Chapter 3
THREE
The sun shines on my face as I step out of my car, and the cool spring breeze rustles my hair. It’s a perfect Friday afternoon, and after a week of uncertainty with so many changes to my routine, I’m happy that I’m back on my regular schedule and right where I’m supposed to be. The final images I sent to my client this morning were a success, so now I can move on.
Every Friday afternoon, I head out on a trail for a hike, hoping to spot a new or rare bird. And today, I’m after a Red Crossbill that was recently spotted here in Witless Bay, according to the online birdwatching forums. The Red Crossbill is endemic to eastern Canada, and likely restricted to Newfoundland, so I have seen them before. But it’s been a while because they’re more common in the mature coniferous forests of western Newfoundland. It’s not uncommon to spot them in the eastern region, but it’s still exciting when they turn up here.
But there’s a downside to Friday afternoons at Witless Bay Ecological Reserve.
People.
There aren’t too many here, but enough to make me uncomfortable. So I duck my head, pull the hood of my sweater up around my neck and grab my backpack from the back seat. Luckily, most of these people will stick to the main trail that leads to the rocky beaches along the coast, and I know of a few quieter paths further down. They’re harder to hike and lead deep into the forest, so no one ever seems to take them. And that works for me.
I keep my eyes on the ground as I make my way down the trail, passing groups of people watching the boats that ferry tourists around the islands where the Atlantic Puffins are nesting. The Puffins have just returned to Newfoundland, as every year they come back here in mid-May after living at sea, ready to breed and feed until September. And people love to come here to watch them.
This is my first time back to this park since they’ve returned, so I can’t help but stop for a moment and look out towards Gull Island. In the distance, hundreds, if not thousands, of Puffins dot the rocky cliffs of the island, some playfully nesting while others dive into the deep water.
Then I look up.
Above the cliffs, hundreds of Puffins are flying, their little bodies darting in every direction. It’s mesmerizing… Chaotic, yet perfectly synchronized, like they know exactly where they’re going and what the rest of their flock is doing at any given moment. Their white bellies and orange beaks and feet flash against the blue sky, a swirl of colours that feels like nature's abstract painting. Yet despite the frenzy, there’s an odd sense of calm in the way they move. The swirling motion looks like some sort of rhythmic storm in the sky, and I just stay here, letting them pull me in and?—
“—aren’t they? ”
I blink and turn my head, startled out of my trance by a voice to my left.
A man and a woman are standing beside me, smiling. They’re watching the Puffins too… Are they talking to me? Why? I was just watching the birds, so why would they talk to me?
“What?” I ask, quickly looking away from them as the woman smiles at me.
“They’re cute, aren’t they?” she says.
My brow furrows as I watch the Puffins fly around, and some of them on the rocks dive into the water. Cute? We can’t see them well enough from here to really see their physical attributes. Cute means attractive or pretty, so if she means she likes their actions then she could have called them playful, which they are. But she said cute. And yeah, I suppose they are, but they also don’t always look like this.
“Their beaks change colour when they come here in the spring,” I say, watching as the flying Puffins start to settle onto the rocky cliffs. “In the winter it’s a dull grey, but in spring it blooms orange. The bright colour helps them to assess potential mates.”
There’s silence next to me, so I glance over.
The man nods slowly as his eyes move from me to the Puffins again. “That’s… very interesting.”
“It is,” I reply, already turning back to the trail. “Bye.”
I walk away, relief settling inside me as I find myself alone again. The trail ahead is quieter now as I move deeper into the forest on a lesser worn path, where the trees grow denser. Here, surrounded by the tall conifers, the air is rich with the smell of damp earth and pine, and my chances of seeing a Red Crossbill increase with each step I take. The soft crunch of needles beneath my boots mixes with the gentle rustling of a light breeze through the newly unfurled leaves, and the sound of the crashing waves on the shore fades behind me. I pull in a deep breath, taking in the scent of fresh sap and new growth, as the usual tension slowly slips from my body. It’s only out here, in nature, that I can feel this way. Because out here, it’s just me, the forest, and the birds.
And that’s all I need.
Suddenly, I hear a clear, flutelike warble to my right, and I freeze.
That’s weird.
It sounds like a Purple Finch, but the call is slower, and less harsh. So it must be a Pine Grosbeak. But… that call came from down low, and they would be higher up in the trees.
I turn towards the area where I heard the sound and scan the forest floor, until my eyes land on the bird. Her greyish body, the tints of yellow on her head and rump, and her dark grey wings marked by two white wing bars confirm that she is, in fact, a Pine Grosbeak.
My eyes stay glued to the bird as I stand before her, and she just continues to sit on the ground. She doesn’t attempt to fly away, or even move. They do tend to be sluggish birds, but… why is she just sitting on the ground? They don’t do this. She shouldn’t be doing this.
Something is wrong.
I take a step closer, and my heart starts to race. She doesn’t move. She lets out another soft call but stays where she is. That’s not right.
With another cautious step towards her, my eyes lock onto her wing, and I see why she’s not flying away. It’s drooping unnaturally low, clearly broken.
My heart thumps wildly as my breath starts to get away from me.
How did that happen? How do I fix it? What am I supposed to do with her? I need to fix it. I need to help her .
Slowly and carefully, I remove my backpack and pull my jacket off. I’m careful not to scare her when I kneel beside her, and gently wrap my jacket around her little body. She doesn’t struggle, and remains calm as I push to my feet, taking her with me. I look down at the injured bird in my arms, wrapped tightly in my coat, and she just stares up at me with quiet, dark eyes.
I nod, more to myself than to her. “I’ll get you fixed,” I whisper.