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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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Duncan Murrell - A Whale of a Time

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  • Ancient “blue” iceberg, Le Conte Inlet, Southeast Alaska, USA.
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  • When I was camping on one of the Los Candeleros islets, I was sharing it with three ravens. They were rolling and tumbling acrobatically in the updraughts that were whipping up the precipitous face of the island. I have developed a special affinity with that most ubiquitous, intelligent and successful of all birds over many years in Alaska, where their amazing repertoire of calls is an integral feature of the ancient forests. I have even learnt how to mimic some of their calls and capture their attention. After a few days cutting the ice with my fellow residents one of them started flying out to my kayak to seemingly greet me whenever I returned to the island; it would circle overhead whilst calling out and then escort me back to shore.<br />
After a couple of weeks of familiarisation my glossy black friend vanished. A few days later I landed on a nearby beach at Ensenada Blanca to visit an American living in the local fishing village. As I stepped ashore I noticed a raven flying demonstrably towards me. I replied to its raven calls and it flew overhead and did a few rolls as if it was showing off. The acknowledgement was plain to see, rather like a dog wagging its tail. Then it flew ahead of me and proceeded to harass and dislodge the turkey vultures that were perched in the trees. After each successful assault it called out and then proceeded to dislodge another vulture in the next tree; within seconds the sky was full of screeching, disgruntled vultures! It seemed as if the raven was clearly intoxicated with its own sense of bravado, and maybe it was even trying to impress me. When I arrived at the American’s house at the end of the beach I told him about the hilarious encounter with my shiny black friend and when he looked out of the doorway to see if the raven was still out there he looked at me, laughed, and informed me that it was waiting outside for me, and sure enough it was perched on a cactus just a few metres from the door!
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  • Highland cattle near the track from Kinloch to Harris below Askival. The weather could be quickly changeable and bleak while I was on Rum, even though it was still late summer. The misty moorland conditions reminded me very much of being on my local moorland area of Dartmoor in Devon, but instead of shaggy highland cattle, Dartmoor has wild ponies and shaggy versions of other breeds of cattle, although there are a few highland cattle on Dartmoor too. I didn’t see that many highland cattle on Rum but a lot more red deer there. They have been the subject of research there for many years. It has been important in the development of socio-biology and behavioural ecology. In addition to its status as a nature reserve, Rum was designated a Biosphere Reserve from 1976 to 2002, a Site of Special Scientific Interest on 1987, and has 17 sites scheduled as nationally important ancient monuments. Rum is also noted for its bird life. Its population of 70,000 Manx shearwaters is one of the largest breeding colonies in the world. These migrating birds spend their winters in the South Atlantic off Brazil, and return to Rum every summer to breed in underground burrows high in the Cuillin Hills. White-tailed sea eagles were exterminated on the island by 1912 and later became extinct in Scotland. A programme of re-introduction began in 1975, and within ten years 82 young sea eagles from Norway had been released. There is now a successful breeding population in the wild. My most memorable wildlife encounter on Rum was being able to watch one of these magnificent birds soaring upwards through the steep precipitous valley on the seaward side of Askival and Ainshval.
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  • This is a view towards the Isle of Rum, from the northern side of An Sgurr across the central moorland plateau, with a series of lochs along the way. The Bay of Laig and the northernmost point of the island where I was camping can be seen to the right of Rum. This was a fantastic hike with breathtaking views all the way. For much of my younger days I had Dartmoor to enjoy as my regular local camping and hiking destination so I was well used to hiking across moorland terrain with ocean views to the north and south of Devon, but not as close as this on the islands of the Inner Hebrides. It was truly magical to be hiking across this ancient rugged terrain, with the sea and other islands always enhancing the view, and adding greatly to the sense of isolation and perspective. I seem to remember that my feet were quite sore by the time that I got back to my camp at the northern tip of the island in the fading light. It was one of my classic “race against the fading light” hikes, especially with a precarious coastal footpath to negotiate at the end.
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  • Shortly after arriving on Mull I experienced some of the wettest and windiest conditions that I have ever experienced anywhere, and that is saying something! I didn’t know it at the time but it was actually the tail end of the infamous Hurricane Katrina. I was still using an old tent that I had used for over 20 years, and when I bought it in Seattle it was one of the most advanced, extreme condition tents available, with its 2 walls connected, and just one main sturdy staking point at each end making it quicker and easier to erect. It was called the “Omnipotent”, and had been tested in high winds in Antarctica, but now that it was 20 years old it was completely “Impotent” in the assault of wind and rain that it was subjected too. It could just about withstand the strong gusts of wind but not the torrential rain, and my tent became flooded, and my equally ancient down sleeping bag rendered into a big bag of soggy porridge. I abandoned my tent and sought refuge in the village hall, where I was able to hang all of my wet gear up to dry. Some of the residents that I spoke to were surprised that I had been camping out in such severe weather conditions and informed me that it was the most rainfall that they could recall in living memory. Once I had dried all my gear out I pitched my tent on a designated camping area overlooking the harbour, which even had the considerate luxury of propane CO2 burners for trapping the bothersome midges. I wasn’t quite sure what it was until I saw the clear receptacle full of midges packed into a dense black cake of their minute bodies. I have forgotten to mention them up until now but they are undoubtedly the living and biting scourge of camping in Scotland. Fortunately it was usually windy enough to keep them away for the majority of the time that I was there, but I do remember on some occasions, particularly on Lunga, that I was glad that I had a head-net to wear.
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