Puffin Day!

Today was Monday, which meant it was Puffin Day!

Following morning worship and brief study of the geology and wildlife of the Isle of Iona and the Isle of Staffa, we considered ourselves ready for an afternoon outing. Our weather was fabulous and, taking off jackets and putting on sunscream, we piled into a boat for Staffa, which is about 45 minutes by water from Iona.

Staffa's main attraction -- and oh, boy, is it an attraction -- is the geologic formation of its southern end. Huge pillars of black volcanic basalt stand at attention, looking like a giant pipe organ. (Mary Kay, this one's for you.) Actually enormous hexagonal crystals of basalt, these rock columns are breathtaking. Formed into them is a very large cave called Fingal's Cave, stunning in its geometric complexity, its size and its eery sounds with wind and water in the enclosed space.

But this week was also the last week of puffin season on Staffa and the birds were tough competition for Fingal's Cave. We climbed up steep stairs to get to the somewhat hilly plateau at the top of the island, then walked to the highest hill. The edges of the cliffs at this high point had many burrows dug by the puffins for their nests.

Rightfully perceiving that humans provided protection from the gulls that wanted them (and their chicks) for lunch, the puffins would come within several feet of us as we sat on the grass at the edge of the cliff. Upon our return, we shall show you some of the wonderful puffin pictures taken by Doug and Steve H. Our photographers were intrepid, relying on prayer alone to save them as they ventured close to cliff-edges. Steve W. -- one never comfortable with heights -- spent most of his time not looking at puffins, but trying to save the womenfolk by grabbing us by the arm and hauling us back to what he felt was a safe distance from the precipice. He also kept up a constant stream of muttering about Doug's apparent lack of concern for his life.

Puffins, by the way, are 10" tall and about the weight of a can of soda. They can fly 55 mph as they leap from the cliffs, dive into the water and catch small fish for their young. Dressed in their black and white tuxedo feathers, with their bright orange beaks and feet, and with their willingness to approach to very close distances, their charm is immense.

One nickname for the Arctic puffin is "little friar," a moniker assigned because of its black and white feathers, and also its habit of holding its feet together in flight as though they were praying hands. When Maureen told the pilgrims about the "little friar" nickname, some recoiled in horror. The message heard by many: "little fryer"!