Grand Manan is the largest of more than a score
of islands spread across Passamaquoddy Bay and the Bay of Fundy
where they form the meandering maritime border between the United
States and Canada. Dubbed the "Queen of the Fundy Isles"
in tourist publications, it is far enough off the beaten path
that it is less visited than its smaller and better-known sister
islands, Campobello and Deer, which lie closer to the mainland.
Less than seven miles east of West Quoddy Head - the easternmost
point in the continental U.S., its only access, unless one has
a very sturdy boat, is a two-hour ferry ride from Black's Harbour,
Canada, one of several mixed blessings here that limit the tourist
trade.
Dark, gloomy and foreboding as one approaches its lofty western
shore on a sea that routinely produces fog ''as thick as chowder,"
one can see why, during a storm in 1606, Champlain noted in his
journal that Grand Manan was a "miserable place." The
island flattens out on the eastern shore to reveal a much more
appealing shoreline peppered with quaint fishing villages. Grand
Manan is about 60 square miles in size, more than 15 miles in
length and less than half that at its widest point. There are
19 other smaller islands that make up the archipelago in the shallow
waters to the east. Half a dozen of these were once occupied,
but now only the largest, White Head, has year-round residents.
Tiny Ross Island was chosen by the first settlers
and "officially" occupied in 1784. Native Americans
paddled the treacherous waters of Grand Manan Channel long before
these colonists, visiting the islands to collect pipestone for
fashioning pipes and pots, and to gather ceremonial sweet grass
from its marshes. They also harvested porpoises from the surrounding
sea, and these waters still have the largest concentration of
harbor porpoise in the world. The name Manan is apparently of
Indian origin (via "Menano" from French Jesuits in the
early 1600's) meaning "Island Place"; and yes, there
is a Petite Manan farther south off the coast of Maine.
The total population of Grand Manan is less than 3000, although
that number grows significantly in the summer. Most people live,
for good reasons, around five small fishing villages on the eastern
side of the island. This is the only part of the island that is
low, and it has numerous coves with fine harbors that support
the mainstays of the islanders: fishing and "dulsing and
winkling" (collecting dulse seaweed and periwinkles).
The western side of Grand Manan has few breaks in the 300-400
foot ramparts that one early visitor described in epic terms as
"a bold front of overhanging cliffs and lofty mural precipices
of majestic grandeur and beauty." If the international boundary
continued East from here, rather than veering in a politically
expedient dogleg to the southeast, this magnificent coast would
undoubtedly be better known to more of us since these precipices
are notably higher than any other ocean cliffs in Maine or the
rest of the Eastern United States.
Lacking a boat to thoroughly explore this beautiful island, I
set out from the island's ferry landing down the road to the less
populated parts of Grand Manan. Like the early Native Americans,
I was interested in the geological and botanical features of the
place.
Whale Cove faces north and is one of the few scenic features that
is accessible along that side of the island. Fishermen moor larger
boats here as well as launch double-ended skiffs off the cobble-covered
pocket beach inside the cove. There is enough water here for the
deepest draft vessels on the island, and plastic skids nailed
to the boat bottoms allow skiffs to be hauled across the polished
stones to the launch sites. From here the fishermen to weirs ("wears"
in these parts) that are set primarily for herring - or "herrin."
Arriving at Whale Cove to explore two of the better-known geological
features of the island, Hole In The Wall and Seven Day's Work,
I approached a group of fishermen to ask directions. There always
seem to be plenty of experts along any shoreline and fishermen
are no exception. In fact, you can usually assume that a fisherman
knows everything there is to know; just ask him. Although I had
good reason to think none of them had ever had any inclination
to scramble along this rugged shore "to look at a bunch of
rocks," they were, as it turns out, full of information about
what was there ("Beautiful stones!"), how to get there
and how long it would take ("To walk that beach you'll need
more daylight than you've got left in this day."), and tales
other geologists and tourists had told them about the place ("People
come from all over the world to see it.").
Eavesdropping on their "fish talk" (which was interspersed
with concern over baseball and how it just didn't seem right for
a World Series to be held in Canada...) I realized that they were
preparing to get out on the water and sensed an opportunity to
join them in their work. Now I'll take fishing over pounding rocks
anytime, and I've discovered over the years that even the most
reticent fisherman will open up if you ask the "right"
questions; and "bragging up" your labors is an integral
part of that line of work.. So with little effort, other than
helping to launch some skiffs down the steep cobble berm, I was
off on a fishing adventure with those who ply these cold and fertile
waters that lie midway between the Equator and the North Pole.
Their objective was to seine the weirs beneath the two rock forms
I had originally come prepared to explore, and after seeing this
impressive stretch of coast from the relative comfort of an open
boat, it was obvious we never would have reached both objectives
that day; yet here we were enjoying an unprecedented view from
the water.
"Hole In The Wall" is an enormous sea arch in the rocky
cliff that has been cut by waves smashing against the eastern
side of the cove. "Seven Day's Work" is a frightful
300 foot escarpment of nearly horizontal layers of amorphous trap
rock and amygdaloidal basalt that represent repeated flows of
lava during the Triassic Period.
"Trap" is a general term for igneous rocks like basalt
that form columnar or step-like structures as they harden. The
Palisades along the Hudson River, and the Watchung Mountains of
New Jersey are similar material that formed about the same time
as Seven Days Work and under similar conditions. In the Northeast
they are a source of trap rock for road construction. The word
comes from a Swedish word, "trappa," which means stair,
a convenient and graphic description of such rock forms. Amygdaloid
is a geological term that comes from the Greek word for almond,
and it is used for rock that contains almond-shaped mineral nodules.
Rockhounds visit Grand Manan to hunt for crystals of semi-opal
and zeolite in the amygdaloid that falls to the beach below the
cliffs.
Zeolite is more than a novelty for rock collectors. The word translates
into "seething or boiling stone" and if a piece is heated
to remove the water trapped within it, the crystal -which now
has extensive internal surface area to adsorb water- can then
be used in chemical processes for purification and water removal.
Some of the 25 or so types of these pale, soft minerals have been
used for such things as catalysts in oil refineries, water softeners,
and in refrigeration units to adsorb water that contaminates the
Freon.
.The thick layers of rock on the massive, wave battered cliff
are an impressive and disconcerting sight from a boat, even on
a calm day. As we approached the weirs off the cliff, we were
met by two more boats and transferred to the larger of them, a
40-foot tender. Establishing and fishing these nets is no small
task.
Our main objective was the Jubilee weir. Each one is named and
maintained from year to year by a particular family or group,
and it is obvious that even though they cannot be fished easily
after September- "Not because the fish aren't here, but because
of the weather."-particular sites are jealously guarded by
families from here and nearby Deer Island. Weirs that are too
far outside the cove are damaged by winter waves; those that are
too close to shore risk ice damage, but more importantly get a
worse shot at the fish that move along the coast. Such traps acquire
designations like "Hard Luck" and "Try Again."
Fishing the heart-shaped weirs is a labor-intensive operation,
drawing manpower from three generations of fishermen. First the
weir is surveyed for fish with a taut lead line. Even though these
rich waters are surprisingly clear, it is 40-feet deep here and
too dark to see what's down inside the trap. Fishes darting about
bump into the lead line and fishermen claim they can tell from
the vibrations not only how full the net is, but what type of
fishes are there. This seems too incredible to be true and I was
a bit skeptical until I saw the net come in.
Bringing up the net required a dozen people
spread among three boats, plus a scuba diver in the water. First,
the escape route from the half-acre weir was closed off with a
curtain net. Next, from inside the weir the catch-boat crew spread
a seine along its inner perimeter. Simultaneously, the diver secured
the seine along the bottom and the fishermen began to "sweep"
the weir. Once the fishes were surrounded, the seine was pursed
- pulled together at its bottom like an old fashioned lady's purse
- and the catch was brought up to the surface for our first look.
There is an unavoidable sadness that accompanies that atavistic
thrill I get hauling in a net full of fishes. After the initial
excitement of watching them rise to the surface, recognizing the
various species, and admiring their beauty and schooling precision,
I quickly lose my sense of wonder as the outcome of the endeavor
becomes clear to me and the fishes. Some- one reminded me of our
goal with a line from Genesis that seems inauspicious today in
an ocean filled with thousands of miles of drift nets and fish
traps...
" And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon
every beast of the earth ...and upon all of the fishes of the
sea; into your hands they are delivered."
As the fishes panic and lose their gracefulness,
the calm waters become a glistening cauldron of fins, tails and
scales. This point, however, is the moment the fishermen enjoy
the most since it is their livelihood that is thrashing around
in the net ("Money in the bank!").
The catch, as predicted by the wizard with the lead line, was
mostly herring; and perhaps a fifth, mackerel. A few minutes were
allowed for a youngster on board to remove the small incidental
catch; a few dip nets full of "Harbor" pollock and "Black-backs"
(winter flounder) that promptly went into "the bucket for
mom." Also, some menhaden (1 was immediately corrected, "
'pogies' up here."), a large sculpin - ("cat food"),
and even a few squid - ("great for food or fishin' ").
The remaining catch was removed from the net with a Rube Goldberg-type
pumping apparatus that sucked them out of the water through a
pipe alongside our port side and up into a sorting box on top
of the wheelhouse. There, two things happened simultaneously;
the fishes slid down a chute into the hold of a transfer boat
that had come along our starboard side and the pumped water cascaded
down onto our deck. The herring were headed for processing in
Russian factory ships operating east of us in Fundy Bay; the water
was strained through netting on our deck.
A shared characteristic of the various species
of herring is that they easily shed their scales when they are
handled, and as the fishes passed over our heads through the pumping
system, their dislodged scales were diverted by a baffle and collected
on our deck in a mattress-sized, fine mesh bag - "Headin'
for Eastport (Maine); they're the glitter for paint. Herrin' are
like pigs; we use everything but the squeal."
Our next objective was a weir the cove, beneath Hole In The Wall
where a big surprise awaited us. The night before, a 12-foot mince
whale blundered into the trap and was coursing back-and-forth
across the weir like convict in a prison yard. It is startling
how quickly the behavior of wild animal changes in captivity.
Minkes are sometimes times curious about boats, but are quick
and elusive in the open sea. They're sleek, and have been called
"the sports car model" of the great whales. This one,
in its first year and less than half-grown, seemed to ignore our
presence and continuously swam the same exact pattern down the
length of the weir, much like a neurotic captive animal pacing
in a cage at the zoo. She would take a breath at the far end of
the weir and again surface at our end, belly-up as she dove a
second time in front of us, visually searching the sides and bottom
for an escape route under our boat. She maintained this pattern
at a steady pace for the hour or so it took the fishermen to prepare
to seine her out, if that became necessary.
There are a number of creatures that inadvertently
get caught in these fish traps each season. This was the sixth
whale that year; one of them was a Humpback, the rest Minkes.
Some fishermen feel that most marine mammals are smart enough
to avoid the nets after such an encounter. Another adult Minke,
something of a local legend and I guess the Willie Sutton of Fundy
whales, is said to have learned how to safely slip in and out
of weirs for free meals. That one is exceptional however; most
animals that enter a weir stay there until rescued or harvested.
Weirs are an efficient, non-selective fishing technology that
have been proven around the world for centuries, and basking sharks,
large makos, and porpoises are also caught here occasionally.
Giant tuna also make their way this far north and get into the
weirs, but since a permit is needed to catch this threatened species,
they are released; unless, I was told (sotto voce) "You have
a real trustworthy crew."
For the fishermen and their unwanted catch, physically removing
the whale is the least preferred method for several reasons. It
is dangerous work, and even a small whale can do plenty of damage
to nets and boats, as well as to itself and the fishermen. It
is also against the law to injure whales now, and an animal that
might have been dispatched with a rifle 20 years ago, is today
treated more carefully, although not always enthusiastically,
by the fishermen. "She picked the right day to get caught,"
announced the patriarch of the group, referring to the calm and
windless conditions that we were lucky to have for this task;
as well as the upbeat mood of the successful crew.
After an hour of banging on boat bottom with an oar and yelling
was unsuccessful in diverting the whale from her circuit, it was
necessary to begin hauling the seine to try and guide the minke
toward the entrance. This did not work either and only forced
her into a narrower area, risking entanglement between the nets.
Her behavior hardly changed and she continued to swim the same
pattern until it was so confining that she was bumping the seine
at each turn.
Not surprisingly, all the players in this drama began to lose
some of their patience. The crew, who don't get paid by the hour
for this, began using language that could peel paint off the wheelhouse.
The whale, probably issuing her own maledictions beneath the surface,
was for the first time struggling against the net and moving erratically.
Rather than surfacing at a leisurely pace every 30 seconds to
breathe, she began to prepare for deep diving. Unlike humans,
diving whales store little oxygen in their lungs, relying instead
on what is dissolved in blood and tissues. This adaptation seems
to protect them from some of the physiological problems scuba
divers encounter.
Twice she headed for the bottom to ram the net, vigorously emptying
her lungs of air and creating great bubbles at the surface. Both
times she remained under for 10 very disconcerting minutes. On
her final plunge, an agonizing quarter-hour for those of us on
the surface, all movement below the boats stopped. In one final,
exhausting effort, the rest of the net was rapidly hauled to the
surface, revealing her bruised and motionless body.
As the impact of the disaster became apparent to us, everything
in the cove fell eerily quiet. Then as the crew's instincts took
control and they began to unwrap the whale and reclaim their net,
all Hell broke loose. There was a startling rush of air and water
and..."Thar she blows!"...the minke burst halfway out
of the water.
The cussing at this point was some of the liveliest I could imagine
in any language as the whale bounded across the water like a skipped
pebble. Pausing for a moment to get bearings, she headed out to
deep water through a gauntlet of other weirs.
We sat stunned but relieved. For just a moment it was one of those
moments where, real or imagined, everything stopped. Across the
calm, mirrored surface of Whale Cove, we could hear labored breathing
echo against the cliff for a great distance and monitor her retreat
to the safety of open water. As she left the cove, the sounds
of fishermen working and gulls mewing began to replace the silence.
The wind and sea began to rise, and the boats headed for home.
She picked the right day to get caught…
The eastern shore of Grand Manan is carved into several large
coves, and diminished wave action and the accumulation of sediments
allows the formation of tidal marshes in protected areas. As one
travels north along Eastern North America, tidal marshes are smaller
in size because relief of the shoreline, but have variety of plantlife
than southern marshes. Phragmites, the bane of southern marshes,
is conspicuous in its absence from the perimeter of Castalia Marsh,
but other familiar plants from the south, like seaside goldenrod,
plantain, orach, St. Johnswort and salt-spray rose, are common.
Where the freshwater creeks enter the marsh, rush, cat-tail and
pokeweed predominate.
Castalia Marsh is easily accessible from a sand and gravel pocket
beach, dominated by American beachgrass, that separates the wetland
from the sea. It is a popular picnic ground for the residents
and a great observation site for visiting birdwatchers. The long
line of naturalists who have contributed to Grand Manan's list
of 338 species of birdlife includes none other than Audubon himself,
who visited the island in 1833 to collect breeding birds for his
watercolor plate, The Herring Gull.
The marsh is best known for shorebirds though, and at low tide
its firm sandy bottom allows one to hike out across much of the
200 acre wetland to listen for the plaintive "toor-oo-wee"
of incoming black-bellied plovers and to sit among migrating Arctic-bred
shorebirds that stream in to probe the shallows for invertebrates.
The Bay of Fundy is noted for its great, tide ranges and the ebbing
waters expose a great number of creatures to feed hungry birds
and satisfy curious naturalists. Fishes are few in the marsh because
the water is so shallow at low tide, but the little gunnel and
even a squid or two sometimes become isolated, joining the killifishes
in the deeper creeks. The gunnel is one of the five blennies that
are found in the region and is a slender and attractive denizen
that matches the olive and reddish seaweeds it hides amongst.
Local names for it include: "rock gunnel" - because
they like firm bottoms, "rock eel" - because they swim
with eel-like undulations; and "butterfish" because
they are so quick, slippery and difficult to catch by hand. At
low tide, herons and gulls call them "breakfast, lunch and
dinner."
Larger animals, which tend to be nocturnal, leave their mark too;
and the tracks of raccoons, river otter and endemic subspecies
of vole and deer mouse may be found along the perimeter of the
marsh or creeks that empty into it. Because of its remoteness,
land mammals have been slow to repopulate Grand Manan after the
last glaciers retreated about 10,000 years ago. Some animals,
like deer, which are bold enough to cross the marsh during the
day, and snowshoe hares, beaver, raccoons, rats, and house mice,
have had to rely on human help to get here from the mainland.
Except for bats, which have little problem crossing water and
were probably the first land mammal to repopulate these islands,
few animals have the swimming stamina or luck to make it here
and establish populations. The number of species on the island
is but a fraction of the fifty or so found on nearby Mount Desert
Island, which is twice the size of Grand Manan, closer to the
mainland, and provides more habitat types.
The marsh itself is dominated by cordgrass and pickleweed, but
the growth is a bit sparse by southern standards. This may be
because run-off from the upland areas carries sediments downstream
that spread out and smother the marsh, or perhaps the great tidal
flow that flushes these sediments so thoroughly prevents a build
up of needed nutrients.
A century-old photograph that the Historical Society displays
shows the marsh as an even more barren place, so it's also possible
the site is in transition and not developed fully. Like all wetlands,
it is fascinating to explore nonetheless, and locked into its
sediments are clues to the past environmental conditions.
One of the most interesting features of the marsh is the presence
of a forest of buried trees that is exposed at the mid-beach level.
Peat and clay layers are also exposed, documenting much different
ancient environments than exist here today. Since the last ice
sheets retreated, great changes have occurred in the level of
the sea and the location of the shoreline. At times this spot
supported a freshwater bog community with tamarack (larch) trees.
Sea level continues to rise and flood these shores, but will it
will retreat someday, and geological history will repeat itself
here.
More examples of recent and ancient geological changes can be
found farther south at a scenic spot called Red Head, Red Point
or Red Rocks Beach - depending on which islander is giving you
the directions. Here one can see evidence of the most recent geological
events that have shaped the island etched into the rocks that
form it.
Humans seem to find the most beauty in the places where the forces
of nature clash, oppose and destroy each other, Grand Manan is
such a place. This part of the island faces south, is open to
the great unbroken fetch of the Atlantic and is undercut by storm
waves; features that are important in giving the shore its rugged
beauty.
Atop a fifteen foot cliff of eroded rock is a layer of glacial
till that is pock-marked with the nesting cavities of swallows.
It's one of the few prominent exposures of glacial material found
on the island that is suitable for their nests, and an excellent
site to spot wildlife. On a calm day one may see seals leaping
and hunting fishes among eiders, alcids, and cormorants in the
powerful rip tide off the beach. Beachcombing along the sandy
upper part of the cliff reveals relict clam shells - arctic rock-
borers, chalky macomas and truncated soft clams that can also
be found living today in the tidal and sub-tidal zones. They are
vivid reminders that more of Grand Manan was covered by the sea
after the end of the glacial period about 10-12,000 years ago.
Scattered here and widely around Grand Manan is other evidence
of the Ice Age; a few erratics - boulders alien to the island
and brought from the mainland by the glaciers. The best known
of these is the "Flock of Sheep" named by fishermen
because of their huddled appearance when viewed from the sea;
but they can be seen to the south of here from the main road,
too.
However, the really exciting geological history at Red Rocks Beach
is much older than the Pleistocene glaciers and takes us back
to the formation of the Atlantic Ocean. Bedrock of two different
periods is found in contact here, dividing the island along a
line from Red Head back up to Whale Cove. The exposures are quite
evident at Red Rock Beach where one can stand, literally with
one foot on Triassic rocks and the other foot on far older material
that may date from the Precambrian Period.
The "younger" Triassic basalt making up the western
part of Grand Manan was deposited as the continents began to tear
apart during the early stages of the formation of the Atlantic
basin, around 200 million years ago. If we could look back in
time we would see an environment on our East Coast similar to
the Great Rift Valley, where today similar tectonic forces are
tearing Africa apart.
The rocks of the eastern side of the island are thought to be
at least twice the age of the basalt and seem to be part of a
mysterious piece of land called Avalonia. Geologists speculate
that when a primordial ocean closed during the collision of continental
blocks and the assembly of the supercontinent Pangaea, one of
those fragments - or "terranes" as geologists now call
them, was welded to North America; becoming the eastern portion
of Newfoundland, coastal Maine, and extending south to Rhode Island.
Rain is one commodity that is not scarce on this island and runoff
is captured in several ponds and bogs on Grand Manan. Long Pond,
the most picturesque of them, is adjacent to the provincial campground
and is quite accessible. It fits snugly between the spruce forest
that covers much of the upland areas and the best developed dune
fringe on the island In fact, it appears the pond formed as a
result of this pocket beach developing between the forest and
the sea. A short hike takes you from forest, through freshwater
wetlands, across dunes and finally to a beautiful crescent beach.
The pond is shallow and has the expected complement of small fishes,
aquatic insects and plantlife. Noticeably absent are water lilies,
which are common on mainland ponds, but are another species that
does not seem to have made it to the island yet. Unlike the ocean,
the pond water is warm enough for swimming but is usually loaded
with noisy gulls that are preening, splashing around and drinking
the fresh water. As a result there is an interesting windrow of
gull feathers on the shoreline. Deer venture out of the forest
and wade across the pond too, especially at dusk.
The back beach area near the pond is relatively stable and supports
an interesting variety of plants like: primrose, Canadian thistle,
cinquefoil, sneezeweed, ox-eye daisy, dock, angelica (a six-foot
member of the parsley family), iris, rush, freshwater cordgrass
and sweet gale (a northern relative of bayberry). There are also
a few stunted spruce trees hanging-on where the sand shifts around
their trunks and they are battered by salt spray during storms.
Across the cut trunk of one specimen I counted 20 growth rings
per inch; a fairly slow pace for what is normally a vibrant grower.
The middle of the dune area is dominated by a lush, waist-high
expanse of beach peas and chest-high sea lyme grass - the pinch-hitter
for American beach grass on these northern beaches. Other dune
plants like yarrow, aster, St. Johnswort and morning glory, add
a blend of soft colors to the fog-shrouded path to the beach.
The ever-changing beach-face only has few plants besides hardy
annuals like sea rocket, but here one finds a wonderful assortment
of flotsam and jetsam from the northern waters. Beautiful pebbles
from the Red Rocks Beach outcrop, broken shells and even an occasional
seal or porpoise bone rattling in the surf make the shoreline
a noisy place even when the waves are gentile.
Offshore the gulls add to the din with their wailing as they harass
eiders, grebes and each other. It's not unusual to see harbor
porpoise from the beach and in this part of the world it's a good
idea to keep a watchful eye for alcids - the guillemots, razor-bills,
murres and if you are lucky, puffins.
The stranded marinelife is a beachcomber's bouillabaisse of these
cold and fertile waters and includes lobsters, Jonah crabs, sponges,
snails and seaweeds. Beautiful specimens of corallina algae accent
piles of wrack, kelp, Irish sea moss, and of course, dulse.
From this tranquil shore it's a short trip to the isolated southern
tip of Grand Manan where the road (and the island) ends abruptly
at Southern Head Lighthouse. Here one can prudently straddle the
massive 200-foot ledge of jagged basalt that is constantly battered
by the full force of the waves, and have an uninterrupted view
of hundreds of square miles of water that is as wild and beautiful
as when Champlain first sailed it.
Note: Dave Grant, the American Littoral Society's chief naturalist, is a year-round beachcomber and directs Brookdale Community College's Ocean Institute at Sandy Hook, NJ. He provided the drawings and photographs.