Yes, he looks as though he’s wearing baby-blue eye shadow. So does his mate. And so do the other 100,000 or so gannets within cawing distance. You’ve never seen or heard anything like it.
Every summer, more and more of the birds gather on a small Canadian island that’s part of Bonaventure Island Provincial Park. A 45-minute boat ride from the town of Percé on the Quebec coast (430 miles northeast of
Portland, Maine), this dark chunk of rock hosts one of the world’s largest colonies of northern gannets. Park wardens keep moving the barriers to make room, and still the gannets crowd within stroking (or nipping) distance of the trails. Visitors can see not only the whites of their eyes, but also the baby-blue rings around those eyes.
But the gannets aren’t the region’s main attraction. That would be another section of the provincial park, closer to the mainland: Rocher Percé. It lies just offshore, a striking monolith of an islet with an arch-shaped hole through it and a towering sea stack by its side. The rock gave its name to the nearby town (“percé” means “pierced” in French) and became one of the most unlikely tourist hot spots in Canada. How it happened says a lot about Quebec.
It comes down to a matter of perspective. Jutting from Quebec’s southeast coast, Gaspé Peninsula takes its name from the Micmac word “gespeg,” meaning “land’s end.” For the Micmacs, the original inhabitants, it must have felt that way. They were river people, following salmon down the peninsula to the sea. And that was it—the end.
But the Europeans were coming over
the sea from the other direction. For them, this peninsula was just the beginning.
The rich fishing grounds lured anyone with an empty cargo hold. By the end of the 19th century, immigrants from England’s Channel Islands dominated commerce. The Gaspé, it was said, lay closer to the Channel Islands than to the rest of Canada.
Then a funny thing happened. The middle classes of Montreal and Quebec City fell in love with this rustic peninsula and started building summer homes and fancy Victorian hotels. Artists delighted in the picturesque rock formations and clear maritime light.
Later, the Depression hit hard. Tourism lagged. Resourceful locals not only kept fishing, but also promoted unofficial, anti-Prohibition tours of the region. After World War II, Percé became a top honeymoon spot.
By the 1960s, the counterculture was sweeping the province. Percé found a new role as a center for Quebec separatists and hippies. In an oceanfront shack that is now
a high-end seafood restaurant (La Maison
du Pêcheur), revolutionaries planned their takeover of the province. Or, according to one contemporary, “With a beer in hand, wrapped in the Quebec flag [they] roam through the village aboard their deafening motorcycles.”
Nowadays, visitors more likely arrive via minivan. Says Mayor Georges Mamelonet (who co-owns the hippie-hangout-turned-fancy-fish-restaurant), “Tourists don’t just want a fast-food experience. They want to learn something. They come with their families and stay one or two weeks. They paint, or learn diving and kayaking.”
Percé, that ever-adaptable tourist town, has been more than willing to accommodate. Bonaventure Park rangers organize daily events, such as guided walks on the ocean floor during low tide and beach sessions focused on spotting fossils and agates. Entrepreneurs offer whale watching, lobster eating, kayaking with seals, and all manner
of other modern coastal delights.
If that is not enough, an hour’s drive
up the coast leads to Forillon National Park, a lush, protected area on the tip of the peninsula. If visitors want authentic rugged beauty—the same thing that attracted the first tourists all those many years ago—
this is where they’ll end up. Forillon also contains the mountainous ridge that marks the end of the International Appalachian Trail. Or maybe it’s the beginning. It’s all a matter of perspective.
ALSO:
Scenic Surprise: Breathtaking views abound in Gaspé, a colorful harbor town.
