The Sandhills 
     
    
   
   
    
     Affectionate impressions of the sand dune system running from 
     
     Alberton to Billhook Island. 
     
    
   
   
    
     The Sandhills appear inaccessible; across open water, an indeter- 
     
     minate length of rolling dunes, receding East and West to blurred 
     
     horizons, imparts a sense of isolation. Yet these inside waters are 
     
     only a few hundred yards across, bath—warm in summer, and, at the 
     
     "wading place", only waist deep at high tide. Here, in days gone by, 
     
     existed a rudimentary road, exposed at low tide, where farmers crossed 
     
     with horses and equipment to cut and stack the wild marsh grasses, 
     
     returning in winter when the inside waters were frozen to bring the 
     
     feed back to their barns. Here, too, workers crossed on their way to 
     
     the lobster canning factories which thrived on the sandhills at a time 
     
     when sailing boats landed their catch on the outside shore. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Herons fishing in the shallows seem oblivious to the wading 
     
     visitor's approach, only taking off with their ponderous wing-beats 
     
     as strangers emerged full-bodied from the tepid inside water and 
     
     Violate unmistakably their ancient sacred privacy. Terns wheel and 
     
     scream overhead, swooping close; their distress is acute and we suddenly 
     
     feel the vulnerability of an intruder audaciously stepping onto these 
     
     shifting sands which bear the brunt of northern winds and waves. 
     
    
   
   
    
     The terns are left behind as we gradually ascend from the mud- 
     
     flats, eelgrass and tidal pools on the inside shore, our footprints 
     
     stirring up a fetid black mud from below an almost lavender surface 
     
     of these shallow waters. Yellowlegs freeze in the pools and then 
     
     fly off, calling loudly. Our steps take us higher into marram grass 
     
     and clumps of pungent bayberry. A marsh hawk drifts along ahead, 
     
     following the contours of hills and valleys. Cranberries, wild straw— 
     
     berries and blueberries appear along this path at their appointed 
     
     times. Upward still, the wind-blown hilltops reveal bare sand; a 
     
     deep fox lair exposed on a southern flank and bank swallow nests 
     
     riddling the steep walls. And, finally, the highest, pyramid-shaped 
     
     dune, to which we are drawn as the most dramatic reference point in 
     
     this strange land, falls away to a white beach so surprisingly ex— 
     
     tensive that it takes the breath away. Looking back over our trail, 
     
     the topography is delineated by countless variations of green grasses, 
     
     deepening in color toward the lowlands, shimmering and shifting in 
     
     a summer breeze and turning, in autumn, to pale yellows, ambers, reds 
     
     and purples. 
     
    
   
   
    
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     An elemental place, set apart, the sands changing shape at the 
     
     mercy of the winds, repeating more slowly the movement of clouds over- 
     
     head. Within living memory, the sandhills almost disappeared once, 
     
     only a few dune tops remaining visible. And a major storm will alter 
     
     their configuration from one visit to the next. When spring winds 
     
     sweep out over Labrador and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, bringing winter‘s 
     
     last fury, the deep roar of breakers crashing against the sandhills 
     
     can be heard at farms far inland. The remains of lobster traps 
     
     dashed ashore in such storms litter the outer beach, their bows bleached 
     
     and half-buried in the sand. 
     
    
   
   
    
     The sandhills appear to be a totally natural environment, but 
     
     time was when they fairly bustled with human activity. Every spring, 
     
     a good portion of the population of Freeland migrated across and worked 
     
     on one of the five lobster factories there. They lived out there 
     
     during May, June and July bringing over hens and cows. Egg yolks 
     
     turned bright red from all the lobster bodies the hens ate, and when