Birding at the Edge of the World

A raven circles low overhead, scanning its maritime surroundings. When it banks in my direction, I can see it’s scanning me. It flaps by with whooshing wingbeats. I’m eating my lunch so maybe it’s just looking for food scraps, I guess.

The consummate generalist, ravens have evolved an intelligence—some say wisdom—to proliferate in the harshest of environments, using their brains as a survival tool. They patrol beaches for what washes up. They visit towns and follow humans to see what might fall off the back of the proverbial truck. Be in the right place at the right time and good things will happen.

This is the raven’s mantra.

Anyone who’s ever lifted binoculars to watch birds understands this too. Walking in circles or waiting around: this is essentially birding. The allure of encountering an avian gem, something rare, perhaps, is enough for some folks to scramble to the nearest airport. Though it’s possible to discover interesting birds in your own backyard (others keep a yard list just to be sure), there’s an extra special feeling about finding them on an archipelago in a remote corner of British Columbia.

Haida Gwaii is an outstanding destination for exploring and discovering birds of all kinds. Visiting birders will also discover a rich Haida culture, fresh food and perhaps some wild weather to go alongside a hefty bird list. Arriving here in late September is to put yourself in the flight path of a potentially bizarre assortment, many of which are flocking to the wintering grounds.

Right now, I feel like I’m in the right place, fully 20 kilometres from another human at the northeastern tip of Haida Gwaii. Specifically, I’m at the very end of Rose Spit, or Nai-kun, in the otherworldly Naikoon provincial park. I’ve just sighted a trio of Barn Swallows fly north off the tip, a common species that nonetheless should be in Mexico by now. A Peregrine Falcon speeds in on scimitar wings and scares up a flock of Sanderling, a shorebird species that nests in the highest reaches of the arctic. Each species has a story to tell and I’m here to decipher as many as possible in a few days’ side trip on my vacation to the Islands. I scan the waveswept point with my spotting scope, hoping for a vagrant to land—what us birders call something that shouldn’t be here. Even more particularly, I’m interested in Asian strays: birds that may breed in Siberia but instead of migrating toward Australia or Africa, they err across the Bering Strait or even the open ocean to the west coast of North America on a wayward vacation of sorts. They won’t encounter tropical conditions here: The weather is cool but at least sunny; atypical for this, the wettest part of Canada.

A few days earlier I arrived in Sandspit, or K’il Kun, at the tail end of even more remarkable and equally uncharacteristic weather—what meteorologists were calling a “bomb cyclone.” Within only a few hours of my arrival by plane, after a series of cancelled flights, I had encountered several exciting birds. Walking past the golf course through to the airport they popped up one after another: gray catbird, LeConte’s sparrow, bobolink and common yellowthroat—all very unlikely species that are more at home in BC Interior grassland and shrub sites. It was almost like there were more rare birds than common ones. These mainlanders must have been blown offshore while migrating through the storm and fought their way to the nearest land, where they eventually found an oasis of open habitat around K’il Kun Xidgwangs Daanaay, or Sandspit airport. In their book, Birdfinding in British Columbia, the ornithological duo Dick and Russ Cannings identify this locale as a natural magnet for birds, providing “an attractive mixture of tidal flats, grassy areas and shrubs that is extremely scarce elsewhere on Haida Gwaii.”

Sure, at any time there may be smatterings of out-of-place birds among the moss-covered Sitka spruce and yellow cedars that carpet the island, but these likely go unnoticed. Asian rarities more conspicuously encountered out in the open in Sandspit have included: gray heron, common greenshank, bar-tailed godwit, red-throated pipit and dusky warbler, among many other bizarre birds not endemic to North America.

 

Peter Hamel saw that low pressure system coming. Having been the one who reported those birds and many more over his nearly eight decades of birdwatching, he knew this particular storm would deliver. In his years, Peter had amassed a personal bird list for Canada of over 500 species, and in 1988 alone saw 436—an impressive big year in an era before cell phones and citizen science apps such as the popular eBird made chasing birds easier. As I was boarding my plane to Sandspit, Peter and Margo were b-lining it from their home in Masset, down island to meet the storm, but they made it only as far as HlGaagilda, or Skidegate, where the ferry from Graham to Moresby Island was on hold due to rough seas. Sadly, I did not meet these legendary birders during my trip, and later learned that Peter had passed away several months after.

One birder I was fortunate to encounter in Sandspit was Bruce Di Labio. The Ottawa native was in the midst of his own “Canada Big Year,” and had already tallied 460 species by the time he landed in Sandspit, one of five visits he took to BC during 2023. He had just broken the previous record by spotting a gull-billed tern in Nova Scotia. Although his eventual smashing of the record didn’t quite make national news, some birders including myself knew he was on the quest, which was enough to have me feeling a bit nervous when I met him on the trail surrounding the airport. For those who have seen the movie “The Big Year,” or read the book, the idea of birders on a fervent pursuit needs no explanation. For everyone else, picture frenzied combatants in Tilly hats vying to glance at every bird in the book, moving on hastily once the last one’s been “ticked” in a field book.

Not Bruce. An affable ponytail-clad gentleman with an engaging smile, he welcomed me to join him on a slow walk around the airport. Along the loop he pointed out a host of birds, including some that confound the everyday birder. He noted the subtle difference between the American golden-plovers on the airport grass and the surprisingly common Pacific golden-plovers, a species that would feature on the rare bird alert anywhere else in BC. He reminded me about the diagnostic head shape of the cackling goose grazing beside a similarly patterned Canada, that was one of the very small subspecies. He talked about what to look for if a sharp-tailed sandpiper (reddish cap, yellow legs) or slaty-backed gull (dark mantle, white on the wings) turned up from Russia. Birding has many nuances, and every time you lift your binoculars you learn something new.

“You have to take chances during a big year,” Bruce relayed, as we set up the scopes to look at some ducks bobbing in Hecate Strait. He was referring to the notion that you can’t simply rely on chasing down rare birds that other people have already found. This is often the case in other hotspots like Point Pelee, Ontario, where hordes of birders—and I mean hordes—are out on the trail ahead of you. It’s still fun to see these birds but the thrill of the chase is lost. No doubt Haida Gwaii offers plenty of thrill.

“Just to search day after day never knowing what you may find…” Di Labio went on, finding a parallel between Sandspit and Pelee: the fact that you can cover the same area over and over again and find new birds every time. Except in Haida Gwaii you don’t have to peer over dozens of Tilly hats to see them. During his weeklong stay, I was the only other birder that the big year champ encountered, and my wife would never let me wear one of those anyway.
By the time he left Haida Gwaii Di Labio had added four new species to his year list: tufted puffin, buff-breasted sandpiper, yellow-billed loon, and sharp-tailed sandpiper. He went on to finalize a new big year record for Canada at 480 with his last species: a gray heron, found in mid-December on the East Coast. As a crescendo, a few days later he slipped on some ice and broke three ribs, proving that birding is not the benign pastime many make it out to be!

I’m thinking as much when finishing up my foray to Rose Spit. Walking the seemingly endless North Beach from my campsite, I watch the rocky landmark of Tow Hill not getting any closer. My plan is to reach the road to Masset and chase down a ride. Shouldering a hefty pack, I carry fond memories of great birding, two gorgeous sunrises and a full moon serenade by a tiny Northern Saw-whet Owl calling from beside my tent. I meander back and forth trying to follow the firmest sand, all the while searching for agates. These worn chunks of microcrystalline quartz have made this area famous, and I recall my first visit here over twenty years ago when they sparkled all over the beach. They are supposedly rare now, but I still find a few and leave them to the waves. Of course, I still have my raven friend overhead. I’ve given up on rare birds for now; I’m happy to have the company of a familiar species. According to Haida myth, the trickster Raven discovered a large clamshell at Nai-kun, and in it were tiny people reluctant to leave. He coaxed these first Haida into the world but they turned out to be merely men—not so interesting—so he later sleuthed out a chiton, which harboured women. The men and women mingled together and began to flourish on the Islands, and their antics kept Raven sufficiently entertained.

I talk a little bit about modern Haida culture with Arnold Hamilton, a kind gentleman who picks me up in his truck. Let me be your teddy bear by Elvis is playing on his CD player. It turns out some locals spend weekends out at Rose Spit, which can be accessed by vehicle at low tide. To Arnold, every day of the week is a good day for a Sunday drive and he embarks on as many good weather days as are provided up here. Given there’s really only one main road traversing the islands, he shows dedication. Arnold seems happy to discuss the best parts of that journey, but I find he is not so keen to talk about birding. In fact, his expression goes from deadpan to expressionless when I mention my big year numbers are hovering around 350. I have to laugh at this, knowing full well that birding for me is an inner passion, and one that cools down abruptly when a burger and beer are in my sights. I’m grateful to Arnold for the lift and appreciate the well-timed convergence of our two pastimes. He drops me at the aptly-named Mile Zero Pub in Masset and I prepare to put my binoculars away for a while, and my feet up. Before walking in, however, I have an abrupt epiphany:

It’s still daylight and I’ve timed it perfectly for shorebirds at low tide, and Masset Inlet is only a few blocks away….