Monday, 20 June 2011
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Batten down the hatches
The onset of wintery weather on Bird Island is a rather gradual affair. For most of the summer the air temperature hovered around 5°C, but it has been slowly falling over the last few months and is now hovering around 0°C. When it drops below zero for a few days in a row the whole island freezes up; the streams freeze solid, the ground turns to iron and the pools of mud become concealed by a layer of ice, which gives way when you step on it and plunges your leg into the cold goop below. Then a few days later the temperature will be back up to, say, 0.4°C and everything melts again.
Many of the summer residents of the island have now departed, to spend winter in the warmer waters to the north. The macaroni penguin colonies are empty, and we will not see another mac now until October (macs are very punctual – the chart on the wall by my desk says that they will come back on the 17th October and I have no doubt that they will be here on exactly that date). The gentoo penguins stay with us all winter though, and can be always be found loafing about on the beaches. Most of the fur seals have left, but there are always a few seals around to growl and huff at you as you walk past them. The cool winter weather also brings leopard seals further north, and these huge and fearsome predators often haul out on the beaches of Bird Island for a little snooze. Leopard seals can reach 3.5 metres in length and have teeth like an alligator, so a sleeping leopard seal is best left alone.
The black-browed and grey-headed albatross colonies are also emptying rapidly. Chicks began fledging in April and there are now only a few late-developers left. Like the macaroni penguins, the adult albatrosses disappear over winter and will not return until the start of next summer. Not so the wanderers, however. The wandering albatross chicks, which hatched at the beginning of winter, are now large enough to be left on their own, and consequently the island is covered in little, grey, fluffy bundles, perched on top of their pedestal nests. The adults return regularly to feed them a nutritious meal of semi-digested squid. Quite how these tiny, vulnerable chicks survive the onslaught of winter rain, snow and high winds remains a mystery to me.
Because there are fewer animals around the workload for us field assistants is significantly reduced compared to the summer months. Winter is therefore a time for us to catch up with some lab work. For me there are two main lab jobs to keep me busy. One is sorting all the beach debris that has been collected over the summer. Throughout the year we collect anything man-made that washes up on the beach at Main Bay, and then each item is weighed, measured and categorized, and the data is sent to CCAMLR (Convention on the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources) as part of a global programme monitoring how much trash there is floating around Antarctica. Most of what we find is plastic packaging and old fishing gear, but sometimes more unusual objects turn up. Last year a whole wooden chair appeared on the beach. My other lab job is analysing penguin diet samples that were collected in the summer. Any krill that were found in the samples have to be measured, aged and sexed by examining them under a microscope. Sexing and ageing a partially digested krill is no picnic, I can tell you, but after doing several hundred I think I’m getting better at separating the men from the boys, and indeed the boys from the girls.
Another winter task, and one which everyone on base gets involved in, is the monthly census of wandering albatross nests. This involves counting every active nest on the island in a single day, and is big job when there are just four of us here to do it. Usually one person has to stay on base at all times, in case of an emergency, but on albatross census day this is not possible, so to reduce the risk of a fire starting while we are out and destroying the base we have to turn off the generators – meaning that the electricity, heating and communications all go off as well.
Our most recent albatross census day began quite nicely. We shut down the base and all went our separate ways to count albatrosses. The weather was pretty good – overcast as usual but dry and with very little wind, a perfect day for meandering around the island. However, after about three hours of tramping up and down hills looking for nests I was beginning to get a little tired, and the wind had started to pick up. I had reached a point where I needed to take a large detour to check on four nests that were outside the main colonies. The wind was getting stronger by the minute, but behind me at this stage, so I set off to find them. It was only when I turned round to head back to my original location that I realised just how ferocious the wind had become. Walking into it was difficult, and it had started to rain a sleety rain which lashed painfully into my face. I held my clipboard up in front of my face to shield me from the stinging rain and continued on. The clipboard arrangement was not ideal, however. Every so often the wind would catch hold of it and I would end up smacking myself in the face. It also made navigation rather more difficult and I soon became disorientated and ended up falling into a bog. Cursing, I pulled myself out and headed towards the final cluster of albatross nests that I needed to check. This last section was located on Wanderer Ridge Extension, and exposed headland that juts out into the sea. There are not many nests in this area, but there would also be no protection from the wind, which was now howling like some demented animal. I huddled momentarily in a sheltered spot to gather my strength and then gingerly climbed round the sheltered side of Wanderer Ridge Extension and emerged at the top into what appeared to be a hurricane. The wind ripped at my clothes and I was pummelled and pelted with rain. With every step I took I was knocked off balance and sent pitching into the tussock. There were treacherous muddy pools everywhere and it took all my strength to avoid being blown into them. The only option was to crawl everywhere on hands and knees. So in this way I clawed and floundered my way round the last few nests until finally, thankfully, they were all done.
I crouched in a ditch for a while to rest before attempting the walk home. Luckily I was not far from base and the journey back was made a little easier by walking along more sheltered streambeds. I half expected everyone else to be home already and me to receive a hero’s welcome as a hot mug of tea was pressed into my hand, but in fact I was the first one back and everyone else was still out in the maelstrom, and the lashing rain had now turned into lashing snow. I turned the generators back on and settled down to a restorative cup of tea. About half an hour later Mick turned up looking slightly shell-shocked.
“I was on Goldcrest Point when it hit...” he muttered, as though we had been receiving enemy fire rather than having a bit of a windy day.
He radioed the others to check that they were OK and suggested that they abandon the albatross census for today, an idea to which everyone readily agreed. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and swapping war stories, as the windows filled up by snow and the building quivered in the wind.
“I could hardly stand up!”
“The rain stung my eyes ‘til I couldn’t see!”
“I was so cold I couldn’t move my fingers!”
For once we felt like proper Antarctic heroes. Not quite in the same league as Amundsen and Shackleton of course, but brave and courageous, nonetheless, in the execution of our albatross counting duties.
The base with a light dusting of snow.
Icicles.
'Icle icicles.
The snowy mountains of South Georgia, seen through Natural Arch.
A geep wonders why swimming has suddenly become so difficult.
Frozen kelp.
Many of the summer residents of the island have now departed, to spend winter in the warmer waters to the north. The macaroni penguin colonies are empty, and we will not see another mac now until October (macs are very punctual – the chart on the wall by my desk says that they will come back on the 17th October and I have no doubt that they will be here on exactly that date). The gentoo penguins stay with us all winter though, and can be always be found loafing about on the beaches. Most of the fur seals have left, but there are always a few seals around to growl and huff at you as you walk past them. The cool winter weather also brings leopard seals further north, and these huge and fearsome predators often haul out on the beaches of Bird Island for a little snooze. Leopard seals can reach 3.5 metres in length and have teeth like an alligator, so a sleeping leopard seal is best left alone.
A gentoo, loafing.
The amazing two-headed, four-flippered penguin.
Seals enjoying their winter holidays.
Do not attempt to cuddle: a leopard seal.
A lep dozes by the jetty.
In winter the South Georgia pipits forage for little beasties on the seashore.
Cattle egrets get everywhere!
The black-browed and grey-headed albatross colonies are also emptying rapidly. Chicks began fledging in April and there are now only a few late-developers left. Like the macaroni penguins, the adult albatrosses disappear over winter and will not return until the start of next summer. Not so the wanderers, however. The wandering albatross chicks, which hatched at the beginning of winter, are now large enough to be left on their own, and consequently the island is covered in little, grey, fluffy bundles, perched on top of their pedestal nests. The adults return regularly to feed them a nutritious meal of semi-digested squid. Quite how these tiny, vulnerable chicks survive the onslaught of winter rain, snow and high winds remains a mystery to me.
Black-browed albatross chicks, looking indignant.
A black-brow chick, almost ready to go.
This is a rare 'isabelline' black-brow chick, it has a genetic mutation that makes it look like its been through the wash a few too many times.
A grumpy, partially moulted giant petrel chick.
A fully-grown giant petrel chick begs for food from a less than enthusiastic adult. This chick fledged a couple of days later.
Even when not breeding, the geeps build 'practice' nests.
Wandering albatrosses literally put their kids on a pedestal.
A pair of wanderers, chillin'.
Sugar-frosted albatross chick.
Because there are fewer animals around the workload for us field assistants is significantly reduced compared to the summer months. Winter is therefore a time for us to catch up with some lab work. For me there are two main lab jobs to keep me busy. One is sorting all the beach debris that has been collected over the summer. Throughout the year we collect anything man-made that washes up on the beach at Main Bay, and then each item is weighed, measured and categorized, and the data is sent to CCAMLR (Convention on the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources) as part of a global programme monitoring how much trash there is floating around Antarctica. Most of what we find is plastic packaging and old fishing gear, but sometimes more unusual objects turn up. Last year a whole wooden chair appeared on the beach. My other lab job is analysing penguin diet samples that were collected in the summer. Any krill that were found in the samples have to be measured, aged and sexed by examining them under a microscope. Sexing and ageing a partially digested krill is no picnic, I can tell you, but after doing several hundred I think I’m getting better at separating the men from the boys, and indeed the boys from the girls.
Pieces of fishing line that washed up on the beach.
Some bits of beach debris are too big to collect. This young elephant seal is cuddled up to an enormous piece of timber that washed ashore.
A scientician, hard at work.
Anyone for prawn cocktail?
Three months into winter and our fresh fruit and veg supply is beginning to get a bit mouldy (it's a cabbage).
The same cabbage after some careful peeling. Amazingly it was still edible!
Another winter task, and one which everyone on base gets involved in, is the monthly census of wandering albatross nests. This involves counting every active nest on the island in a single day, and is big job when there are just four of us here to do it. Usually one person has to stay on base at all times, in case of an emergency, but on albatross census day this is not possible, so to reduce the risk of a fire starting while we are out and destroying the base we have to turn off the generators – meaning that the electricity, heating and communications all go off as well.
Our most recent albatross census day began quite nicely. We shut down the base and all went our separate ways to count albatrosses. The weather was pretty good – overcast as usual but dry and with very little wind, a perfect day for meandering around the island. However, after about three hours of tramping up and down hills looking for nests I was beginning to get a little tired, and the wind had started to pick up. I had reached a point where I needed to take a large detour to check on four nests that were outside the main colonies. The wind was getting stronger by the minute, but behind me at this stage, so I set off to find them. It was only when I turned round to head back to my original location that I realised just how ferocious the wind had become. Walking into it was difficult, and it had started to rain a sleety rain which lashed painfully into my face. I held my clipboard up in front of my face to shield me from the stinging rain and continued on. The clipboard arrangement was not ideal, however. Every so often the wind would catch hold of it and I would end up smacking myself in the face. It also made navigation rather more difficult and I soon became disorientated and ended up falling into a bog. Cursing, I pulled myself out and headed towards the final cluster of albatross nests that I needed to check. This last section was located on Wanderer Ridge Extension, and exposed headland that juts out into the sea. There are not many nests in this area, but there would also be no protection from the wind, which was now howling like some demented animal. I huddled momentarily in a sheltered spot to gather my strength and then gingerly climbed round the sheltered side of Wanderer Ridge Extension and emerged at the top into what appeared to be a hurricane. The wind ripped at my clothes and I was pummelled and pelted with rain. With every step I took I was knocked off balance and sent pitching into the tussock. There were treacherous muddy pools everywhere and it took all my strength to avoid being blown into them. The only option was to crawl everywhere on hands and knees. So in this way I clawed and floundered my way round the last few nests until finally, thankfully, they were all done.
I crouched in a ditch for a while to rest before attempting the walk home. Luckily I was not far from base and the journey back was made a little easier by walking along more sheltered streambeds. I half expected everyone else to be home already and me to receive a hero’s welcome as a hot mug of tea was pressed into my hand, but in fact I was the first one back and everyone else was still out in the maelstrom, and the lashing rain had now turned into lashing snow. I turned the generators back on and settled down to a restorative cup of tea. About half an hour later Mick turned up looking slightly shell-shocked.
“I was on Goldcrest Point when it hit...” he muttered, as though we had been receiving enemy fire rather than having a bit of a windy day.
He radioed the others to check that they were OK and suggested that they abandon the albatross census for today, an idea to which everyone readily agreed. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and swapping war stories, as the windows filled up by snow and the building quivered in the wind.
“I could hardly stand up!”
“The rain stung my eyes ‘til I couldn’t see!”
“I was so cold I couldn’t move my fingers!”
For once we felt like proper Antarctic heroes. Not quite in the same league as Amundsen and Shackleton of course, but brave and courageous, nonetheless, in the execution of our albatross counting duties.
Stormy winter seas.
The jetty on a snowy day.
Ice, ice baby.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Puppy Parade
In the last week or so the fur seal puppies, who have been our constant companions since November, have suddenly disappeared, leaving the beaches around the island empty and silent. Everyone is sorry to see the puppies go, since puppy watching is one of our favourite pastimes. The first seal puppy appeared on Freshwater Beach (the beach in front of the base) on the 14th November and was quickly followed by dozens, then hundreds, then thousands more. Indeed, at peak pupping time around Christmas it was almost impossible to look out of a window without witnessing the miracle of birth. Labour for fur seals is very quick, with the pup usually popping out in a matter of minutes. Although a bit soggy and confused looking, new-born pups are immediately alert and mobile; no doubt the ability to get out of the way of rampaging harem males is hard-wired into their genes.
Within a few hours of birth the puppies have dried off, had a nutritious milk meal and started to explore their surroundings. To begin with this is limited to the area immediately around Mom but they soon become more confident and go further afield, clambering over rocks and tussac, and playing with the neighbour’s kids. At this stage the puppies are almost indescribably cute. Little black bundles of fuzz with enormous blue eyes, butter-wouldn’t-melt faces, tiny droopy ears and outsize flippers which they constantly trip over. If cuteness were measured on a scale I’ve just invented based on the cuteness of kittens, then each puppy would measure roughly 1000 kittenpower. Most new-born puppies are jet black, but about 1 in 600 are born platinum blonde. These blonde seals stay blonde for their entire life, and we occasionally see fully grown blonde males and females on the island. And if you thought the black puppies were cute, the blondies are enough to reduce anyone, even hard-nosed technical services personnel, into a slushy, cooing, simpering mess.
Moms and pups stay together on the beach for about 10 days, after which time the females go back out to sea to feed and periodically return to suckle their offspring. This presents the females with a challenge – if the beach has, say, 1000 identical black puppies cavorting on it, how do you know which one is yours? The female seals overcome this problem using a vocalization which I like to call the ‘bellow-shriek’. When a female emerges from the sea she immediately starts to holler at the top of her lungs; a sound which lies somewhere between ‘fox being strangled’ and ‘massacre at a yodelling competition’. She then wanders around the beach and tussac, hollering continuously, until she hears her puppy reply. The puppies respond with a kind of bleating/mewling noise, and presumably both Mom and pup produce a unique noise with which they can identify one another. Once re-united, the female and puppy continue to bellow at each other for a while, just to make sure, before settling down for dinner and a nap. Throughout the summer months the beach and surrounding hillsides echo with the howling cries of female seals and their pups. The sound does not seem to abate at night, indeed it seems to intensify. On more than one occasion I have been wrenched from the blissful depths of sleep by the banshee-like wailing of a female seal directly outside my window, an experience I don’t think I will ever get used to.
As the puppies get older they also get bolder, and develop an insatiable curiosity. The base and outbuildings are basically like a big adventure playground to them; anything that can be climbed on is climbed on, anything that can be hidden under is hidden under and anything that can be crawled through is crawled through. If you leave a door open for more than a few seconds then the building will be invaded by puppies. At various times over the summer I have had to herd puppies out of the generator shed, the food store, the porch and the kitchen. The walkways around the buildings are a favourite sleeping platform for them, being flat, rock-free and relatively dry, and we constantly have to move puppies from around the doors in order to get through them. Puppies start to swim from an early age, although they stick to the sheltered bays and large rockpools to begin with. These areas are always choc-full of puppies, hundreds at a time, leaping, splashing and charging about with exuberant energy, and resemble nothing more than a lido full of children on a hot summer’s day.
In January, February and March a sample of fur seal puppies are weighed as part of the ongoing monitoring program on the island. Each month weights are collected for 50 beach puppies and 50 tussac puppies on Main Bay – tussac puppies weighing on average slightly more than beach puppies. Catching 100 puppies is hard work so everyone on base is roped into this activity, with two people weighing and recording data, and the rest chasing down puppies and bringing them back to the weighstation. In January puppy weighing is reasonably easy, since the pups are still fairly small and docile at that stage. By March they are much bigger, faster, angrier and bitier, making the whole process a lot more taxing. Carrying a 15kg puppy which is writhing and struggling and trying to sink its teeth into your leg gives you a full cardio-vascular workout, and by the end of the weighing session everyone is exhausted and mud-spattered.
By mid-March all of the puppies have moulted out of their black baby fur into a sleek silver-grey coat, and their numbers have started to diminish as they head out to sea to begin their adult life. By mid-April there are almost no puppies to be seen anywhere. We are not completely seal-less, however. There are always a few females lounging on the beach and in the tussac, and the occasional widge (juvenile seals aged 1-2 years) and young male also turns up. But the puppy parade is over for this season, and we will have to wait another seven months before it starts all over again.
A new-born pup gets acquainted with its mother.
I *heart* my Mom.
Within a few hours of birth the puppies have dried off, had a nutritious milk meal and started to explore their surroundings. To begin with this is limited to the area immediately around Mom but they soon become more confident and go further afield, clambering over rocks and tussac, and playing with the neighbour’s kids. At this stage the puppies are almost indescribably cute. Little black bundles of fuzz with enormous blue eyes, butter-wouldn’t-melt faces, tiny droopy ears and outsize flippers which they constantly trip over. If cuteness were measured on a scale I’ve just invented based on the cuteness of kittens, then each puppy would measure roughly 1000 kittenpower. Most new-born puppies are jet black, but about 1 in 600 are born platinum blonde. These blonde seals stay blonde for their entire life, and we occasionally see fully grown blonde males and females on the island. And if you thought the black puppies were cute, the blondies are enough to reduce anyone, even hard-nosed technical services personnel, into a slushy, cooing, simpering mess.
You lookin' at me?
Puppy playfight.
Enormous, pleading eyes are the secret of puppy-appeal.
Scratching is a favourite pastime for puppies and adults alike.
These blonde puppies are cute, but so difficult to keep clean.
Moms and pups stay together on the beach for about 10 days, after which time the females go back out to sea to feed and periodically return to suckle their offspring. This presents the females with a challenge – if the beach has, say, 1000 identical black puppies cavorting on it, how do you know which one is yours? The female seals overcome this problem using a vocalization which I like to call the ‘bellow-shriek’. When a female emerges from the sea she immediately starts to holler at the top of her lungs; a sound which lies somewhere between ‘fox being strangled’ and ‘massacre at a yodelling competition’. She then wanders around the beach and tussac, hollering continuously, until she hears her puppy reply. The puppies respond with a kind of bleating/mewling noise, and presumably both Mom and pup produce a unique noise with which they can identify one another. Once re-united, the female and puppy continue to bellow at each other for a while, just to make sure, before settling down for dinner and a nap. Throughout the summer months the beach and surrounding hillsides echo with the howling cries of female seals and their pups. The sound does not seem to abate at night, indeed it seems to intensify. On more than one occasion I have been wrenched from the blissful depths of sleep by the banshee-like wailing of a female seal directly outside my window, an experience I don’t think I will ever get used to.
The bellow-shriek in action.
As the puppies get older they also get bolder, and develop an insatiable curiosity. The base and outbuildings are basically like a big adventure playground to them; anything that can be climbed on is climbed on, anything that can be hidden under is hidden under and anything that can be crawled through is crawled through. If you leave a door open for more than a few seconds then the building will be invaded by puppies. At various times over the summer I have had to herd puppies out of the generator shed, the food store, the porch and the kitchen. The walkways around the buildings are a favourite sleeping platform for them, being flat, rock-free and relatively dry, and we constantly have to move puppies from around the doors in order to get through them. Puppies start to swim from an early age, although they stick to the sheltered bays and large rockpools to begin with. These areas are always choc-full of puppies, hundreds at a time, leaping, splashing and charging about with exuberant energy, and resemble nothing more than a lido full of children on a hot summer’s day.
A puppy investigates.
Spending some quality time with the puppies.
I call this position 'upward facing seal'.
Andrex puppies.
Stacey clears a path to the door.
Playtime at the pool.
Naps can happen at any moment.
In January, February and March a sample of fur seal puppies are weighed as part of the ongoing monitoring program on the island. Each month weights are collected for 50 beach puppies and 50 tussac puppies on Main Bay – tussac puppies weighing on average slightly more than beach puppies. Catching 100 puppies is hard work so everyone on base is roped into this activity, with two people weighing and recording data, and the rest chasing down puppies and bringing them back to the weighstation. In January puppy weighing is reasonably easy, since the pups are still fairly small and docile at that stage. By March they are much bigger, faster, angrier and bitier, making the whole process a lot more taxing. Carrying a 15kg puppy which is writhing and struggling and trying to sink its teeth into your leg gives you a full cardio-vascular workout, and by the end of the weighing session everyone is exhausted and mud-spattered.
Pre-puppy weighing; Ags, Paul, me, Joan, Jon.
Post-puppy weighing; Jon, Paul and Joan.
Post-puppy weighing; me, Stacey Ags. They say the people who did the most work end up the dirtiest, but I don't believe that.
By mid-March all of the puppies have moulted out of their black baby fur into a sleek silver-grey coat, and their numbers have started to diminish as they head out to sea to begin their adult life. By mid-April there are almost no puppies to be seen anywhere. We are not completely seal-less, however. There are always a few females lounging on the beach and in the tussac, and the occasional widge (juvenile seals aged 1-2 years) and young male also turns up. But the puppy parade is over for this season, and we will have to wait another seven months before it starts all over again.
Submarine puppy.
Fighting is still playful, but preparation for the real thing in later life.
Looking sleek and mean in a new silvery coat.
Playing with a feather whilst sitting in a pool. What could be more fun?
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