Well, here I am, as far south as you can go in Canada, on the same latitude as Barcelona, Spain and some parts of northern California. Point Pelee is one of Canada’s smallest parks, yet it harbors some of the most diverse flora and fauna anywhere in Canada and is home to five different ecosystems. It is also a birder’s paradise, and at this time of the year the migratory flocks bring in the crowds. Earlier in March is when the waterbirds stop over on the way to far north destinations. Now in May it is the warblers and finches that are flocking to this tiny spit of land.
I left home at the worst possible time, hitting Toronto just in time for rush hour. Gah, my four-and-a-half-hour drive quickly became several hours longer. I often brag about being in my fifties and have never received a speeding ticket. Umm, well after five hours of driving I was going a touch fast, and there they are, the red and blue lights of a police car directing me to pull over. I had a panic moment, with Duke’s of Hazard chases circling through my adrenaline-fueled brain. Common sense kicked in and instead of hitting the gas I hit my signal and pulled over. Sigh, I can no longer brag about no tickets, thought the officer was friendly and kindly reduced my ticket substantially so that I could avoid any points, and my fine went from a hefty dollar amount to a more bearable 52 dollars. The remainder of my day’s travels resumed at a more sedate pace, though the farther I went the faster my old car seemed to want to go, though I certainly tried to reign her in. Fortunately, I arrived at the park entrance with no further police involvement.
Just idling at the park entrance, I was enthralled by the tall trees with high canopies, encircled with red and green ivy that flowed up the small trunks to drape among the high branches. Flittering among the branches of these sycamores and swooping low over the cars were multitudes of swallows, black and white acrobats performing feats of amazing grace and speed. The air almost vibrated with the songs of hundreds of warblers, finches and songbirds using this park as a lay over on their migratory route. Once past the main entrance, keep driving south until you can drive no further. The visitor centre is a busy place, and I overheard other patrons discussing how later in the year there is little to no parking. As I hoisted my small day pack and grabbed my poles, I had a moment of consternation as I realized I must have missed the memo about the appropriate uniform to wear. Group after group passed me, most dressed in excessive khaki, big Tilley hats, and draped in binoculars and camera gear, and let’s not forget the white sport socks tucked into hiking shoes. I had a moment of wondering if I had stumbled upon some strange cult, and as the day progressed, I realized that birders are a tribe of their own, though a wonderfully kind and diverse group of individuals who love their feathered brethren.
I jumped on the free tram to head even further south, to an area called the Tip. The trails are easy to follow, wide and soft with sand. Those sycamores reach overhead, heavy with birds, and after a short walk you leave the trees to walk out on a sandy spit of land that narrows to a triangle. On one side is the gentle lapping of water, deep blue and clear. A mere fifty feet away is the other side of the spit, with heavy waves crashing on the brown pebbled beaches. The water here is turquoise and turbulent, but out beyond the breakers the lake becomes a deeper green, with water birds bobbing in the soft waves, and even further out that deep blue typical of our great lakes. There are numerous warnings about the rip tides here, as the two currents meet at the spit and fight for supremacy. I stood, toes as far out on those last few grains of sand as I could get, cold water lapping and pulling at me, and marvelled at this natural wonder. As the warm sun beat on my shoulders, I knew I was in a place I may never get to experience again.
Well, here I am, as far south as you can go in Canada, on the same latitude as Barcelona, Spain and some parts of northern California. Point Pelee is one of Canada’s smallest parks, yet it harbors some of the most diverse flora and fauna anywhere in Canada and is home to five different ecosystems. It is also a birder’s paradise, and at this time of the year the migratory flocks bring in the crowds. Earlier in March is when the waterbirds stop over on the way to far north destinations. Now in May it is the warblers and finches that are flocking to this tiny spit of land.
I left home at the worst possible time, hitting Toronto just in time for rush hour. Gah, my four-and-a-half-hour drive quickly became several hours longer. I often brag about being in my fifties and have never received a speeding ticket. Umm, well after five hours of driving I was going a touch fast, and there they are, the red and blue lights of a police car directing me to pull over. I had a panic moment, with Duke’s of Hazard chases circling through my adrenaline-fueled brain. Common sense kicked in and instead of hitting the gas I hit my signal and pulled over. Sigh, I can no longer brag about no tickets, thought the officer was friendly and kindly reduced my ticket substantially so that I could avoid any points, and my fine went from a hefty dollar amount to a more bearable 52 dollars. The remainder of my day’s travels resumed at a more sedate pace, though the farther I went the faster my old car seemed to want to go, though I certainly tried to reign her in. Fortunately, I arrived at the park entrance with no further police involvement.
Just idling at the park entrance, I was enthralled by the tall trees with high canopies, encircled with red and green ivy that flowed up the small trunks to drape among the high branches. Flittering among the branches of these sycamores and swooping low over the cars were multitudes of swallows, black and white acrobats performing feats of amazing grace and speed. The air almost vibrated with the songs of hundreds of warblers, finches and songbirds using this park as a lay over on their migratory route. Once past the main entrance, keep driving south until you can drive no further. The visitor centre is a busy place, and I overheard other patrons discussing how later in the year there is little to no parking. As I hoisted my small day pack and grabbed my poles, I had a moment of consternation as I realized I must have missed the memo about the appropriate uniform to wear. Group after group passed me, most dressed in excessive khaki, big Tilley hats, and draped in binoculars and camera gear, and let’s not forget the white sport socks tucked into hiking shoes. I had a moment of wondering if I had stumbled upon some strange cult, and as the day progressed, I realized that birders are a tribe of their own, though a wonderfully kind and diverse group of individuals who love their feathered brethren.
I jumped on the free tram to head even further south, to an area called the Tip. The trails are easy to follow, wide and soft with sand. Those sycamores reach overhead, heavy with birds, and after a short walk you leave the trees to walk out on a sandy spit of land that narrows to a triangle. On one side is the gentle lapping of water, deep blue and clear. A mere fifty feet away is the other side of the spit, with heavy waves crashing on the brown pebbled beaches. The water here is turquoise and turbulent, but out beyond the breakers the lake becomes a deeper green, with water birds bobbing in the soft waves, and even further out that deep blue typical of our great lakes. There are numerous warnings about the rip tides here, as the two currents meet at the spit and fight for supremacy. I stood, toes as far out on those last few grains of sand as I could get, cold water lapping and pulling at me, and marvelled at this natural wonder. As the warm sun beat on my shoulders, I knew I was in a place I may never get to experience again.
I turned back up the east side of the spit, shoes off and toes digging into that warm sand. The bleached bones of driftwood piled up against the small banks like the bones of prehistoric beasts. I had no interest in returning using the shuttle, and instead enjoyed a leisurely stroll back through beaches, woodland forests and groves of black walnut. Red wing blackbirds and orioles provided their chorus to my travels, and the undergrowth was thick with mayberry and anise root. Back at my car I headed north, to the marsh boardwalk. Here the swallows nested around the observation tower, often coming close enough with their swoops to almost touch as they grabbed at insects in the air.
The boardwalk is well maintained and is an easy distance to travel for any visitor. Pale brown reeds bend with the wind, and the red winged black bird balances delicately on the top of the swaying reeds, showcasing his distinctive red epaulets. Out in the marsh map turtles and painted turtles sun themselves in the spring sun, and long thin gar fish maneuver through the narrow channels. A started black bird landed on a moss-covered turtle sitting on a partially submerged log, only to have that turtle slowly slide into the water. Up ahead a young girl motioned me to silence while beckoning me closer. Underneath the boardwalk water sloshed back and forth, until a sleek beaver pulled himself out only feet from where we stood, only to push some mud out and then once again disappear back under the boardwalk. I headed home with an intense feeling of calm and love of how beautiful our planet is, and with less stress my driving speed remained at a respectable pace. Even with the crowds, this is a place of stunning beauty and abundant wild life, and should be on every persons bucket list.