The Kings of Fortuna Bay
After landing at Fortuna Bay, we hiked about a kilometer to the King Penguin colony. Along the way, we passed clusters of curious juvenile fur seals, their sleek bodies sprawled across the plain. Some watched us with mild interest; others engaged in playful tussles, oblivious to our presence. We also encountered the well-worn penguin highways—narrow, trampled paths leading between the colony and the sea. The outgoing penguins, sleek and streamlined, were heading out to fish. The incoming ones waddled heavily, their bellies bulging from days spent gorging on fish. A single foraging trip typically lasts between four and seven days, with parents taking turns venturing out while their mates stay behind to care for their chicks.
Climbing to a rise, I was met with a breathtaking sight—thousands upon thousands of King Penguins stretched across the plains. Their synchronized calls filled the air, a chorus as mesmerizing as the spectacle itself. Later, I descended to a lower vantage point, where I could observe smaller groups of parents and chicks. I watched as parents returned from their long journey at sea, calling out to their young in a distinctive two-tone vocalization. The chicks, covered in thick brown down, cheeped in response. It was fascinating to witness the reunion process—each parent and chick recognizing one another amidst the cacophony. This intricate communication ensures that no chick is left unfed in the vast, bustling colony.
To Shackleton’s Waterfall at Stromness
As we neared the shore at Stromness, the water churned with the movements of Antarctic fur seals. Their sleek heads bobbed up and down, diving and rolling effortlessly in the waves. Upon landing, I was greeted by several on the beach—adorable, yet feisty. Despite their small size, they had no hesitation in bluff-charging anyone who ventured too close. Their deep-throated growls were more comical than intimidating, and a simple wave of the arm was enough to send them scurrying back.
Our goal was to hike to Shackleton’s Waterfall, a roughly four-kilometer round trip. Though the terrain was mostly flat, there was no established trail. Our first challenge was navigating the "fur seal gauntlet"—a meadow teeming with lounging seals, some engaged in gentle sparring. At the sight of us—strangers in matching red jackets—several charged forward, only to stop short at the last moment. Once through, we trudged across a muddy stretch before reaching a gravelly plain, likely shaped by retreating glaciers. Braided streams crisscrossed the landscape, forcing us to hop from rock to rock to stay dry. The wind, relentless and fierce, pushed against us with such force that without my trekking pole, I might have been knocked off my feet.
In the distance, the rusting remains of the Stromness whaling station stood as a ghostly reminder of a bygone era. This was the endpoint of one of the most remarkable survival stories in history. In 1916, Ernest Shackleton, Tom Crean, and Frank Worsley completed an 800-mile open-boat journey from Elephant Island to South Georgia. From there, they trekked across the island’s treacherous mountain range for 36 hours straight, finally reaching Stromness, where they secured the rescue of their stranded crew.
The waterfall we had come to see was one of the final obstacles in Shackleton’s grueling journey. Exhausted beyond measure, the men chose to slide down rather than attempt to climb around it. Looking at it today, it was clear that from above, an easier walking route could have been seen. But after weeks at sea and nearly two days of continuous trekking, exhaustion had dictated their decision.
The waterfall itself was stunning—a series of braided falls at the top, cascading gracefully into multiple tiers below. Standing before it, with the wind whipping through the valley and the remnants of history all around, I could almost imagine Shackleton and his men making that final descent, one last push toward salvation.
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