Breakfast was in a coffee shop in downtown Portsmouth.
While we ignored the House Sparrows looking for freebies, I took a moment to
snap some more pics. Low and behold, I
found myself looking at the cannons that were confiscated by Oliver HazardPerry after victory over the British in the Battle of Lake Erie. 1813 cannons in the streets of Portsmouth
from a battle that took place a few miles from my house. I had no idea.
A short stop at a local state park provided glimpses of
Northern Mockingbird (a critter I had no idea could be found so far north along
the coast) and Least Sandpipers along the beach. I was hoping for a seal but it
was not to be had.
The remnants of shoreline fortifications were
obvious. During the World War II years,
there was always the fear of coastal invasions.
Artillery was in place for defense. While the guns are long gone, the
rails that allowed for an increase in the arc of fire are still in plain site.
I suspect someone could think that they were giant fire pits, but……
By 11:00am, Nat and I were ready for what would turn out
to be a highlight of the trip (I don’t believe in the concept of the highlight,
I have highlights).
We went whaling.
Aw, shoot. That’s not right. Whale watching. That’s what I meant. No killing for meat and disguising it as scientific research. Nope. Just
shooting…with cameras.
The purpose of the watch was two-fold. One, to give Nat the chance to see a whale up
close (her fat slob husband doesn’t count) and two, for us to do some birding
and score some birds we’ll likely never see in Michigan. Even though we were 13 miles off shore, there
are still birds to be had. Seabirds, to
be exact.
Basically, these birds spend most of their lives at sea.
If they nest in the south Atlantic, for example, they migrate for the winter by
moving north, not south. Therefore, they
are found frequenting our coastal waters during our summer (their winter). It all sounds kind of odd, but it makes sense
if you think about it.
The four hour run could not have been more pleasant.
We’ve all heard the horror stories of tremendous waves, flying vomit and the
groans of those that wished they had died. That was not the case here. Imagine a walk across your family room floor
or a grocery store parking lot. It was
that smooth. How cool.
I won’t lie. The birding was hardly spectacular. One of
the tricks to seabirding is to “chum” by dumping buckets of fish guts into the
ocean behind the boat. The birds will
smell it from miles away with their tremendous olfactory sense and follow
behind the boat offering great looks. No chumming here. It was a whale watch, not a
bird watch.
That said, we scored numerous Wilson’s Storm Petrels. Not
much bigger than a Robin, they would saunter past the boat but my camera (or
its operator) struggled to secure a solid auto-focus. I take that back - definitely the camera's fault.
The one best shot I had of a Great Shearwater was exactly
what I feared. It moved between the boat and the sun. With no clouds and the
bright sun reflecting off the water, it was backlit, but I managed to save the
image (I think….).
The odd bird of the trip was clearly the Chimney Swift.
Thirteen miles out? Wow!
All that said, the highlight of the trip had to have been
0050. That is the official identity of a
very particular humpback whale. Whale researchers are able to identify whales
based on a patterns of spots on the underside of the fluke or other key
features (like an injury). With specific
identities known, migration patterns and locations can be determined for the
greater scientific good.
When the whale holds its breath during a dive, incredible
amounts of carbon dioxide are generated. Since the air above the water is can
be colder and less dense than the water the whale is in, upon exhalation, the
water condenses and becomes a cloud of water vapor. Sometimes, they blow before they reach the
surface. Extra water is thrown into the mix.
Big blows can be seen at incredible distances.
This next picture was just plane lucky on my part. It is a very unique part of the whale known
as the blowhole. It is basically the
nostril found on other mammals (remember, whales are not fish) but it is
located on the top of the whale’s noggin.
Even more cool, the blowhole is not connected to the
animal’s mouth. Unlike you and me, for
example, air and food never mix. Food
entering their mouth is channeled to the stomach via the esophagus but it never
comes close to the lungs. By the same token, whales never get a giant case of
the belchs because they don’t swallow air. Their internal plumbing is not
connected like ours.
Cetacean researchers (fancy speak for whale scientists)
have moved forward with a new vocabulary.
In light of the recent presidential issues, they have made a motion to
rename the blowhole the Trump-hole. This
is reflected in the fact that the whale expels hot air and mucous every time is
surfaces from the deep, dark abyss. When it does, crowds of people stand around
with the obligatory cheers, ooohs and aaaahs, but really have no idea about
what they are cheering about.
With a vomit-free boat ride behind us, except for that
little girl who was horribly embarrassed when she urped on herself, it was time
to move along. Had she, however thrown up over board, we could have called it
chumming and maybe seen more birds!
After a quick stop to secure needed things, we pressed on the
Vermont-New Hampshire border. It was sad
to the ocean disappear in the rearview mirror. So much time along the coast and
yet we hardly saw it.
Lodging was in the town of Lebanon, New Hampshire.
Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves basically right next door to a
brewery. The Seven Barrel Brewery was a
fine place. The Shepard’s Pie was damned
good and good beer made it better. The
Quechee Cream Ale, New Dublin Brown, Red #7, Champion Reserve IPA, Oatmeal
Stout, and Quite Ryeit (#1616-1621) were all average. The Wicked Dark (#1622),
however, was outstanding. Dark (duh),
caramelly (is that a word?), smooth with a touch of alcohol tones on the finish…mmmmm. A “5” for sure.
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