December 5, 1996

Adelie penguin rookery

I did not receive confirmation from Robin Abbott regarding the helo flight to Cape Bird, but suspected that it was a go because the day was clear. I got up at 4:30am to check and then went over to the Crary Lab to get things ready--as I had not unpacked from the night before. I ran into David Ainley in the hall; he did not know when the flight was to leave. We were to be dropped off at Cape Bird by a Kiwi Air Force helo, and their schedule was up in the air on account of a series of aerial reconnaissance and survey flights. Ainley's team were scattered around McMurdo, trying to pull all their loose ends together. I lent a hand and had my gear down at the helo pad by 11:00am--it looked like we would fly sometime between 1:00pm and 5:00pm.

With 5 people and a lot of gear, the Kiwi pilot decided to make two runs, so I stayed behind with Mike Biegel, an engineer, while Ainley, Grant Ballard and Nate Polish went on the first crew to set up camp on the beach at Cape Bird. Grant, it turned out lives near me in Bolinas, California and works at the Point Reyes Bird Observatory. Nate, also an engineer with a background in linguistics and computer speech synthesis teaches at Columbia. At 5:15pm, Mike and I lifted off from McMurdo. The engines on the US-built Huey have a distinctive pulse and the loadmaster hooked up a CD player through the intercom--resulting in a polyrhythmic jam with the Talking Heads! Passing Mt. Erebus, we noted reasonably clear skies. The helo was planning on dropping off a couple of 55 gallon fuel barrels with Philip Kyle's volcano study team at their base camp on the mountain. We flew over Cape Royds and skirted the edge of pack ice along crevasse fields which descended from Erebus' flanks. In the distance Beaufort Island floated like an iceberg in the ocean and we dropped down onto a beach landing zone at Cape Bird.

Ainley and company had set up two tents, with the help of 4 Kiwis, who were also working at the site. The tents had a nice beach front view and were erected right on what appeared to be an Adelie penguin main drag; thousands of little footprints had tamped the snow into a dense pack. Introductions were made, and I started to pull my tent out, when I realized that someone had gotten into my sleep kit and removed a number of key items, like tent stakes and ground sheet! I was rather embarrassed and looked around for alternatives; I could make due without a ground sheet, but the stakes were essential. Kerry Barton, one of the Kiwi researchers, invited me to stay in their hut, as they had several extra bunks. This was a welcome relief, as I had been doing a fair amount of camping already. Furthermore, I didn't want to impose on Ainley's group--as they seemed rather rushed and pressured. Peter Wilson, with Landcare Research New Zealand (LCRNZ), said hello and together we walked up the steep, but short incline to the hut.

Tents on the beach

The Kiwi hut commands a stunning view of McMurdo Sound and the pack ice. Later that evening, we saw a pod of killer whales and Minke whales swim by and a leopard seal patrolling the ice along the coast. The only problem is that all of the windows in the hut are at head level, when one is seated! On arriving, somewhat out of breath, we were met by Fiona Hunter, a Scottish researcher from the University of Cambridge, and Sue Michelsen-Heath, a Biology and Science teacher from Otago Girls' High School in Dunedin, New Zealand. Sue was on a leave of absence from her school and was assisting Fiona with her work. Once in the hut, I was surprised at the spacious accommodation: two bedrooms with 4 bunks in each; a kitchen and common room; a lab, and ample storage. It was about the size of two mobile homes stuck together. An outhouse and fuel dump was located a short distance away. I got settled, while Peter offered us a beer and Fiona gave us an orientation.

The Kiwi Hut	Dining/Common Room
Fiona Hunter	Sue Michelsen-Heath

The sun streamed into the hut, cutting a low angle across the sound; the light danced in beams off the water and the ice floes that circulated below us. I was happy to be away from McMurdo and in another field camp. The American contingent gradually assembled in the hut and I saw an opportunity to help out with cooking dinner. For those in the field for long periods, visitors are a mixed blessing. Sue and Fiona had been alone for a spell and, while the influx of new faces and voices was welcome, it also meant more work. Cooking is one of those social activities which, for me, is enjoyable and a good ice breaker--so to speak. It also gives me something to do in the awkwardness of getting to know new people. I set about doctoring a prepared pasta sauce. Soon, the smell of cooking garlic and onions in olive oil brought a warm smile to everyone's face and we sat down to dinner--nine of us all together.

After dinner, we dispersed in pairs and small groups to walk around the Adelie penguin colony and wander along the shore. The sky shone in layers of blue--from an aquamarine wash at the horizon, to a muted pastel blue and a deep lapis lazuli colour above our heads. Clouds in shoals ebbed by and the water was calm. Sue and I walked along the ice edge watching for leopard seals and the silent passage of icebergs. Between pieces of conversation, we picked our way through legions of penguins and the occasional nesting skua. The rookery was vast and the guano covered hills rolled up to steeper ground and then to a glacial moraine. As the air was calm, a fetid stench hung in my nose and mouth. Generations of guano covered the volcanic black ash and sand; everything through the colony was a veneer of faded terra-cotta and shades of umber. It was a hard packed surface, except where water had loosened the mat and reduced it to a mucked mire. The penguins nested in pebble perches, more or less evenly spaced on the ground in the drier rises and hillocks. Ejecta of chalk coloured feces radiated in patterns around the cairns that were nests. Some birds had been sitting with eggs for weeks waiting for their mate to return from feeding out at sea. Fiona told me that she knew of one male who sat for more than 50 days on a nest--waiting. Chicks would begin to hatch in the coming weeks.

As we rounded the end of the colony, a ice-stepped incline presented itself. "If you are careful, you can get around the end to the edge of the glacier," Sue pointed out. The glacier had recently calved and a huge concave section fell straight into the sea. In the evening light, the surface was a reticulated mass of blues and greys, with the fracture pattern through into high relief. We paused and watched the Adelies calling from the shore to passing swimmers. Quite suddenly there was an exodus of birds from the water; Adelies flew out along the edge, landing haphazardly on their feet, their bellies and less gracefully crashing into snow banks. Within a few seconds from the still of the waters a leopard seal reared its head. I was surprised by the size of the head: similar to the box-like muzzle of a pitbull dog with an impressive array of teeth. Carsten Kooyman, an emperor penguin researcher, described them as "Tyrannosaurus Rex with flippers." The seal surfaced and rolled under the water, only to reemerge further down the beach. A chorus of black and white heads followed its progress. While I never managed to photograph the seal, I did snap a shot of a leopard seal skull back at Crary Lab.

Adelie penguin rookery	Presenting a rock for nest placement.
Adelie penguin	Leopard seal skull

As it neared midnight, the group filtered back to the tents on the beach and to the hut. I decided to take advantage of the stillness to record the sounds of the colony. So, I walked with Sue back to the hut and got my gear. Setting off via a different route to the colony from the hut, I encountered several nesting skuas and was immediately set upon; they flew low and fast right at my head. Thoughts of Alfred Hitchcock ran through my mind and I bounced down the ash slope at a good clip, holding my microphones above my head. They hollered at me all the way down the hill--brown and grey Furies with gaping beaks and hoarse shrieks.

Wandering over the expanse of the Adelie colony, the scene was teeming with life, and death. Carcasses of chicks and adults, broken eggs and bones littered the landscape. This spectre and the russet colour of the hills struck me as something out of the paintings of Hieronymous Bosch or Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Skuas scoured the colonies, always harrying and harassing the penguins and looking for opportunities to take eggs. They often worked in pairs: one distracting a penguin and inducing it to leave the nest, while the other made a move around back to snatch an egg. Relentless, intelligent and fearless. The penguins seemed feebly hopeless in their attempts at defense--waddling out and pecking in the general direction. Although I was told that, on rare occasions, they have been known to catch a skua and, en masse, proceed to beat it to death.

Penguin carcass

Skua with egg

I settled within a few feet from a colony on a slight rise near the shore to record, placed the microphones and backed off so as not to alarm or crowd the penguins. Once I was low to the ground, and not presenting such an imposing figure, they took little note of my presence--only occasionally casting a glance of coming by to inspect the gear. The business of guarding egg and nest, reuniting pairs, coming and going and territorial displays made for a collective motion that animated an otherwise desolate stretch of sea coast. Adelies spend a great deal of time maintaining their nests, gathering and stealing stones from the area and from their neighbours. The ground has been gleaned of all pebbles less than an inch in diameter. I watched one individual return repeatedly to one rock, in between cleaning out a neighbour's nest, trying to pick it up. The rock was irregularly shaped and about 2 inches across. Each time, the bird failed to hold the rock in its beak--but every now and then would go back for another try, just in case...

The sounds of the colony at first registered as an ebbing and flowing din--ripples of activity sweeping through communities as far as I could see, and hear. Before me, nearer afield, the intimate calls of acknowledgment and recognition were occasionally disturbed by bursts of sound. An ecstatic display is a beautiful event to behold. An Adelie will crane its neck, with its beak pointing to the sky, and arch the back. The bird's chest flutters and puffs up and a loud trumpeting call ensues: a territorial advertisement. While I managed to record the event on several occasions, I did not photograph it and am grateful to Ethan Dicks for his shot of an Adelie in an ecstatic display from the rookery at Cape Royds. Another cause for vociferous display is when there is a change over at a nest--when a bird returns from feeding at sea to a waiting mate. The one bird emerges from the water, well-fed and clean while the other looks somewhat thin and disheveled, covered in guano. "Mutualing," as it is called, involves a bobbing and weaving of heads and a lot of reassurance and excitement. The nesting bird displays the egg as if to say, "I've done well, it is still here--now its my turn to get a bite to eat and a bath." The exchange can last for quite some time and can involve some repairing of nests. I listened and watched until past 4:00am. The sun had swung around the ridges, the rookery was in shadow and the temperature dropped. The skuas wheeled and patrolled, passing within inches of my head, circling for an opportunity.

At around 5:00am, I headed for the hut knowing that everybody else would be rising soon...

Rolling an egg into position	Ecstatic display
Mutual display with the presentation of a new nest rock	Click to listen to Adelie penguins.