Edward
Thursday 26th August 2004, 16:18
For some time now a few of us here in Iceland have had the idea of organising a pelagic trip, and last Saturday, after lengthy planning, the inaugural Icelandic pelagic set sail into seas unknown. Inspired by tales of Cornwall pelagics and trips across the Bay of Biscay we decided we had to try and get some kind of idea of what the seas south of Iceland held. It was very much a voyage of discovery, none of us having organised a pelagic trip before, and we had no real idea what birds we might encounter apart from the obvious ones such as Fulmar and Great Skua. With the help of the good folk at Bird Forum we got ideas for chum recipes and chumming techniques and the rest was all improvised.
We decided to set out from the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago off the south coast of Iceland because it is the shortest distance from the boundaries of shallow coastal waters and the deep sea. There are fifteen islands in this volcanic chain, the newest one Surtsey rising from the seabed in a four-year eruption between 1963 and 1967. Only one of the islands, Heimaey, is inhabited, and its 4,000 or so residents depend heavily on the rich fishing grounds for their survival. Amongst birders these islands are just as famous for their rare vagrants as for their massive seabird colonies and are, along with the Scillies, south-west Ireland and the Northern Isles one of the best places for American passerines in Europe. Birds found here include Least Bittern, two Belted Kingfishers, the first WP Red-breasted Nuthatch, both WP Ruby-crowned Kinglets, three species of Dendroica warbler including both WP Black-throated Blue Warblers, Black-and-White Warbler, Cedar Waxwing and Scarlet Tanager. The amazing thing is that the island had never been “worked” by birders until last autumn, when finally people put two and two together and found Belted Kingfisher, Black-throated Blue Warbler and Cedar Waxwing in three day-trips there.
Early on Saturday morning a group of 12 birders from the mainland, including five BF members, assembled on the quayside where Yann and I had already mixed a concoction of 100 kg of fish, cod-liver oil, rice crispies and a minute dose of the infamous DMS. Our 12 tonne vessel was a working fishing boat. We left the harbour in warm sunshine at nine o’clock and sailed past vertical cliffs on one side and the massive lava flow from the 1973 eruption which nearly closed the harbour on the other side. This photo I found on the net clearly shows the new lava: http://www.ismennt.is/not/jonasg/0landid/jg03/vestmannae02/vestmannae02.html
the mountain on the left and all that dark land simply wasn’t there pre-1973, it was just a green field!
Looking north to the mainland, or “North Island” as the locals jokingly refer to Iceland, the skyline is dominated by two of the major icecaps on the south coast just a few miles away, the 5,000 foot Eyjafjallajökull and the more extensive Mýrdalsjökull, whose 400 metre thick ice sheet conceals one of Iceland’s most sinister active volcanoes, Katla. See here for a distant view of that.
http://www.ismennt.is/not/jonasg/0landid/jg03/vestmannae04/vestmannae04.html
The first bird to be seen on the trip was a Puffin chick in the harbour and I suddenly realised why the ferry over last night had been full of American children from the US military base at Keflavík. They had come to rescue the Puffin chicks. The Vestmannaeyjar archipelago has easily the largest Atlantic Puffin population in the world and in August, when the chicks are leaving their nests, many of them become disoriented by the lights from the town, and end up wandering the streets at the mercy of cars and cats. The local children wander round putting the chicks in cardboard boxes and keeping them overnight (often being weighed and ringed by local naturalists) before releasing them off the cliffs the next day. It’s one of the absolute highlights of the year for the local kids and a couple of thousand Puffin chicks are rescued this way each August.
As the harbour was full of Puffin chicks it wasn’t surprising to see Great Skuas in the harbour picking off the inexperienced youngsters, and a couple of Arctic Skuas were also showing an interest. We sailed south of the main island Heimaey for two hours on very calm seas, followed by a small but persistent number of Fulmars before reaching a point 14 miles from the island where we decided to throw out the gauze bag containing the chum and pull it behind the boat for a few miles. The result was spectacular! Birds started to stream in, the ubiquitous Fulmar arrived en masse, and half a dozen Great Skuas kept a rapacious eye open for an opportunity. Gannets arrived from nowhere to see what was so attractive, and in the wake the first of the day's numerous Storm Petrels flitted around. I’ve often seen Storm Petrels from land but they have been tiny black and white specks in the scope. Seeing them here in their element, swooping over the surface of the ocean, all identification features clearly visible at close quarters was a real thrill for all of us. Then a medium-sized brown bird breezed past the boat, a Sooty Shearwater, a species I had previously only had distant glimpses of from land. Unfortunately, it veered off and disappeared never to return. We tossed out larger fish and Gannets slammed their brakes on, turning tight circles before plummeting spectacularly for a free meal. A single Knot circled overhead and a noisy party of Arctic Terns, an abundant species in Iceland but rare in the islands, appeared briefly before vanishing into the sun. We then broke the golden rule of pelagic trips and stopped the boat and drifted on the sea just to see what would come to us. Normally this is guaranteed to induce seasickness but the North Atlantic was pancake flat, although we were only a few miles away from what is reputedly the northern hemisphere’s windiest weather station on Heimaey.
There was a very clear hierarchy amongst the seabirds but it was surprising to note that the aggressive Great Skua or the massive Gannet was not at the top of it. Fulmars totally dominated proceedings and if fish were thrown overboard, the numerous Great Skuas were invariably barged out of the way by the abundant Fulmars. Easily the most agile, however, were the Kittiwakes, which if you gave them a chance to escape the massing Fulmars, picked up fish as soon as it hit the surface. After waiting in the sunshine for a couple of hours, some members of the party even falling asleep on deck whilst the rest watched the usual suspects off the boat, we decided to head to a couple of the outlying skerries in the archipelago which hold a considerable Gannet colony. Gannets had followed us all day but when we actually got close to their precipitous volcanic island home, the air filled with them. It was fascinating to watch them leave the cliff tops en masse to investigate us, several hundred birds becoming airborne in a matter of seconds, like wave after wave of bombers heading out on a raid. And like bombers they had heavy payloads, and at one point a whole squadron unleashed a massive shower of guano simultaneously, a squall of droppings which rushed over the sea towards and eventually caught up with the boat, making a real mess. It was the most coordinated piece of carpet bombing I’d ever seen.
We slowly passed the other outlying islands, all uninhabited but with a hut on most to house the Puffin hunters during the late summer. As we got close to home again the large gulls started to reappear, Great Black-backed Gull, Lesser Black-backed Gull and Herring Gull. Heading back to port the last birds we saw were Black Guillemots (Razorbill, Common Guillemot and Brünnich’s Guillemot all breed commonly here but have already left the area) and a few Manx Shearwater near their breeding site, a bird surprisingly absent out at sea, considering 10,000 pairs breed in the islands. So after eight hours, the inaugural Icelandic pelagic returned to port. We didn't see anything “mega” but it was a thoroughly enjoyable trip nonetheless and a real privilege to be able to see Storm Petrels and a Sooty Shearwater out at sea.
After a delightful evening meal, where the choice was either Dogfish, Puffin or pizza, half the party flew back to Reykjavík whilst five of us stayed behind for another night. The great mystery of the trip was why hadn’t we seen any Leach’s Petrels. I know that they don’t tend to come to boats but the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago holds the bulk of the WP population, with up to 150,000 pairs breeding in this small island chain. We’d been sailing for eight hours in the sea south of these dense colonies and not seen a single bird! So that evening we decided to see if we could tape-lure some and ring them, as one of the party had a special affection for these birds having ringed many thousands of Storm Petrels, Leach’s Petrels and Iceland’s only Wilson’s Petrel in his time. After dark we set up on the cliffs, admiring an early aurora borealis display above. We put up the mist-nets, turned the CD on and if you’ve never heard the call of Leach’s Petrel before, it’s a real treat. It’s a Nightjar like rattling interspersed with extraordinary maniacal 8-note laughs. The first two hours drew a blank, and we were running out of patience when suddenly out of the gloom something fluttered around us and clearly answered the cackle on the tape. It was clearly bigger than a Storm Petrel and did five or so circuits above us, before heading off into the night. We attracted about five or six more birds but none could be persuaded to come into the net. Nevertheless it was a new bird on my life list and in fact the last regular Icelandic breeder I had yet to see. I was thrilled to have seen it but my friend told me I must visit the actual breeding colony on one of the outlying islands where there are tens of thousands of birds fluttering around your head in the dark, all “laughing.”
It was a fitting end to a memorable day. I hope the pelagic becomes a permanent fixture in the Icelandic birding calendar.
E
We decided to set out from the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago off the south coast of Iceland because it is the shortest distance from the boundaries of shallow coastal waters and the deep sea. There are fifteen islands in this volcanic chain, the newest one Surtsey rising from the seabed in a four-year eruption between 1963 and 1967. Only one of the islands, Heimaey, is inhabited, and its 4,000 or so residents depend heavily on the rich fishing grounds for their survival. Amongst birders these islands are just as famous for their rare vagrants as for their massive seabird colonies and are, along with the Scillies, south-west Ireland and the Northern Isles one of the best places for American passerines in Europe. Birds found here include Least Bittern, two Belted Kingfishers, the first WP Red-breasted Nuthatch, both WP Ruby-crowned Kinglets, three species of Dendroica warbler including both WP Black-throated Blue Warblers, Black-and-White Warbler, Cedar Waxwing and Scarlet Tanager. The amazing thing is that the island had never been “worked” by birders until last autumn, when finally people put two and two together and found Belted Kingfisher, Black-throated Blue Warbler and Cedar Waxwing in three day-trips there.
Early on Saturday morning a group of 12 birders from the mainland, including five BF members, assembled on the quayside where Yann and I had already mixed a concoction of 100 kg of fish, cod-liver oil, rice crispies and a minute dose of the infamous DMS. Our 12 tonne vessel was a working fishing boat. We left the harbour in warm sunshine at nine o’clock and sailed past vertical cliffs on one side and the massive lava flow from the 1973 eruption which nearly closed the harbour on the other side. This photo I found on the net clearly shows the new lava: http://www.ismennt.is/not/jonasg/0landid/jg03/vestmannae02/vestmannae02.html
the mountain on the left and all that dark land simply wasn’t there pre-1973, it was just a green field!
Looking north to the mainland, or “North Island” as the locals jokingly refer to Iceland, the skyline is dominated by two of the major icecaps on the south coast just a few miles away, the 5,000 foot Eyjafjallajökull and the more extensive Mýrdalsjökull, whose 400 metre thick ice sheet conceals one of Iceland’s most sinister active volcanoes, Katla. See here for a distant view of that.
http://www.ismennt.is/not/jonasg/0landid/jg03/vestmannae04/vestmannae04.html
The first bird to be seen on the trip was a Puffin chick in the harbour and I suddenly realised why the ferry over last night had been full of American children from the US military base at Keflavík. They had come to rescue the Puffin chicks. The Vestmannaeyjar archipelago has easily the largest Atlantic Puffin population in the world and in August, when the chicks are leaving their nests, many of them become disoriented by the lights from the town, and end up wandering the streets at the mercy of cars and cats. The local children wander round putting the chicks in cardboard boxes and keeping them overnight (often being weighed and ringed by local naturalists) before releasing them off the cliffs the next day. It’s one of the absolute highlights of the year for the local kids and a couple of thousand Puffin chicks are rescued this way each August.
As the harbour was full of Puffin chicks it wasn’t surprising to see Great Skuas in the harbour picking off the inexperienced youngsters, and a couple of Arctic Skuas were also showing an interest. We sailed south of the main island Heimaey for two hours on very calm seas, followed by a small but persistent number of Fulmars before reaching a point 14 miles from the island where we decided to throw out the gauze bag containing the chum and pull it behind the boat for a few miles. The result was spectacular! Birds started to stream in, the ubiquitous Fulmar arrived en masse, and half a dozen Great Skuas kept a rapacious eye open for an opportunity. Gannets arrived from nowhere to see what was so attractive, and in the wake the first of the day's numerous Storm Petrels flitted around. I’ve often seen Storm Petrels from land but they have been tiny black and white specks in the scope. Seeing them here in their element, swooping over the surface of the ocean, all identification features clearly visible at close quarters was a real thrill for all of us. Then a medium-sized brown bird breezed past the boat, a Sooty Shearwater, a species I had previously only had distant glimpses of from land. Unfortunately, it veered off and disappeared never to return. We tossed out larger fish and Gannets slammed their brakes on, turning tight circles before plummeting spectacularly for a free meal. A single Knot circled overhead and a noisy party of Arctic Terns, an abundant species in Iceland but rare in the islands, appeared briefly before vanishing into the sun. We then broke the golden rule of pelagic trips and stopped the boat and drifted on the sea just to see what would come to us. Normally this is guaranteed to induce seasickness but the North Atlantic was pancake flat, although we were only a few miles away from what is reputedly the northern hemisphere’s windiest weather station on Heimaey.
There was a very clear hierarchy amongst the seabirds but it was surprising to note that the aggressive Great Skua or the massive Gannet was not at the top of it. Fulmars totally dominated proceedings and if fish were thrown overboard, the numerous Great Skuas were invariably barged out of the way by the abundant Fulmars. Easily the most agile, however, were the Kittiwakes, which if you gave them a chance to escape the massing Fulmars, picked up fish as soon as it hit the surface. After waiting in the sunshine for a couple of hours, some members of the party even falling asleep on deck whilst the rest watched the usual suspects off the boat, we decided to head to a couple of the outlying skerries in the archipelago which hold a considerable Gannet colony. Gannets had followed us all day but when we actually got close to their precipitous volcanic island home, the air filled with them. It was fascinating to watch them leave the cliff tops en masse to investigate us, several hundred birds becoming airborne in a matter of seconds, like wave after wave of bombers heading out on a raid. And like bombers they had heavy payloads, and at one point a whole squadron unleashed a massive shower of guano simultaneously, a squall of droppings which rushed over the sea towards and eventually caught up with the boat, making a real mess. It was the most coordinated piece of carpet bombing I’d ever seen.
We slowly passed the other outlying islands, all uninhabited but with a hut on most to house the Puffin hunters during the late summer. As we got close to home again the large gulls started to reappear, Great Black-backed Gull, Lesser Black-backed Gull and Herring Gull. Heading back to port the last birds we saw were Black Guillemots (Razorbill, Common Guillemot and Brünnich’s Guillemot all breed commonly here but have already left the area) and a few Manx Shearwater near their breeding site, a bird surprisingly absent out at sea, considering 10,000 pairs breed in the islands. So after eight hours, the inaugural Icelandic pelagic returned to port. We didn't see anything “mega” but it was a thoroughly enjoyable trip nonetheless and a real privilege to be able to see Storm Petrels and a Sooty Shearwater out at sea.
After a delightful evening meal, where the choice was either Dogfish, Puffin or pizza, half the party flew back to Reykjavík whilst five of us stayed behind for another night. The great mystery of the trip was why hadn’t we seen any Leach’s Petrels. I know that they don’t tend to come to boats but the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago holds the bulk of the WP population, with up to 150,000 pairs breeding in this small island chain. We’d been sailing for eight hours in the sea south of these dense colonies and not seen a single bird! So that evening we decided to see if we could tape-lure some and ring them, as one of the party had a special affection for these birds having ringed many thousands of Storm Petrels, Leach’s Petrels and Iceland’s only Wilson’s Petrel in his time. After dark we set up on the cliffs, admiring an early aurora borealis display above. We put up the mist-nets, turned the CD on and if you’ve never heard the call of Leach’s Petrel before, it’s a real treat. It’s a Nightjar like rattling interspersed with extraordinary maniacal 8-note laughs. The first two hours drew a blank, and we were running out of patience when suddenly out of the gloom something fluttered around us and clearly answered the cackle on the tape. It was clearly bigger than a Storm Petrel and did five or so circuits above us, before heading off into the night. We attracted about five or six more birds but none could be persuaded to come into the net. Nevertheless it was a new bird on my life list and in fact the last regular Icelandic breeder I had yet to see. I was thrilled to have seen it but my friend told me I must visit the actual breeding colony on one of the outlying islands where there are tens of thousands of birds fluttering around your head in the dark, all “laughing.”
It was a fitting end to a memorable day. I hope the pelagic becomes a permanent fixture in the Icelandic birding calendar.
E