New Island, West Falklands
51º43.4’ S, 61º 17.8’ W
A new day, a New Island, up in the northwest corner of Falklands. Two striated caracaras stand sentinel on the roof of the beach shed, watching impassively, like sun-bronzed lifeguards as we wade ashore. These “Johny Rooks” are intelligent, versatile, observant and light-fingered, yet one of the rarest birds of prey in the world. In the fine white sand we notice tracks: rat, cat and rabbit, all introduced by the early sealers. We walk off through swathes of groundsel, sowthistle and Yorkshire fog -- European plants that came with the first settlers. Once we reach the weathered ramparts of the western cliffs, we are at last among native vegetation: the infamous tussac grass. Striding confidently into this “grassland” we suddenly find ourselves lost in 7’ high thicket of wiry stems, pygmies in a tussock forest. 10 minutes of jungle bashing brings us to the scene above. Rockhopper penguins busy moulting, as the accumulated dandruff shows. But no chicks. But wait: what are those downy muppets centre left? These are black-browed albatross chicks. What appears to be a penguin colony is in fact an albatross site, invaded by molting rockhoppers which have turned their quiet suburbs into an industrial fleece factory. The cratered earth mounds the albatross uses must seem palatial to the single penguin preening center right. For first-time home-owners, like the couple just left of the albatross chicks, one albatross mound is ideal for newly-weds starting out on the property ladder. After lunch we drop anchor off Carcass Island, quite different. As soon as we reach the tide-line there is a busy swarm of beach combing birds: Cobb’s wren, the tussac bird, Austral thrush and long-tailed meadow-lark. It is a great thrill to witness such an intact assemblage of land birds: none would survive were there rats here. A rainstorm ambushes us as we walk the sands, but my exploration of the tide wrack reveals a darker secret: I count 50 gentoo penguin carcasses, and to my chagrin, 10 black-browed albatross carcasses all tangled in the seaweed. When we reach his farmhouse, Rob McGill, over a cup of tea and a table groaning with cakes, explains his belief that the penguin colony here has been all but wiped out by a “Red Tide”, a dinoflagellate bloom that generates its own toxins. It is Carcass Island indeed. We must leave: the wind is rising. We depart with eight lamb carcasses of our own for the stores, and as we Zodiac out to the mother ship, a playful Peale’s dolphin leaps vertically at our bow, splashing us all. Deadly tides come and go, but being anointed by a mischievous dolphin lifts my spirits at the day’s end.
51º43.4’ S, 61º 17.8’ W
A new day, a New Island, up in the northwest corner of Falklands. Two striated caracaras stand sentinel on the roof of the beach shed, watching impassively, like sun-bronzed lifeguards as we wade ashore. These “Johny Rooks” are intelligent, versatile, observant and light-fingered, yet one of the rarest birds of prey in the world. In the fine white sand we notice tracks: rat, cat and rabbit, all introduced by the early sealers. We walk off through swathes of groundsel, sowthistle and Yorkshire fog -- European plants that came with the first settlers. Once we reach the weathered ramparts of the western cliffs, we are at last among native vegetation: the infamous tussac grass. Striding confidently into this “grassland” we suddenly find ourselves lost in 7’ high thicket of wiry stems, pygmies in a tussock forest. 10 minutes of jungle bashing brings us to the scene above. Rockhopper penguins busy moulting, as the accumulated dandruff shows. But no chicks. But wait: what are those downy muppets centre left? These are black-browed albatross chicks. What appears to be a penguin colony is in fact an albatross site, invaded by molting rockhoppers which have turned their quiet suburbs into an industrial fleece factory. The cratered earth mounds the albatross uses must seem palatial to the single penguin preening center right. For first-time home-owners, like the couple just left of the albatross chicks, one albatross mound is ideal for newly-weds starting out on the property ladder. After lunch we drop anchor off Carcass Island, quite different. As soon as we reach the tide-line there is a busy swarm of beach combing birds: Cobb’s wren, the tussac bird, Austral thrush and long-tailed meadow-lark. It is a great thrill to witness such an intact assemblage of land birds: none would survive were there rats here. A rainstorm ambushes us as we walk the sands, but my exploration of the tide wrack reveals a darker secret: I count 50 gentoo penguin carcasses, and to my chagrin, 10 black-browed albatross carcasses all tangled in the seaweed. When we reach his farmhouse, Rob McGill, over a cup of tea and a table groaning with cakes, explains his belief that the penguin colony here has been all but wiped out by a “Red Tide”, a dinoflagellate bloom that generates its own toxins. It is Carcass Island indeed. We must leave: the wind is rising. We depart with eight lamb carcasses of our own for the stores, and as we Zodiac out to the mother ship, a playful Peale’s dolphin leaps vertically at our bow, splashing us all. Deadly tides come and go, but being anointed by a mischievous dolphin lifts my spirits at the day’s end.
