A Good Day for the Emperor

McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA


Three Austral Summers came and went without any sign of an Emperor Penguin. In this, my fourth, with a new job that takes me out on the ice shelf with some regularity, I have been a little more fortunate.

On a particularly blustery evening, I found myself once again traveling across the ice shelf in a cargo delta, heading out to the airfield to meet an incoming plane.  I had long ago developed the habit of scanning the white horizon any time I am out on the sea ice or ice shelf, looking for any speck of black that doesn't belong. Up ahead and on the left side of the road, two black shapes appear. I stare at them, waiting to get close enough to tell whether they are flags (the usual case) or penguins (a much more exciting rarity). Lo and behold, two emperors crane their necks to see what is making so much noise. I pause for a moment and watch them stretch out their shimmery white chests and flap their disproportionately small black flippers. I curse under my breath that I neglected to bring my camera today, and after a few minutes have passed, continue on my way out of obligation. 


Four hours later, with my toes numb and my cheeks rosy from the cold, I find myself making the return trip, now carrying three pallets of cargo that have just flown in from New Zealand. It is the first time in over a week that the plane has been able to land due to weather, and so it has been several days now since anyone on station has seen the likes of a fresh fruit or vegetable. One of the pallets on my truck is mounded high with "freshies," boxes of bananas and sacks of potatoes, wrapped in a black quilt to keep them from freezing between the time they leave the plane and arrive in the galley. I am the first of a caravan of three deltas leaving the airfield, and I have just put mine in fourth gear to cruise on home when a flutter of black catches my eye. And there they are: four Emperors dawdling just off the snow road. I slow to a stop. 


I had always considered the Emperor penguins to be the old men of penguins- the Adelies that we see more regularly stand just a couple feet tall, and remind me of toddlers. They bump into each other like cartoon characters, and slide on their bellies and leap over cracks, and stand in long lines to jump into the water one at a time like children on a diving board. Everything about them seems playful. Emperors, on the other hand, at nearly four feet tall, are less childish somehow. Their shape, along with their golden markings and iridescent chests, make them seem regal, which is, I suppose, exactly how they got their name. While Adelies practically scamper across the ice, Emperors have this slow waddle which lends further to their airs. I always imagine the two types of penguins together, the Adelie being the young whippersnapper  jumping up and down with endless quests for attention at the feet of the more somber wise Emperor penguin. 


But the four Emperors who run alongside me now seem out to prove me wrong. It is true that they don't have quite the same skip in their step, but they alternate between glissading across the snow on their bellies and chasing one another on foot. Occasionally one lags behind, and the others may stop to let him catch up. In a cluster at one point, they flap their wings and sing their awkward songs- penguins aren't exactly the most melodic bird. 


As I sit in the delta admiring the creatures, swearing that I will never ever again leave home without a camera, a coworker slowly cruises past and looks over at me giving me the universal hands-in-the-air symbol for "what are you doing?" I point past him to the penguins on the other side, and he smiles and nods, then pulls in front of me and stops. I wait for a moment and then feeling a little guilty, decide it's high time to get my goods back to town. But as I pull past, I see his camera lens sticking out his window and quickly pull over once again. He agrees to take a picture, finally proof that I have coexisted with the penguins. The third delta pulls up behind us and the driver climbs out as well. All of us, giddy with delight over a few birds, take turns having our picture taken. I figure the ten minutes we spend snapping photos is paltry in comparison to the two hours that the freshies will spend being unloaded and transported. 


In my haste, I had neglected to put my gloves on, and now I can't feel a single finger. I hurry back to the delta and awkwardly climb up the ladder with my numb hands. As I slide the truck into first and then second gear, I smile not only at my good fortune, but also the way three grown-ups will run and skip across the snow like children, and pose for a picture, at the mere sight of a few penguins.