To me, a surprisingly large number of people at the Misery Bay BioBlitz—maybe sixty. Among these, I found myself on the lower end of the knowledge continuum as there were serious birders, DNR folk, members of the Manitoulin Nature Club, and numbers of retired biological professors. However, I am good at asking questions.

We were supposed to go out in groups to specific areas and then canvass the herps—reptiles and amphibians. I had previously been assigned to the wetland group, and after we walked the trail from the Misery Bay Center to the Bay itself, which is a good walk, we had to stop and switch footgear, in my case changing my nice waterproof Cabelas boots for brother John’s chest waders.

Once that was done, we marched off across the alvar and into the fen. And what a fen it was—vast expanses of wetland where water is trapped and unable to flow somewhere else. It’s very hummocky and uneven, sometimes inches deep, sometimes up to the knees (you never know), and almost always with a mucky bottom that does not want to let go of your foot. Falling over seemed a possibility with every step.

I marched for what seemed miles and had great fun looking at things, but I’m quite sure I never saw a herp, and I’m quite sure no one else in my group did either.

By about half past noon I decided all I was capable of, ideally, was a return trip, especially since I was beginning to suspect that I was losing the skin on my shins. So I turned back. When back on solid land I shucked off the waders, snuggled gratefully into my old boots, found a dry patch of sand on the edge of the forest, and had lunch. I’m quite sure the other members of my group had to take their lunch standing up, because there was no place in that vast fen to sit down.

Scientifically, I would say the BioBlitz produced little original or useful data. Amongst all the other groups I questioned, I heard of, at most, half a dozen salamanders. Not a single Blanding’s turtle, which is rare and endangered and the primary object of our search. (Of course, it was a chilly, gray day, and Blanding’s, like most other folk, prefer climbing out of the muck only when it is sunny and warm.)

However, in talking to the birding experts I found the answer to the question that has been bothering for a month: what is the bird we always hear when walking the lane, that goes “teacher, teacher, teacher?”

It’s an Ovenbird, and there are lots of them around here, although being tiny and elusive, they are hard to see.

Conclusion? Mostly fun, mostly social, hardly scientific. And, also and emphatically, here on the shores of Mudge Bay we have as much, if not more, wildlife as Misery Bay, or anywhere else. And, here, waders are optional.

Heading toward the outer fen, which is beyond the line of trees.

Pitcher plant, with its mouth  open hoping to swallow an insect, since it can't get enough nutrient from the fen itself. — Pitcher plant, with its mouth open hoping to swallow an insect, since it can't get enough nutrient from the fen itself.

And, finally, on almost dry land, Manitoulin Gold, or Lakeside Daisy. Found almost nowhere else but on the Manitoulin alvar.