This spectacular American seabird, sporting a rainbow bill and tuxedo, is only just barely American. It persists at only five places off the coast of Maine (Eastern Egg Rock, Machias Seal Island, Matinicus Rock, Petit Manan Island, Seal Island). It breeds in much larger numbers in Canada (and also in the UK and Scandinavia). But seeing one in the US is another one of those birding pilgrimages.

I saw my first Atlantic Puffin decades ago on Machias Seal Island, which is the best place to get close looks and spectacular photos.

Atlantic Puffin, Machias Seal Island off the coast of Maine. Summer 1986

But in recent years, it’s become very difficult to get there. Machias, oddly enough, is a disputed island close to the border. It’s hard to imagine that the US and Canada could not have resolved the ownership question, but the ongoing dispute has the result that there is only a single boat allowed to land on it. Tickets for those boat rides are almost impossible to get, so we opted for Eastern Egg Rock. 

Eastern Egg Rock, off the coast of Maine

A company operates out of Boothbay Harbor, from which it takes an hour to get to the rock. Puffins were reintroduced there in the 1970s. There are now as many as a few hundred breeding pairs. When we got there, it was a crazy scene as puffins loafed around on the water beside the boat, and perched on rocks. Despite its large size, the boat pitched up and down a lot, making photography in the rain nearly impossible, so we tried our best with binoculars.

Puffin in the rain, Eastern Egg Rock

There are some other good things to look at that occur in smaller numbers, but the conditions were not favorable. After a half hour of circling, the boat headed back to port. We were soaked and not feeling very satisfied. So we sat in a brewpub that afternoon (the Bath Ale Works, with fantastic beers, on Route 1 just past Wiscasset). We bought tickets on a Hardy Boat cruise for the next day, which operates out of New Harbor nearby. We were rewarded with a sunny day, a bit windy, but much better for seeing. The onboard tour guide, employed by National Audubon Society, explained that sunny days mean fewer puffins. Rain brings more puffins because the horizon is obscured, causing them to stay closer to find fish. So on our sunny day, we had a few dozen instead of a few hundred, but it was thrilling nonetheless.

Puffins. Eastern Egg Rock

Another target bird for us was Roseate Tern, a rare and threatened tern that also has a very limited breeding range in the US. We sorted through the thousand or so Common Terns and found two or three Roseates, which appear as gleaming white in comparison, with all-black bills. They seemed to fly with a lot of elegance. I managed a few distant photos that are passable, but will not win any awards.

Roseate Tern on the right, with Common Terns

Roseate Tern on the left, with Common Terns

Roseate Tern, center, with Common Terns 

Arctic Terns were also present in small numbers, but much harder to pick out in the crowd.

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The ability to enjoy puffins on Eastern Egg Rock is attributable to a single person: Stephen Kress, a man of vision and determination, two traits that have all but disappeared in today’s America. Kress’s story  is known to a few birders, but holds some important lessons. He was a young bird researcher in the sixties when he stumbled on an obscure reference to a former breeding colony on Eastern Egg Rock. The colony was wiped out by egg hunters in the late 1800s. Kress must have thought, “that’s something that needs to be corrected,” and he began a hugely laborious task. He persuaded the Canadians to let him take hatchlings from a well-established colony up north, and brought them to Egg Rock and fed them by hand in 1973. It worked: they ambled out into the sea when fattened up and fully feathered. They would return a few years later when mature. At least, that was the theory.

Kress continued releases for several years. He pioneered seabird recovery methods. He posted puffin decoys and played puffin calls through speakers on the island – he must have hauled over a generator or some large and heavy batteries.  He removed gulls from the rock, which would have made quick work of any chicks. He encouraged terns to nest, which happened seven years into the project. This was a key step: the terns would harass the gulls better than human effort could. Terns had also disappeared partly through the feather trade. Our Audubon guide showed us a historical photo with a hat on a woman’s head sporting an entire Common Tern carcass. (A bizarre and gruesome chapter in the history of fashion.) Researchers on the island today report seeing mobs of terns attacking Great Black-backed Gulls who dare to prowl.

Stephen Kress released and released, but no birds were returning to breed. In 1981, it was eight years into the project. His critics were telling him it was hopeless. One biologist asked what the point of this was; after all, there were thousands of puffins on Iceland. (A bureaucrat, undoubtedly, with no sense for the future economic impact that is so obvious today.) The Canadians initially prohibited the taking of nestlings from their territory, and only slowly relented. Kress must have been running out of money and hope. And then things changed. In July of 1981, he saw an adult puffin carrying fish in its bill onto the rocky shore. Nesting!

It’s obvious now that the project succeeded beyond everyone’s expectations. There are a few hundred nesting pairs of puffins on Eastern Egg Rock. Kress’s project has expanded to many more islands in the northeast. Kress’s methods have been extended to many species of seabird and many parts of the world. His impact on bird restoration is difficult to understate.

Locally, the Puffin Project  has had impact no less momentous. The two boat companies that we signed up with, Cap’n Fish’s Cruises and Hardy Boat Cruises, are filling seats on large tourist boats daily through the summer months, with happy tourists coming from every state and a few foreign countries. (Oddly enough, many of the people on our boats had no binoculars, apparently thinking that the birds would be twelve feet away. That is another expectation to correct.) These people are filling hotels, B&Bs and restaurants in Boothbay, Wiscasset and Damariscotta, and refilling at local gas stations. They are also paying entrance fees at the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden and the nearby state parks. That’s what we did! The economic impact on the local area is huge. All stemming from one person’s determination to bring back a bird that had been eliminated by short-sighted resource exploiters of the nineteenth century.

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The resistance that Stephen Kress encountered in the early days of the Puffin Project is not uncommon for wildlife and habitat restoration projects. Whether the issue is bison and wolves in Yellowstone, whales in New England, Monarch Butterflies in Mexico and California, California Gnatcatcher, or Black-capped Vireo in Texas and Oklahoma, wildlife restoration brings visitors, which brings economic gains. It’s sad that in every case, the initial response to a proposal to restore the species is negative. Politicians, mostly Republican but sometimes joined by Democrats, drone on about the impact of the project on local companies, adjoining landowners, future residential development. Invariably, the evolution of these projects proves them wrong. The often miniscule finances of the previous resource extractors become dwarfed by the tourism that takes its place. These projects bring back habitat, which makes life more livable for locals and makes parks more attractive for visitation. I walked the streets of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, which began life as an industrial center for lumber, whale oil, and shellfish. Today, it is a much larger and busier place with people drawn to plovers, terns, puffins, and whales (seeing, not hunting).

The pressing problem now facing Maine and the other coastal states is the lobster industry. Overfishing of this creature is indisputably evident when you are aboard Cap’n Fish’s boat. The nearshore is peppered with lobster traps in numbers that are beyond belief. The skipper of the boat is forced to constantly weave between them most of the way out to the destination. I was shocked to see that even remote Egg Rock itself is surrounded by lobster trap buoys. The situation is like some freakish throwback to World War II harbor mines, but with the intended victim being the claw-bearing creature prowling the bottom for passing food scraps. Lobster over-fishing has depressed the catch, which has raised restaurant prices, which has induced more people to take up the lucrative fishing trade, which …. You get the picture. There is good evidence that the proliferation of traps has become a leading cause of death of Northern Right Whales who become entangled while going about their normal foraging. In the inevitable fight between whales and fishery jobs, the politicians can be counted on to dismiss the plight of the whales, as we are now seeing in newspaper headlines. How sad, and how tragically predictable that is.

Let us celebrate the Atlantic Puffin, and the North Atlantic Right Whale. Together, they represent an America that we almost lost, but which stubbornly holds onto life off the coast of Maine.