Big Feet

We've moved from a windswept Falklands to a windswept Patagonia. A hiccup or two on the way with cancelled flights, missed pick ups and frantic telephone calls and emails. But all came good eventually. The first short leg of this stage of the trip (shortened even more by the aforementioned cock ups) finds us on the edge of Torres Del Paines National Park in Chile ensconced in a delightful complex called Patagonia Camp.  One or two of the waiters live up to the name, but everyone is very friendly, efficient and welcoming. Patagonia apparently means Big Feet, and there was me thinking romantically that it meant 'Land of the Towering Peaks' or some such. It was, so we are told, given such a mundane, nay stupid, name by early European settlers because the natives were considerably taller than the average 16th Century Portuguese/Spaniard; malnourished midgets all. Ferdinand Magellan is credited with being the first European to set eyes on the Patagones Indians chiefly by seeing huge footprints on a beach. Hence the name given to the region. And the name has stuck.

Whatever, the landscape is magnificent, the view from our luxurious tent (yurt) breathtaking, the colour of the lakes the deepest, purest blue, disconcertingly several shades darker than the sky reflected therein. Torres del Paine means Towers of Blue and it is this overriding colour that gives the park it's name. I feel quite pampered as I lounge about surrounded by cushions of all shapes and sizes, mock fur rugs covering the floor, tapestries draped on the walls and a selection of nibbles and a bottle of red left by the maid. And all I have to do is raise my head to see this.....

We only have a single full day available to us here and elected to spend it on a 5 miles 'fauna' walk offered by one of the resident guides. The starting point for this particular hike is about a 90 minute drive from the lodge taking you through some rugged terrain with walls of stratified rock thrust at crazy angles into the rarified air. These rocks are testament to some violent activity when our planet was much younger and record the laying down of sediments which contain evidence that once this whole area formed the sea bed. Look closely and fossil remains of marine creatures can easily be seen.

The impressions from a moving vehicle are ones of wide sweeping moorland through which dark masses of granite emerge and career towards the heavens. The tallest peaks are covered in an icing of glacial white where cloud forms to the leeward side creating tendrils of wispy smoke flowing as if from a factory chimney. Here and there are stands of stunted, skeletal trees, victims of past fires, and dried, wind blasted depressions where water can pool for a while before evaporating into the atmosphere.

And a glance upward will sometimes reveal a black form of a soaring condor surveying the wide open terrain, it's home and domain, for any animal that has found living here beyond its ability.

Our stroll across the steppe would have been lovely in the subtle warmth of an English spring day, but here the wind sheers across the stunted vegetation, slamming into your face and rendering everything an effort. Your hat is tugged helter skelter threatening to blow away and take your head with it. Life is hard out here and the trail littered with skulls and bones of guanacos, some of which may well have fallen prey to a puma but most probably succumbed to the ravages associated with living on the edge of existence. The wind and dry conditions apparently result in a slow rate of decomposition, so bones and the hides of dead beasts linger. Once the scavengers have picked the carcass clean.

However the circle of life continues and it the season for giving birth with many newly born calves wobbling around on unsteady feet. For newborns they seem quite large, but I guess they need to be well able to begin their life of non-stop foraging almost straight away. It is also the mating season with the males chasing one another, necks outstretched, jumping, biting and generally showing off to impress the females and set up a seat of dominance.

After a while we climbed onto a ridge which as well as affording a spectacular view of the massif, also contained ancient cave paintings made when these lands were inhabited by native Indian peoples. Knowing my desire to see a puma, our guide said I should continue on the trail and cross the sign that instructs people not to proceed further. Ummmm ok. So, there I was slowly edging along a path leading to a puma den when a pale sandy coloured form poked it's head out from behind a rock. Catching my heart as it leapt from my mouth and stuffing it back in my chest, I was mightily relieved to discover the beast was only a stray Guanaco that ambled on its way unaware that the human being watching it was glad he had a spare pair of trousers back at base. I beat a retreat. No puma for me and I reasoned 1. Surely the guide would not have put me in danger, and 2. The guanaco would not have been browsing within 3 miles of the scent of a big cat. But then this is South America where health & safety is not even a glint in a government's eye and of course guanacos are eaten by Pumas every day so can't be that clever. The chances of seeing a puma are virtually non-existent though unless you know exactly where they are and are prepared to stake it out for as long as it takes. But later our driver showed us some video he had captured on his mobile of a puma hunting in front of his van in broad daylight, making a kill right there and then. Right place, right time.

Our walk complete, we were being taken to our picnic spot when I happened to glance out the minibus window to notice three large brown forms standing beside a dead animal. It took me a couple of seconds to realise what I'd seen and a further few seconds of frantic gibbering to convey to the driver that we should stop and reverse 100 metres down the track. He did so and there just off the road we were able to scramble out and watch three young condors tucking into a dead guanaco. This was more like it. As we watched in awe the efficiency of these huge birds in cleaning up deceased animals, a total of four adult birds drifted slowly over our heads and inspected the scene. One landed and proceeded to assert its dominance, landing in the middle of the youngsters and quickly feasting on the prime flesh. A few squabbles added spice, the birds snapping at each other with bills slick with fresh blood, so I too snapped away to my hearts content. The results are not too clever, but believe me trying to hold a heavy camera and lens still in the teeth of a forceful gale, shooting into a heat haze, is really not easy. You can get a good feel for the scene though I hope.

The remainder of the day was spent driving through the park admiring the impressive, ice capped, mountains and general scenery. We also saw some wildlife, notably a couple of harriers and some male rheas with their herd of chicks. One had 13 young to contend with and seemed to think walking them along the road was a good idea.

Tomorrow we move on yet again to visit Argentine Patagonia. Getting a little travel weary if truth be told, but I'm sure the long hours of driving will be worth it. I'll let you know in due course.

King Pins

Everywhere we have been on these islands folk have told us how lucky we have been with the weather. You can tell this is part of the British Isles because the weather is always the main topic of conversation. And we have been lucky, we know that. Until today. Today the never ceasing wind reached a new strength, gale force, and the sun deserted us. This is what a typical Falklands summer day is like; challenging.

We were picked up from Stanley, an enigma of a place if ever there was one, after breakfast and bumped and bounced for nearly 3 hours over what was essentially open moorland. There are no saloon cars here for once outside the settlement and into 'camp' the roads quickly deteriorate. First there are a few miles of packed dirt and gravel and then nothing but a faint track where yesterday's Land Rover/Toyota/Ford 4x4 slowly ground it's way to the beauty spot known as Volunteer Point. As your head whacks into the hand grip one more time and your back wrenches as you are jerked this way and that, it's hard not to wonder what the hell you are doing this for. But then a sliver of golden sand comes into view and you know the journey is nearing its end. The excitement mounts as you see your first Magellanic penguins outside their burrows, notice giant petrels tacking into the strong wind and hurtling across the treeless ground on long aerodynamically perfect wings, hear the braying calls of  other birds huddled together in their nesting groups. You've arrived and are free to roam for the next 4 hours, or until the wind, the rain and the blasting sand beat you into submission.

The reason we have endured this bouncy castle treatment is to visit a colony of king penguins. Their breeding cycle lasts for over 12 months, so there is always activity here making it a popular spot with tourists. Cruise liners now visit the deep waters of Stanley Harbour on a regular basis providing rich pickings for locals that transport punters to this spot in a fleet of vehicles. Today though the weather has prevented one of these ships from docking, so there are a total of only eight of us spread out over several acres of beach, shallow dunes and moor. We know the other four folk, couples from Spain and Holland, because we have bumped into them in the lodges on other islands as well as several times wandering along Stanley's only street of interest. It's like having a small gathering of friends. 

Swathed in thick layers, scarf wrapped around ears and mouth, hat pulled down, jacket zipped up to its full extent, we trudge towards a smudge of black and white birds nestled against a rise in the ground. 

Each colony is encircled by a ring of painted stones beyond which you may not pass, but this doesn't matter. The penguins, many of them large beach ball chicks, have spilled out of the exclusion zone and adults are all around, some preening, some courting, others just loafing. They all allow close approach before suddenly starting as if they have only just noticed a 6 foot human nearby, looking briefly concerned they shuffle away on big leathery feet to a safer distance, perhaps 2 feet away. In some cases it is a question of the birds coming to you, moulting chicks still half covered in thick light brown down that approach from behind and chase after you as you try to beat a retreat. Close up those beaks are quite long and look very sharp. There's no real danger but we don't fancy a nip.

There is so much going on all around that it is difficult to keep up, best then to simply sit down and let the action unfold. At least for as long as you can bear the howling, cruelly unabating wind.

After an hour or so we seek shelter in a portacabin which serves as a mess hut for the drivers and a refuge for red faced, dripping nosed visitors. A warming cup of coffee and a sandwich, stories swapped about previous adventures traipsing across the islands and other parts of the globe and we're out again for a stroll, or rather hunched trudge, down to the seashore. Here a group of South American terns are busy fishing in the shallows, gracefully dipping into the froth to pick off some stranded morsel. The beach itself holds a few two banded plovers, very handsome birds, and several white-rumpled sandpipers, migrants to these parts. And of course there are parties of penguins making their way to and fro, wind blown swirls of loose sand curling around them as they stoically make their way.

Back in the colony we spend our remaining time simply admiring the vivid colours of the kings. A lot of birds have just completed their moult and are in pristine condition with vibrant deep ochre face and chest patches that gradually fade through shades of lightening yellow into a bright white belly. When seen up close quite stunning.

But it is the massed ranks that really impress. Tightly crammed they form a tapestry of jostling colour, a  bubbling cauldron of activity like so many yellow topped king pins. Was our own three hours of jousting to get here worthwhile? You bet it was.

War Zone

Wherever you go on these islands you are reminded of the events of 1982. The Argentinian invasion and the ensuing war still has a profound affect on the inhabitants, the landscape and the general feel of the place. Falkland Islanders are a hardy folk, living in harsh and extreme conditions where neighbours look out for one another, accents a cross between West Country and Irish. The economy is doing well, people seem content, loving the remoteness and the sense of space and emptiness. They don't want the essence of the place to change and they certainly do not want to be anything but British. The chances of another invasion are pretty slim; there are 1,000 service personal stationed here, Typhoon jets, battleships and of course 21st century communications. Back in the '80s there was no internet, no Sky news, no smart phones. Information was hard to come by and therefore controllable by the government. Things have changed.

There are monuments all over the islands, mainly British but some Argentinian, to various ships that were sunk and battles that were fought. The lives of all those lost are commemorated in a simple but poignant way. The physical evidence of some of the more dramatic episodes can still be found scattered over the wild, windswept moorland landscape. We were shown some of these today on a trip to the far end of Pebble Island; wreckage of Argentine Dagger aircraft. Three were shot down by Sea Harriers in one single engagement.

It will be a long time before these reminders of violence erode, yet nature is slowly erasing the evidence. The relentless wind and the rain and the snow will each play their part. For now though meadowlarks use the niches in the wreckage as nesting sites. It is, after all, an ill wind.

The main focus today was a visit to a rockhopper penguin colony amongst which we hoped to see a scattering of macaroni penguins. The trip to the site was long, bumpy and harsh on the body. A total of seven hours strapped into a 4x4 grinding over rough, untamed moor and rock screes. We saw no habitation, no signs of human activity accept a few ramshackle fences to corral sheep: not a soul. We traversed the whole island and encountered nobody; there was simply nobody to encounter. The stops we did make, mainly at stretches of sandy beaches or rocky coves were quite stunning. Take away the incessant wind and the scene could have been from a brochure for holidays in Barbados or the Seychelles. Quite surprising and all the more beautiful for it.

Picture the scene then in the middle of a Southern Hemisphere afternoon. Four folk from 8,000 miles away with a local guide, a few hundred penguins, cormorants, skuas and lots of open space. Nothing else except the sparkling sea. We sit and watch, we wander carefully around, we pose for pics, we sit some more each to his and her own thoughts. And then drama. A caracara hovers over the colony looking for an opportunity to steal an egg or chick. The resident skua doesn't like this intrusion and with purposeful beats of its powerful wings zooms like a missile low over the ground towards the intruder. They tangle, they spar and the caracara moves away. At least for a little while. It will be back soon enough. Inbetween times the skua sees an unguarded egg, pounces and flies away with the prize. It's mate joins it and they both feast on the nutritious meal that will fuel their own breeding. That egg has been jealously guarded for three weeks and is now gone. A cycle of chemical and nutritional exchange that has been taking place over millennia. 

There is death here, but also exuberant life. The penguins are but feet away as they move to and fro, and yes we do see some macarronis amongst the throng, our 5th penguin species of the trip. Bigger, bolder with golden plumes dancing in the breeze. 

I move away from the colony and sit on a rock sheltered from the prevailing wind. Here I have a commanding view should any bird stray close enough and stall into the ever moving air. It's not an unsuccessful strategy for several species use the headwind as a convenient way to slowly scrutinise the ground below. No energy expended: maximum return. First up, a turkey vulture, then a superb black-browed albatross and then the caracara with a prize. An egg with a chick near hatching. Heart wrenching and exhilerating at the same moment. Can you understand that?  Emotions twisted and turned. On the one hand so sad that a penguin so close to being born has met its end before seeing the sun, on the other excited that such a raw event is being played out a few metres from where I sit. It is hard to reconcile these feelings, I feel privileged and basal. I have witnessed an episode of a real life soap opera and there was nobody else to see it. I gaze out over the sun spangled sea and bless the moment I determined the natural world should be my bible.

Surf's Up

Contrary to expectations, the weather here on Sea Lion Island has been quite superb. Almost wall to wall sunshine beating down from a sky of purest blue. There is wind though and lots of it. In fact it is an ever present feature at these latitudes; it's not a question of whether it will be windy, rather how windy will it be. The answer during our two day stay has been pretty strong. But you get used to it. Don thick coat, hat, scarf and gloves and you're set. I'm loving every second.

Here on the island you are free to roam at will. There are few rules other than to keep a minimum of 6 metres from the Penguins and cormorant colonies, simply because if birds are disturbed from their eggs or chicks there is a queue of predators loitering around to nip in quick and steal them. Six metres is pretty close though, so sitting quietly whilst these lovely birds go about their business at such close range is an experience that is not easy to convey. As with many times on this trip, I've found myself having to shake my head and remind myself where we are and what we are doing. In this case it's sitting on a rock on an island where next stop is Antarctica, photographing colourful penguins, cormorants, meadowlarks, giant petrels and albatross. Looking across a bay of turquoise water waiting for the dorsal fin of an orca to breach whilst elephant seals of gigantic size spar on the beach below. Walking past skuas so close that you can see your reflection in their eye, following in the footprints of penguins as they waddle towards their fishing grounds. Truly breathtaking and humbling.

This morning we were driven to the far end of the island and deposited at a mixed colony of king cormorants and rockhopper penguins. Here we perched ourselves on the stratified rocks and simply drunk it all in. As with all seabird colonies, the noise and the smell can be intoxicating, or overpowering. Take your pick. Whatever your take, it is captivating and all consuming. Eyes, ears and nose take a pounding. 

The cormorants, spectacularly colourful, were busy nest building, the males collecting nest material from rafts of kelp floating offshore. These they brought in by the beakfull to present to their mates patiently waiting, and occasionally defending, their nests. Being able to watch these creatures at close quarters for as long as you choose, allows an intimate insight into their lives. We looked on as they preened one another, mated, squabbled and affectionately caressed each other; pressing cheek to cheek, necks entwined, bills touching. There is surely more depth to these birds then we give them credit for. 

The rockhoppers were already on eggs, sitting stoically with yellow plumes dancing in the breeze. A trickle of birds, their mates back from a fishing expedition, lived up their names by hopping from rock to rock from the sea 30 metres below to the nesting site. Quite a feat for such a small bird.

And out at sea black-browed albatross effortlessly skimmed the waves.

We broke the 3 mile walk back to the lodge with a picnic taken in the lee of tall stands of tussock grass. It wasn't long before an inquisitive striated caracara, Johhny Rooks to give them the local name, paid a visit, loitering around in the hope of a free handout. None were forthcoming. The bird moved on and so did we.

In the late afternoon, not wishing to waste any time at this marvellous place, we visited the elephant seal beach, sat on a rock and scanned for orca. The shallow pools on our right have been made famous by David Attenborough and his Planet Earth team as the location where a female orca will wriggle through dangerously shallow water in an attempt to catch hold of the back flipper of an elephant seal pub and thereby drag it to it's doom. The American film crew was still trying to capture the moment, but it is a long shot. They are out at dawn every day and trudge back for dinner with no orca footage in the can. So far. Our luck was in though, for after a short while the keen eyes of my lad saw a large dorsal fin break through the surface; there half way across the channel were not one, but two orcas cruising sedately through the cold waters. Awe inspiring. These are males that are waiting for the pod of females to appear. The elephant seals are safe for now.

Then it was the turn of the Gentoo penguins to entertain and engage. The birds that have been out fishing all day return in the late afternoon to visit the colony. So, if you position yourself on the beach and keep still, these wonderful streamlined animals will surf the waves as they arrow towards shore before catapulting themselves onto the beach just a few yards to either side. With the crisp light behind us, the opportunities for photography were just perfect. Too good to miss. The grace, speed and sheer poetry these birds harness whilst skimming the water surface are so at odds with their ungainly posture on land that it is hard to marry the two together. Perfectly adapted to an oceanic life, they are forced to land to breed and moult. Here they have to deal with so many pressures, predatory birds, rats, starvation, burning wind, rain and sun. The more I watch, the more I conclude that these birds deserve great respect. They truly are the hardiest little creatures I think I've ever seen.

We waddle back with the Penguins to the lodge, shower, put up our feet and pour a glass of wine. Such a day in such a place. Thousands of miles from home in physical distance and experience. Within touching distance of the birds and mammals. As one with it all.