A Trip to Kidney

As the southern hemisphere summer wanes, the inky cloak of darkness shrouds the evening ever earlier and the kiss of its air feels increasingly frostier on my cheeks, we still had time to savour some of the beauty of nature that surrounds us here. We were kindly invited to join some friends on a trip to the nearby Kidney Island – a small and uninhabited island about an hour's boat ride from Stanley (uninhabited, unless you count seals, penguins and the plethora of other seabird life). Standing on the quay, waiting for the launch, which would serve to ferry us to this late summer wonderland, the weather had turned out unusually quiet and still. I was secretly relieved, as I had worried how the girls (all 3!) would fare on south Atlantic swell – albeit within the relatively sheltered waterways we would remain within.

Sick bags at the ready!

If the boat journey out was going to be any kind of indication of what was in store for us, then it promised to be a bonanza of a wildlife watching evening. Watching Stanley disappear into the distance behind us, we were treated to squadrons of Magellanic Penguins breaking the surface while out for an evening fish, an escort from a small pod of Commerson dolphins and the effortless glide of the numerous and mighty Southern Petrol. The ocean seemed to be alive.

Farewell Stanley...

On reaching Kidney, we were immediately reminded that this was a real island of nature. No user-friendly quay or jetty to welcome any visitors here - a motor dingy ride and landing on an empty and pebbly beach left us facing a challenging walk through head-high tussock grass. And when I say head-high, that was head-high for the adults of the landing party. This must have felt like a jungle at times for Evie, with the grasses towering well above her eye-line. In fear of losing her, I was at times, literally forced to just pull her through this tussock tangle. Ever present was the fear that we would blindly step on a resting seal or sea lion – the shock of a previous seal/tussock encounter had been etched on my memory.

Did we pack the machetes?

Which clump of tussock did you say to turn left at?

Thankfully, our fears of being ambushed by 500 kilograms of grey blubber did not materialise and after a 30 minute wade through the tussock, the whole party managed to safely reach our goal on the other side of the island - the Rock Hopper penguin nurseries on the cliffs. I have to say, it was well worth the effort to get here. As we nervously edged our way towards the rocky precipices, we were confronted by literally dozens and dozens of small, plump penguins, perched nonchalantly on the sheer faces. Living up to their names, their almost magical ability to scale these high and steep cliffs is truly astounding, made all the more remarkable when you think of a penguin's traditionally awkward gait on dry land. We were able to get so close, there were times I could have reached out and stroked some of them on the head, which was a complete contrast to the rather aloof nature of the Magellanics of Gypsy Cove. I suspect these hardy little free climbers were safe in the knowledge that to get really close, would result in a long and terminal drop for the over-eager human tourist. Needless to say, and before I am crucified by any conservationists, I did not touch any of them. For one thing the smell radiating from them is not the most appealing – think large pile of used cat litter. Instead I hunted them with my camera lens. 

A rather handsome little chap.

The evening's faunal chocolate box still had other flavours for us to savour. Gazing out into the South Atlantic from the cliffs, we were able to glimpse the more than occasional water spout from passing whales. They were tantalisingly close, yet frustratingly out of sight; however, as they follow the krill closer to shore, there would hopefully be opportunities to see them on a not too distant future boat trip. At this point we decided to make our way back to the landing site. We still had one more natural wonder to view and getting lost in the tussock after dark was not an appetising prospect. The return journey did actually take longer, largely due to walking round in circles at one point - one of the hazards of trying to navigate through head-high tussock. Another hazard, from the increasingly louder guttural snorts of the seals to our left, was also getting ever more present. I couldn't shake Jurassic Park scenes of hunting Velociraptors from my irrational mind, as we battled our way back through the jungle. We made it back to the beach just in time for the final spectacle of the dying evening. At dusk, thousands of Sooty Shearwater seabirds return from a day's fishing, to their burrows in the tussock. We had earlier been careful not to get a foot stuck in these rather incongruous holes. The birds started as a trickle, but almost at a flick of a switch, the darkening skies were filled with literally thousands of birds circling the dunes, readying to dive into their nightly abodes. As we stood there, they slowly started to circle lower and lower and then one by one literally dive into the tussock - whether you were in the way or not! Olivia got the fright of her life, standing next to one of the burrows, as a dark feathered bullet zipped past her, only inches away. Feeling the draft and hearing the swish of these birds rocket past my ears, reminded me that I had never experienced anything like this before. I could also see now how they could have been the inspiration for Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

There were a lot of young Rock Hoppers on the cliffs.

All in all, it had been a great way to spend a Friday evening, and even the torrential rain that started to pour on us, as we waited for the motor dingy, to return us to the launch, could not dampen the experience. Now it was time to act as a pillow for the rather tired 5 year old, as we made our way back to the glittering lights of Stanley. 

I'm a penguin, honest!

Hunter and prey... 

Some evening sun at last.

More babies.