Among Penguins: A Bird Man in Antarctica

28. Blondie and Blackie

139 28. Blondie and Blackie eee Blondie and I met on a chilly, overcast morning, with the wind blowing from the south and a lenticular cloud settling menacingly over Mount Terror. That extra edge in the air gave our introduction special salience, but he was the type to stand out anyway. Michelle and Kirsten had already told me Blondie’s story over breakfast. “You can spot him a mile away,” Michelle said, nursing a cup of hot chocolate. “Literally. He’s like a piece of milk chocolate among chocolate chips.” “Or a Fruit Loop in a bowl of Cheerios,” Kirsten added, stirring her cereal. “What makes him stick out?” I asked. “All the penguins look alike.” “Except for Blondie,” Michelle said. After a pause, she explained. “Blondie is a male penguin who looks a bit different from the rest. Instead of having a black back, flippers, head, and tail, he’s startlingly blond. Hence the name.” “It’s a natural issue with the melanin pigments in his plumage,” Kirsten said. “Not enough pigment is present to produce the glossy black of normal penguins, so the feathers grow out blond. Kind of like an albino, except not quite as extreme.” “So,” I clarified, “Blondie is a penguin that doesn’t fit in.” “Right,” Michelle said. It would certainly be easy to pick out a blond penguin among the masses of black ones. The bird would have no place to hide. This got me wondering. Do penguins discriminate based on color? Females are known to choose their mates according to fitness, but would color have anything to do with it? 140 Noah Strycker “How’s his social life?” I asked. “Do the other penguins make fun of him?” “Well,” Kirsten said, “Blondie has one of the best territories in the entire Crozier colony. His nest is on top of a small hill in Area L, right next to the ocean, so he has a great view and a short commute to sea. He seems as healthy as a penguin could be.” “Sounds like a pretty good life for a penguin,” I said. “Maybe he’s independently wealthy.” Michelle looked amused. “Yes,” she said, “he seems happy, except for one thing. He’s never found a girl. Blondie has returned faithfully to defend the same nest at least seven summers in a row, but he always spends the entire season alone. He’s never had a mate. Whether or not that relates to his odd coloration is debatable, but most adult male penguins—especially with such a good territory—seem to hook up with a female sooner or later. Blondie, much as we love him, has been ignored by girl penguins.” The story struck me as unaccountably sad in human context, but perhaps not for a penguin. Maybe Blondie was an optimist. At least, that would explain why he returned year after year to sit alone on the same rock. Anthropomorphic comparisons aside, there just wasn’t much else for Blondie to do. He was a penguin, and penguins made nests. Even an odd-looking one had to follow the plan. Who knew what thoughts ricocheted behind his beak. “He’s back this year, by the way,” cut in Kirsten. “I saw him at his usual nest the other day. You should check him out—Blondie is a beautiful bird.” She grabbed a laminated aerial photo map and pointed out the location. “He could be out on a feeding trip,” Kirsten said, “but he’ll defend his nest all season, now. We’ll just have to watch how things go for him as the season progresses.” Later that morning, after the three of us had packed, hiked to the colony, and split up to canvass banded penguins, I paid a visit to Blondie’s nest. It was a cold, breezy day to be studying penguins. An unusual, thin veil of overcast blotted out the sun, throwing the snow and 141 Blondie and Blackie ice into a flat, two-dimensional perspective. The sky appeared the same color as the ice. A lenticular cloud formed at the summit of Mount Terror, a sure sign of windy weather ahead. Blondie was right where he was supposed to be. He lay at ease on his nest in a half state of consciousness, just like all the other neighboring penguins. With feathers the color of honey and brown sugar, he was easy to pick out from...