Northern Elephant Seals

Their vast size—cows typically weigh up to 1,700 pounds, and bulls as much as 5,000 pounds—makes them difficult to miss.”

The smaller seal recognized the other’s dominance and turned to flee, but the other pursued him into the ocean. As the waves surrounded them, the larger seal caught up and, silhouetted against the rising sun, they clashed again.”

The bellowing of an elephant seal is an almost industrial sound, like the rattling of a metal pole along a hollow, corrugated pipe.”

After about six weeks of packing on the pounds with their mother’s milk, they’d shed their dark and wooly natal pelage and sport a new, silvery coat. Since birth, they had quadrupled in size and gathered in pods for safety.”

I was sitting in my car by Drake’s Beach, listening to the waves outside and enjoying the residual warmth of the heated seat. The clock on the dashboard showed that it wasn’t even seven AM yet. Still, the growing brightness in the sky accompanied an equally growing realization that I’d make a rookie mistake. I had just driven over an hour from home on a cold winter morning without checking the weather forecast. It looked like the clouds would obscure any hint of direct sunlight and diminish my plans to photograph northern elephant seals (Mirounga angustirostris) at sunrise.

I finished the last of my coffee and stepped out into a bitter wind, the kind that makes you feel awake while wishing you weren’t. A few curlews and gulls focused on their disagreements by the ocean’s edge, but otherwise, the place looked deserted. Long stretches of the beach are often closed during peak elephant seal mating season. On this morning, however, it was open and very quiet. Now I just had to locate my subjects.

A few hundred yards to the south, I could see smooth, gray lumps scattered on the sand. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed they were an avalanche of rocks smoothed over time by the tide. They were, however, the giant, blubbery pinnipeds I was looking for. They live startlingly dual lives; with well-insulated bodies, they’re perfectly adapted to a life at sea but curiously awkward on land. Up close, elephant seals may look like melted torpedos, but the image of their return to our coastline is one of California’s winter highlights.

There are many reasons to appreciate elephant seals, but I particularly enjoy how accessible they are for anyone starting out in wildlife photography. Their vast size—cows typically weigh up to 1,700 pounds, and bulls as much as 5,000 pounds—makes them difficult to miss; however, their predictable behavioral patterns really drew me in. As soon as I realized they were ashore over the winter and back in the ocean by the spring, I started to ask questions and scratch a new, naturalist itch.

I decided to walk along the cliffs overlooking the beach, figuring that if I couldn’t get direct sunlight, I might be able to capture some drone-like images looking down on them. As I got closer, the scene began to make sense. A harem of twenty or so females was grouped together with a smattering of vulnerable, black-coated newborn pups squawking to be fed. In addition, I could see a few seals on the outskirts that looked like juveniles and a couple of beta males. It didn’t take long to work out who the alpha male was. A giant bull, distinctly bigger than the others, lay sleeping on the sand near the females.

It’s thought that elephant seals typically return to their own birthplace to mate and give birth. So, this coastline was probably familiar, and so did the challenges. I sat on the grass, collar up and beanie pulled down over my ears, watching the scene unfold and thinking about how long these seals would stay on land. My mind wandered to the new year’s resolutions I’d probably break. But, at the same time, these amazing creatures would have the perseverance to stay there for weeks without eating once. Rain or shine, they’d be on that beach to play their part in securing their colony’s future.

Stephen Budiansky said, “When we look at nature, we are only looking at the survivors.” When we talk about elephant seals, that’s especially true. In the 19th century, they were hunted to the brink of extinction for their blubber. Still, a tiny handful miraculously survived, and thankfully, their relatives are here today, demonstrating their own resilience.

Elephant seals lead active lives at sea but are far more conservative with their motion on land. The beachmaster, in particular, seemed to be deeply engaged in preserving his precious energy, eyes closed and motionless, while a three-act play began to unfold.

Firstly, two slightly smaller bulls on the periphery seemed to be edging in on the females from different angles. I was curious to know if they were trying to be stealthy or if their bulk forced them to progress up the beach in installments. Still, the stop-start pattern of propelling their flippers, raising up, and lunging forward suggested the former.

Despite the long build-up, the males were on a collision course. The two seals turned on each other in a surprisingly quick turn of events. One raced towards the other at a speed I wasn’t ready for, proving their treacle-like pace earlier had been intentional. Then, lifting their bodies as high as they could sustain, they began to fight. The clash became bloody as their raw, scarred chest plates smashed together, and they twisted around to deliver bites.

With heads raised, their pendulous noses swung and rippled with each impact. These develop with age and indicate sexual maturity. Typically the larger the seal, the longer the nose. I noticed this was generally an easy way to predict the victor in these battles, bringing a new meaning to the phrase, ‘won by a nose.’

The contest was seemingly decided in under a minute, but round two was only beginning. The smaller seal recognized the other’s dominance and turned to flee, but the other pursued him into the ocean. As the waves surrounded them, the larger seal caught up and, silhouetted against the rising sun, they clashed again. This happened once more, and again the smaller bull retreated. Eventually, beaten and resigned, he swam back along the shore to find a quiet place to recover.

To conclude proceedings, the true alpha male raised his head and began to roar. With a few bursts of vocalization, he declared his status. The bellowing of an elephant seal is an almost industrial sound, like the rattling of a metal pole along a hollow, corrugated pipe. I felt like he’d been monitoring the situation all along, with the experience and confidence to sit this one out. All the while, three juveniles hunkered down among a pile of driftwood. Maybe they were oblivious, but I like to think they were quietly taking notes for the day when the fight would be their own.

A couple of months later, I was hiking near Chimney Rock. It was a windy March afternoon, much warmer than my sunrise shoot. I didn’t expect to see more elephant seals as the adults returned to the ocean. Still, turning my eyes toward the old pier and boat launch below the trail, I saw plenty of weaners sleeping on the pebbled beach. I learned that the weaned pups had a cycle all of their own. After about six weeks of packing on the pounds with their mother’s milk, they’d shed their dark and wooly natal pelage and sport a new, silvery coat. Since birth, they had quadrupled in size and gathered in pods for safety.

The sleeping weaners were comically plump like someone had rolled them in thick blankets. The awake ones squawked at each other with big, round eyes. The rookery was their playground now, and they’d stay there, learning to swim, but the ocean was calling to them, and it would soon be time for their first big adventure.

You can learn the annual cycles of elephant seals without deep analysis. With a little effort and cold ears, I found it rewarding to witness various behavior, from mating and giving birth to fighting and swimming. Walking along the trail to Chimney Rock Point, peregrines occasionally racing past, I was already looking ahead to early summer when the elephant seals would be back ashore to molt.

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