BIRDER GOES ON PENGUIN QUEST
In search of species on Falkland Islands
Most birders aspire to see hundreds — if not thousands — of species in their lifetime. My number is set at 17, and they all belong to the same family: Spheniscidae or, in non-ornithologist parlance, penguins.
Why the fixation on penguins, you might ask. Obviously, they’re cute and silly, waddling around like little Charlie Chaplins. But I also admire their fortitude in the face of such odds as icy blizzards and menacing sharks. And I applaud their lifelong commitment to their mates, though I later learned that the females will flirt (and possibly more) for nest-building material. They move me in every which way, from giggles to tears. I am hopelessly hooked.
Since embarking on my penguin quest years ago, I have witnessed four species in the wild. (Zoos and aquariums don’t qualify.) I have seen little blue, or fairy, penguins in Australia and New Zealand; Humboldt penguins in Patagonia; and African penguins in Namibia. On a January swim in Ecuador, I nearly smashed a Galapagos penguin with my head when I darted to the surface for air.
If you do the math, you will realize that my progress is slow. The number is low, not for a lack of commitment or obsession. It’s logistics. Most of them live in inhospitable places: on glaciers, remote islands or rocky cliffs accessible only by ocean vessel or climbing gear. In addition, the flightless birds inhabit less surface area than other winged creatures: land and sea, no sky.
To speed up my count, I had to find a destination dense with penguin species. Chile is home to four kinds, but the macaronis live offshore, outside the tourist cone.
Six species reside in Antarctica; however, turbulent weather and restrictions on cruise ships can impede viewings.
The Falkland Islands has five species and more than a million penguins, including the world’s largest breeding population of gentoos and nearly 40 per cent of the world’s southern rockhopper population. The birds inhabit beaches, craggy cliffs, heathland and coastal grasslands, all within reasonable reach.
On a summery February morning, Esther Bertram, chief executive officer of Falklands Conservation, and Andy Stanworth, a conservation manager, showed me how easy it was to commune with penguins: as simple as driving to the beach.
“They are everywhere,” Stanworth said as we stood among several groupings of the birds on the sand and in the dunes. “They’re part of the scenery.” Hearing that news, I broke out in a Happy Feet dance.
The Falkland Islands, a British overseas territory in the South Atlantic, is a broken puzzle with more than 778 island pieces. (Opponents to U.K. sovereignty refer to the country as the Malvinas, the Argentine name.) One commercial flight flies weekly between Punta Arenas, Chile, and Mount Pleasant Airport, a military station on East Falkland, the largest island. The Royal Air Force also provides service twice a week from England. Flight time is about 18 hours, including a refuelling stop on Ascension Island.
Photography is not permitted at the airport, so I don’t have proof of the stone penguin statue that greets passengers after disembarking. But
I can reveal that I patted the bird on its head — a reflexive move. I can also share that a serviceman informed me of an island tradition: anyone who touches the statue improves his or her chances of returning to the islands.
The penguin breeding season coincides with the tourist invasion. Both occur during the Southern Hemisphere’s late spring and summer months, roughly September to March. During this period, the archipelago transforms into a giant maternity ward (and docking station for cruise ship passengers).
The adults lay and incubate their eggs. Chicks hatch. The weeks-old fledglings gather in protective crèches while their parents forage for food in the ocean. The youngsters wait for dinner, vocalizing their hunger and impatience — loudly.
Two species — gentoo and king — inhabit the Falklands year-round.
The archipelago transforms into a giant maternity ward … adults lay and incubate eggs. Chicks hatch. The weeks-old fledglings gather in protective crèches while their parents forage for food.
The southern rockhopper, Magellanic and macaroni are seasonal guests. When the weather starts to cool, they depart for waters up the South American coast and around South Georgia Island and Antarctica. But even in the off-season, penguins outnumber the humans.
I couldn’t imagine a better ratio, or place, on Earth.
Whenever possible, I hitched a ride with Falklands Conservation. The non-profit organization frequents wildlife sites for research, such as seabird monitoring, and for outreach activities, such as a Sunday outing to Elephant Beach Farm with Watch Group, an environmental program for children.
On Elephant Beach, three species mingled as if they were at a social mixer. I couldn’t tell them apart, so Bertram and Stanworth described their distinguishing features.
The gentoo are inquisitive, Bertram said, and the “most elegant,” with their orange lipstick, white eyeshadow and red shoes. The Magellanic are “quite quirky, and their behaviour is odd,” Stanworth said. They wear the traditional tuxedo colours, decorated with black bands, and emit a sound that resembles a donkey’s hee-haw — hence their nickname, jackass. The rockhoppers stand out from the crowd with their red eyes and beak, yellow feather headdress and feistiness.
The Falklands’ largest colony of king penguins — about 1,000 adults and 500 chicks — resides at Volunteer Point, a toe of land three hours from Stanley. The site draws crowds on cruise ship days who arrive on prearranged tours. Signs point this way to the gentoos, that way to the Magellanics, over here for the kings.
Kings, the second-largest penguin after the emperor, are indeed stunning. They are statuesque and look haute couture in velvety black hoods splashed with citrus colours. But I also found them disturbing. At three feet tall (almost one metre) and weighing 35 pounds, they are the size of a three-year-old.
They walked to the ocean single file, wings flapping — the same formation as the Beatles crossing Abbey Road. They babbled in an eerie voice. On the shore, they lined up facing the water and stood as still as statues. One by one, they dove into the water, a flash of black feathers glistening in the waves.
Of the five species, the macaroni is the most elusive. It doesn’t even appear on a local map highlighting wildlife-viewing sites. According to Falklands Conservation, about two dozen breeding pairs nest among the rockhoppers, which look like the macaroni’s runtier twin. Both are crested penguins with plumes that spring from their heads like streamers. Experts differentiate the two by the location and colour of the feathers and the size and hue of the beak. Macaronis are also huskier and have a unibrow.
Kidney Island, a nature refuge accessible by boat from Stanley, is a roofless aviary. Falkland steamer ducks bob on wavelets by the beach. The endemic Cobb’s wren hides in the towering tussock grass. Every evening, hundreds of thousands of sooty shearwaters fly circles around the island. Once the sun sets, they drop like hailstones onto the ground and scurry into their burrows.
We peered through scrubby brush at a sheer rock face, where rockhoppers perched on dizzying ledges.
Up ahead, I heard a rustle followed by an excited shout.
“We have a macaroni,” environmental officer Nick Rendell announced.
I had completed my task in the Falklands in six days, an unimaginably speedy time frame. But I wasn’t over the penguins. Instead, I had fallen even deeper.
Despite my obsession, my understanding of penguins was as slight as Penguins of Madagascar. But I could use my second week to observe and learn, to really get to know the birds.
At Gypsy Cove, the trail to the Magellanic penguins is open day and night. A rope on both sides of the pathway protects their burrows from an ill-placed boot. The barrier also safeguards visitors from the buried mines left over from the 1982 war with Argentina. (A lightweight penguin won’t set off the explosives, but a person could.)
On Sea Lion Island, a 35-minute flight from Stanley, several of the lodge’s rooms overlook a colony of gentoos. If I opened the curtains and craned my neck to the right, I could eye a few penguins without leaving bed. Their white breasts glowed in the dark.
Before dinner, I ventured out to a gathering of juvenile gentoos a few yards from the lodge’s front door. I entered the circle of birds and plopped down on the dirt. A few penguins slowly approached. More came over. Nearly a dozen formed a loose embrace around me. They tilted their heads as if asking, “Who — or what — are you?”
One brazen gentoo pecked at my boot. Noticing a strap on my coat sleeve, it leaned in closer, beak ajar. It tugged on the fabric and chewed a little. It then took a small step back, turned its head and threw up regurgitated fish.
At Port Stephens, Peter and Ann Robertson waited at the landing strip in their dusty pickup truck. They had driven over to pick up guests and supplies from Stanley. The couple — he grew up in the Falklands, she in Argentina — own 58,000 acres at the camp settlement on the southwest coast of West Falkland. They rent out a self-catering cottage steps from their house and encourage visitors to ramble around their property. Peter had spent eight years in Europe and Argentina but returned in 1969 — the third generation of Robertsons to work the land and the first to own it. “This job was beckoning,” he said. “This was my home.”
I heard rumours. Somewhere in the Falklands were “other” penguins. Maybe even an 18th species-in-the-making.
Over the years, islanders have reportedly spotted an Adélie and a chinstrap. Most likely, the Antarctica-based penguins lost their bearings and drifted too far north. Residents have also discovered penguins with aberrations. Tim Wilson, a police officer and penguin aficionado, has seen an albino rockhopper and is searching for a coffee-coloured rockie. He has evidence of its existence: an online photo.
I also picked up a buzz about hybrids — the progeny of a macaroni and a rockhopper. I started asking around.
“There’s always hope,” said Micky Reeves, of Sea Lion Lodge. “Just look at every penguin, and make sure they are who they are.”
The odds of seeing a hybrid were low. But I knew I would have another opportunity.: I had a return visit in my future — a prophecy foretold by a stone penguin.
They walked to the ocean single file, wings flapping — the same formation as the Beatles crossing Abbey Road. They babbled in an eerie voice. On the shore, they lined up facing the water and stood as still as statues.