Danco Island and Neko Harbour

Elongate muscular body stretching across the ice, this species measures 2.4 - 3.5 meters and weighs 200 – 600 kilograms. The male we saw today was certainly on the upper end of that spectrum. The animal’s eyes sly slits high on his skull, he lifted his sleek head for a brief moment before lazily returning to rest. The creature was aware of our presence and unbothered - in full control of the situation. Leopard seals are apex predators, after all. They feed on a broad range of prey from krill to squid and octopus to birds to other seals to – of course – penguins. This large male was buying his time, resting on the ice right where the penguins enter the sea to feed. We continued to the landing site, glancing back to see if the hunter showed any signs of stirring. 

On the beach we find the foundational remains of the British ‘Base O’. Active from February 1956-59, the hut was used for topographic and geological surveys. It was removed by the British Antarctic Survey in 2004, not designated as a historic hut so dismantled for preservation of the wilderness environment under the Antarctic Treaty. Now, two concrete blocks with an information plaque remain. Moulting penguins huddle against the structure, so we leave them in peace. 

It was here that the group split. Some, wanting a quiet morning of roaming the beach between ice and penguins, remained at the shore, eyeing leopard seal. The rest of us ventured to the top of the island, making our way up the snow field and across the scree to the trig point that overlooks the Errera Channel and Cuverville Island.  

We reach Danco’s peak as light snowfall begins. The rugged glacial landscape is pied- igneous rock shows where snow is scraped back. Ice refracts blues and violets – only the lights with wavelengths long enough pass through the compressed ice. Snow clouds close in, blurring horizon into flat, moody grey. Mountain feet drop into still waters, small gusts race ripples across open stretches, growlers shelter the shallows and storm petrels duck and dive between the blocks of ice, searching for plankton to feed on. We pause to drink in the scenery and take pictures before returning past the colony to the beach.  

During lunch, we cruised into Andvord Bay to Neko Harbour, where we would spend our afternoon. Named after a factory ship that operated in the area seasonally from 1911 to 1924, the landing offers penguins and stunning scenery right at the foot of a looming glacier. 

On arrival, the shore was thick with penguins, and we had to be careful not to encroach on their space. As visitors in their home, we gave them right of way. The process of moving along the beach was slow, penguins in every direction ambling entirely unperturbed about their business. We watched as the penguins strained their heads back - reaching for the pink spot where body meets tail – the Gore-tex gland. This is where oil is secreted for the purpose of waterproofing the penguins’ outer layers. Carefully collecting grease from this spot, they meticulously redistribute it throughout their plumage- first their backs, then stomach, breast and along the leading edge of flipper. This allows them to trap air in the downy feather layer between topcoat and skin, providing insulation and sustaining body heat while submerged in frigid waters. Gentoos are of highly refined design – like torpedoes they shoot through the water with incredibly few wingbeats, leathery feet and hooked claws put our crampons to shame when climbing compressed ice. They do, however, often make themselves out to be clumsy. Today, we watched as one juvenile, smart new adult plumage hard to take serious with puffy baby feathers pluming from its back, stuck its head through a perfectly penguin-head-sized hole in a growler. Nibbling at the ice (using the fresh water for osmoregulation), all was fine until it was time to get back to business. On trying to retreat from the hole, the penguin panicked, thinking its head was stuck and began furiously flapping and wriggling. This flurry only lasted a few seconds before the embarrassed penguin freed its head and ran off to do something probably just as silly.

Making our way slowly along the granite sand and pebbles, we reached the glacier. The fifty meter cliff (a conservative guess) of ice spans the bay, reaching from the rocky shallows to the icy blue. At its foot, an ever-moving cocktail of brash ice spreads into the water. We noted with caution both the size of the bergs drifting past the site and the height at which growlers littered the beach. When this thing calves, so much water is displaced that a tsunami-style wave echoes out from the epicentre of the fall, throwing ice up the beach past the strand line. Walking among these boulder-sized ice blocks, we felt the vulnerability of the human body. At its edge, the glacier folded out like the pages of an open book, slices of ice separated by gaping crevasses. Gargantuan yet fragile, tonnes of ice teetering on the edge of collapse. We looked on in hopes of catching a calving event impressive enough to display the power of the landscape but just small enough that we on the beach would remain human-shaped. But the excitement that this particular iceshelf threatens does not end there. As a tidal glacier, a large portion of the ice remains submerged. When crevasses deepen and thicken above, weight tumbles off and the buoyant ice below is no longer pressed into the depths. Eventually, the balance is tipped and these unseen volatiles fire upwards, gaining momentum as they slice through the water. Bursting through the surface with no prior warning, they can fire up from any angle, appearing surprisingly far from the glacial foot. We call them ‘shooters’. This is something to be aware of when in a small boat near the foot of a tidal glacier. 

We are lucky enough to witness the perfect (i.e. non-threatening) amount of action in a series of dramatic avalanches. Starting with what looks like just a handful of snow thrown down the rock face above the glacial front, a sudden rush of churning ice spews onto the shelf below. As the snow clouds into the still air, a deep rumble echoes around the icy amphidrome. It is hard to express in words how this guttural rumble feels in the chest. A yawn and a stretch from the glacier- the magnitude of landscape communicated through vibration.  

The brash ice was closing in on the landing site, not least because of the awakening ice wall. It was time to head back to the ship. As we neared Europa’s familiar hull, we heard a deep watery breath. Humpbacks. Cleaning our boots, lifting the zodiacs and washing the deck was interspersed with sightings of the whales and each time we paused to watch them, never tiring of time with these powerful beings. Just as the work was finishing up, they rewarded us with successive lunge-feeding – leathery jaws launching forward as water cascaded through. Fulmar, skuas and kelp gulls busied through the action, taking their chances with the ocean giants in hope of catching some churned up krill. The humpbacks raised their flukes and were gone. Yet again, we found ourselves overwhelmed by the abundance of life in the waters of the Antarctic peninsula, with deep gratitude to be able to witness just a taste of it.