Where the wild things are
As darkness falls over Tasmania’s northern coastline, the sing-song of hungry chicks heralds a magical nocturnal commute. Calling from burrows dug deep into the dunes, tiny, noisy penguins — just weeks and months old — wait impatiently for their nightly feed.
I look on, silent and awestruck, as dozens of little penguins tumble out of the surf with belly-loads of fish to share. They waddle right past me, seemingly impervious to my beam of red torchlight, following well-worn, sandy trails. Awkwardly scaling rocky ledges and sliding down too-smooth grassy tufts, the penguins move with the single-minded determination of parenthood, racing to soothe and nourish their hungry chicks.
As the full moon shifts overhead, gently crashing waves unceremoniously dump penguin after penguin onto the sand, each one shaking itself off before embarking on its own ramble back home. When the penguin parade finally slows, I rise from my hiding spot, shake out the pins and needles and retreat to my snug bed for the night. Fortunately, it’s not far away.
Asleep with the penguins
Tucked behind the Sulphur Creek penguin rookery, 36 kilometres west of Devonport at Hall Point, my campervan awaits. I’ve staked out an impossibly
