Every year, exciting things happen in Berners Bay. Eulachon (a.k.a. hooligan) run into the rivers to spawn. Herring come in great shoals and often spawn on the rocky shoreline there. And, of course, hordes of their predators come to feast. Every year, also, a little group of kayaking friends tries to be there when all that show is going on. It’s a bit of a lottery: Sometimes we find an almost empty bay; sometimes we hit it big-time. This year was a good one!
We got off the beach in Echo Cove by nine o’clock, in good paddling conditions. On the way up-bay, we saw several humpback whales, cruising around, frequently lunge-feeding. This was a good sign that there might be a show developing in the bay. A strange sight was a northern harrier being chased by a squad of gulls. Had it tried an on-the-water snatch, arousing their defensive reaction?
A snarling, writhing ball of dark fur resolved itself into two river otters as we passed. “Otter-wauling” seems to accompany the mating process in otters for some unexplained reason. Although otters mate in spring, the undeveloped embryo does not implant in the female’s uterus until fall, and the cubs are born the following spring. Delayed implantation is common among members of the weasel family.
Last fall, we rented the Forest Service cabin for the last weekend in April. Because there were six of us and the cabin is small, two of us chose to set up our tents near the cabin. Cosiness is nice, but there are limits …
Arriving at the cabin about noon, we had plenty of time for settling in and then doing a bit of exploring. Some of us hiked over to the waterfall to see if dippers live there (they do). Along the quasi-trail that squirms along just above the edge of the cliffy shoreline, we found the feathery remains of some predator’s lunch. A few yards farther one, there was another one. And then another. We puzzled over the identity of the feathered prey—black and white, yes, but there are many black and white birds. Then we found yet another scattering of feathers, with some bones and a bill. Aha! These were the remains of a common murre. As we scrambled along, eventually we found nine of ten leftovers from the lunch of the predator(s) — probably eagles. So we called this route Murre-der Row.
That evening, things were popping right in front of the cabin. Bonaparte’s gulls were diving for tiny fish near the shore — probably catching young pink salmon that had hatched recently. A shoal of herring arrived and predators soon followed. Sea lions, mostly juveniles, were having a grand time, often porpoising in pursuit of their dinner. Some invisible underwater predator, presumably a big fish such as a king salmon, was terrorizing the herring too. Panicked herring were leaping every-which-way out of the water. Some of them stranded themselves, or stunned themselves, on the shoreline rocks. The local raven took full advantage of these freebies, making regular trips, fully loaded with fat herring, from the rocks to a particular place (presumably a nest) south of the cabin.
This same raven, or its mate, had earlier scavenged things from the outflow of the tiny stream by the cabin, where previous cabin users had dumped their garbage. Body parts of Dungeness crab still lay near the tideline, along with bits of cauliflower (!), which were wisely rejected.
As twilight crept in, we heard the song of our first Hermit Thrush. A fine ending to a good day.
• Mary F. Willson is a retired professor of ecology.