Antarctica by Gabrielle Walker Page A

with a bright sun reflecting off the sea ice that was crammed up against the shore. Most of the ground was bare volcanic rock, and Mount Erebus’s bulk dominated the scene, topped with its customary cloud.
    David told me that Adélies choose to settle their colonies in rocky places—to keep their eggs safe from ice—and those that are also close enough to the sea to enable them to fish for food. But although we were looking down on to McMurdo Sound, there was no open water between here and the horizon, just endless sea ice that had been squeezed into ridges and scattered chunks as if a giant child had thrown toy blocks out of its pram. A fat Weddell seal had hauled itself out of a crack in the distance. Seven Adélies were making their arduous way back, stumbling and falling flat in the gaps between ice chunks, scrabbling with their flippers to pull them through. It looked hard. There was still a fair way to go before they reached the rocks, and then another stiff climb uphill to the colony proper.
    We passed a small pond half clear of ice with a running stream spilling out over the rocks, the edges scattered with white eggshells. And then we reached the colony, and the noise raised itself from a rumour to a roar; it sounded unhinged, like a cackling orchestra of kazoos. The fishy guano smell was noticeable, but not nearly as strong as I had been expecting. Although the nests were densely packed on the ground, I supposed in this big open spot there was enough wind to whisk the ranker smells away.
    By contrast with the bustling birds heading to and from the sea ice, the ones on the nests were placid, and even listless. Every so often one stood up, stretched and flapped its wings, revealing the bare pink patch on its belly that fitted neatly over the eggs, skin to shell, to ensure that maximum warmth reached the chicks inside. David told me that they would usually lay two eggs apiece but this year there had been quite a few single clutches.
    A skua landed and started prowling. It looked like a seagull but larger and brown with a wickedly curving beak like a hawk. I’d seen skuas at McMurdo, and been warned that they would snatch a sandwich from your hand if you let them. They are scavengers, always out for an opportunity to harass, bully or steal. This one was clearly eyeing up the eggs. The nearest penguins stretched their necks menacingly like guard geese ready to hiss. They shuffled round, keeping their eggs out of sight beneath them, maintaining eye contact with the enemy.
    â€˜Why doesn’t the skua just attack?’ I asked.
    â€˜It’s afraid of the penguins, with good cause,’ said David. ‘Skuas may stand as tall as penguins but they are all air and feathers. They only weigh maybe nine hundred or a thousand grams. The penguins are much denser—they can weigh seven or eight kilograms. And those flippers are very hard. A whack from one of those and a skua definitely remembers it.’
    That doesn’t stop them from looking for a quick thieving chance. While our skua was getting nowhere, a burst of indignant squawking erupted to our right and another bird flew overhead, barely able to hold the outsized egg in its beak. The penguins settled back down on their nests. There was no sign of where the egg had been taken from. Everyone seemed resigned.
    Now in mid-December, the Adélies were almost halfway through their race against time. Each year they must pack every relationship stage of meeting, wooing, mating, hatching, rearing and weaning their young into the few short months of the summer season.
    They come here in early November at the start of the southern summer and hastily reconvene with last year’s partners. There is little time wasted on courting niceties or on excessive fidelity. If you’re a day or two late, your former mate will already be on to someone else. The first eggs come about a week later, and by two weeks most of them are laid.
    The penguins are