More than 2,600 miles from North Carolina’s Triangle—and nearly 700 miles from the nearest continent—the Galápagos Islands rise like uncut gems from the cerulean sea west of Ecuador’s coastline. At first glance, the volcanic archipelago’s fifteen major islands can look rough and spare, some only lightly painted with a thin crust of vegetation. But closer inspection reveals a rugged, lapidary landscape largely isolated from mainland evolutionary pressures—one that glitters with ecological splendor. The crown jewels of the Galápagos include ruby-red and sapphire-hued birdlife, preternaturally tame reptiles and mammals, and otherworldly vistas.
Situated near the center of the island cluster, Santa Cruz (also known as Indefatigable Island) is the second-largest landmass in the archipelago. The Spanish named it for the Holy Cross; the British named it for the HMS Indefatigable. Today, Santa Cruz houses more than 4,000 permanent residents, making it the most populated of the Galápagos Islands. It is also home to the Charles Darwin Research Station, best known for its work with the giant Galápagos tortoises.
The Galápagos giant tortoise—the world’s largest living tortoise—once included up to fifteen subspecies, eleven of which remain today. Each is adapted to the conditions of a particular island and, often, to different volcanic slopes on that island. The Hood Island subspecies (Geochelone nigra hoodensis), for example, with its long neck and downward-sloping carapace, is associated with scrubby Española (also known as Hood Island). The Volcán Wolf subspecies (G. n. becki), which can look like an old grandmother sunk low in her shawl, is limited to the northern and western slopes of Wolf Volcano on lush Isabela Island. Nearly all giant tortoise populations have faced severe pressure from historic hunting (especially during the era of whaling vessels) and from introduced non-native species—goats among the most damaging—whose grazing can strip vegetation and reduce tortoise habitat and food supplies.
In March 2004, my family (my parents and husband) and I had the opportunity to meet the tortoise endemic to Santa Cruz: the Indefatigable Island tortoise (Geochelone nigra porteri). This subspecies has a nearly perfectly domed shell and dark, deep, soulful eyes. Walking up to one of these gigantic reptiles felt like sneaking a peek into prehistory. With slow, deliberate steps, I moved closer to a tortoise whose attention was fixed on steadily chomping bright green grass shoots—a favorite food. I studied the ancient anatomy: black, half-dollar-sized scales covering heavy limbs; the glistening, tar-like scutes of its massive shell; and a brown-black beak closed over grass that hung out like half-eaten strands of spaghetti. The chelonian relic lifted his head, regarded me warily, and turned slowly away.
A visit to Santa Cruz offers more than intimate encounters with antediluvian turtles. As you explore the misty highlands, the geologic remnants of the island’s volcanic origins often steal the scene. Near the island’s higher elevations, visitors find Los Gemelos—seemingly bottomless twin sinkholes formed by the collapse of a magma chamber. Nearly 100 feet deep, the openings reveal striated layers of the island’s dormant volcano. Another geologic wonder is the 800-yard “Tunnel of Endless Love,” one of Santa Cruz’s lava tubes—long tunnels formed by ancient magma flows.
And if walking through cooled, primordial magma doesn’t already make your mind spin with thoughts about the planet’s creation—and our own minuteness—you can at least enjoy the creatures that have adapted to these primeval conditions: lava lizards, lava herons, and lava gulls, to name only a few.
Santa Cruz is only the beginning. Next month: “The Galápagos Islands, Rábida Edition,” with an introduction to the sea lions and iguanas of the Archipiélago de Colón.
Sense of Place 