The whiteness was almost blinding. There was snow everywhere I looked and more light flakes drifted down occasionally. And it was almost eerily quiet, the thick snow seemingly muffling all but the loudest of sounds. But somewhere up ahead – it was hard to be sure just how far – there was a sharp, repetitive knocking. I paused to listen, intrigued. It came again. And again. I altered my direction slightly and set off in the direction of the knocking.
It was July 2007 and I was in Ushuaia National Park, in southern Argentina. I had picked the coldest winter in 100 years to backpack around South America and it was hard going. But I had made it down to the southernmost city in the world, despite the considerable disruption to the transport system that often led to delays of hours. And it was brutally cold. But it was a beautiful day: fresh blue skies and bright sunshine. And so here I was, crunching my way along frozen paths, in search of the source of that knocking.
There was a flash of movement from a tree up ahead. I caught a glimpse of fiery red. And then a bird came clearly into view, followed by its mate. Woodpeckers, hammering away at the trunk of a tree. Almost all black, with that unmistakeable red head and neck. They were Magellanic woodpeckers, although I didn’t know that at the time. They seemed oblivious to my presence and I was able to get quite close to them. I watched them flitting about and listened to their rhythmic drumming for some time before I started to feel uncomfortably numb, and then left them to it.
This was one of those occasions when I was watching a species that I suspected I would not see again, at least not in the wild. Magellanic woodpeckers are only found in southern Argentina and Chile. I haven’t travelled there since 2007. Will I do so again? I hope so, because it is an amazing part of the world. But I’m not sure if I will. I hardly saw any birds on my walk that day, but those woodpeckers made up for it.