Antarctica, I Owe You One

I absolutely cannot summarize this experience in words, it is just too big on so many levels. But, as the adventure comes to an end, I would like to highlight some of the unforgettable moments and try to express what this place has meant to me. I must first say that my favorite memories will not only be of the extraordinary moments but will include the plainer routines that made up my daily experience here. That said, sampling in the zodiak will stay with me as one of my favorite routines. Alice and I would quietly go about our respective tasks and as I was sitting in the back of the boat, I would look around and just want to stay. It is a rare and special moment, especially in my seemingly fast-paced lifestyle, that I simply want to do nothing but be still and stay put. Relatedly, I am thankful for the time in the boats because we got to experience how different each day was. Sometimes it snowed, sometimes we had to hold on tight, sometimes the sun would peek through the clouds and reflect brilliantly off the mountains.
           The mountains alone are a separate highlight at the top of my list. Never did I think about seeing huge, tall mountains covered in snow and surrounded by water. I will never get over the odd and incredible impressions that dominating aspect of the landscape gave me. Completely captivating. A third feature of the landscape that I loved were the sunsets. Perhaps because they were rare or perhaps because sunsets are something that everyone can relate to, I'm not sure which. What made these sunsets special, though, were the icebergs that littered the foreground and how the low-lying clouds around the mountains were tinted orange. Sometimes the sunset glued all of the pieces together in my mind - the water, the ice, the rocks, the mountins, and our place in it.

         Something else I will unquestionably take with me is all of the wildlife that gives personality to the landscape. I cannot believe all of the marine animals I saw and got close to. The whales, the penguins, the seals.... all of it was awesome. That brings me to camping. I described it in an earlier post, but that feeling of being surrounded by raw, unadulterated nature is something that I never want to forget even though there is little room for that sentiment in "the real world."
           One aspect of this landscape that will stay with me is its expansiveness. Perhaps it is so evident because of the tall mountains, or maybe because you can look to the horizon and see it as your domain because nobody can ever claim it or develop it. I always try to observe my surroundings in all of their detailed complexity but I try to simultaneously see myself as the dot that I am. This was particularly easy sitting atop the glacier looking at the mountains that vanish into the distance not because of foggy clouds but because they actually keep going as far as you can see. The only way that I can think to convey the beauty of this expansiveness would be to tell you to close your eyes and create a mental collage of all of my photographs and allow that stitched image to extend infinitely to the horizon. I know that's what I'm going to do when I am surrounded by billboards and traffic lights.
             Hugh says that the real world will never be the same. I'm not convinced that this is true, but it does beg the question of how much of all this I will be able to carry with me. I know that you cannot hold onto everything in life, but I cannot help but think that this experience has changed me. The problem is that when old routines and habits set in, your current circumstances really dominate your past experiences - even if they are incredible, they tend to melt away. Perhaps the two things that I am determined to bring with me are the positivity and the peace that I have felt. Being so excited on a daily basis completely trumps all other rollercoaster feelings that are a part of life - it's a constant emotional high. When I tried to figure out why being at Palmer station was so easy for me, I came up with two things: no money, no cars. Never worrying about finances or sitting in traffic is a beautiful thing and it actually gives you the opportunity to see what you become when stripped of the usual concerns.
         All that said, when people kept asking me whether I'd be back or want to be back, the answer was far from a no-brainer. Living in Antartica gives you so much, but you have to give up almost everything in return. It works for some people. A notable Antarctic researcher once said that if you shake the earth, all the misfits fall to the bottom. I don't think that's entirely true, but you can look around and understand why certain people are just happier here. Speaking of people, the community that I found at Palmer is perhaps highest on my list of unforgettables! I will never forget the smiles and generosity that I met here. Working here felt very really and meaningful, but some might see Antarctica as an escape from everything. I'm not sure how my own perspective on this will change with distance, but maybe it's a little of both. My biggest hope is that there will always be a space inside of me where I can go to relive this incredible adventure. Through this trip, I have been reminded of how important it is to let my imagination run free and allow my heart and mind to simply explore the world.

    Thanks to my friends and family who have been following me in all of this - it means a lot. An even bigger thanks to my bunkmate, travel and gym buddy, my partner in exploration, laughter and microbrial crime, the one and only, Alice Alpert. This wouldn't have been the same without you for a companion!

Oh, Antarctica, it's been great - I owe you one.

The Journey North

Even though we are retracing the same path that we sailed over a month ago, I wanted to write briefly about it because no two journeys are alike.  Right from the start, it has been completely different in both the scenery and people's priorities and mindsets.  We had quite the send-off.  Even though it had been snowing for hours, everyone gathered in their warm gear to wave goodbye to us.  A group of ten or so were even carrying towels under their arms.  Why, you ask?  It's a good-luck tradition to take the plunge off the pier bumper as the Gould departs.  So sure enough, as we pulled away, surrounded by snow and ice, we saw our friends jumping and diving into the frigid water.  As Palmer was being swallowed by the dense clouds, we watched the penguin island go by and each took in the station for the last time.  Still in good spirits, we headed inside and out of the snow for what famously became the day of naps.  The Neumayer chanel was hidden from view by the clouds, so I felt no guilt in sleeping until dinner.  Thus began the routine of resting, sleeping, eating, and taking in the sights. 
             My favorite spot on the ship by far is the bridge.  You get to look at the charts and name the islands or sit at a back table and read while looking out the windows.  This is where I have spent most of my time, strategically avoiding the myriad movies that have been playing in the lounge, none better than Beverly Hills Cop.  From the bridge, Alice and I absorbed the last icebergs and Antarctic ice-covered mountains on the map and I am still holding the beauty of that afternoon in my mind.  For some reason, our shipmates did not seem as sentimental or eager to absorb the view.  In truth, a strange divide has become apparent between those who stayed at the station versus those who spent the whole month on the ship.  Naturally, the two groups would have drastically different experiences, but some people seem more eager to exchange photographs and stories than others.  Some folks are also very eager to get off the ship, for one reason or another.  One that immediately comes to mind is the rolling.
         I woke up from one of my naps, climbed to the main deck, and suddenly felt awful.  Why are we rolling so much?  Aren't we still along the peninsula?  Right then, I knew that we were in for a much rougher ride compared to our previous journey.  The constant and relentless swaying of the ship has been entertaining and fun (once you get used to it), but it definitely makes everything you do more tiring. I thought stairs and sleeping were a challenge before! Well, let's just say that I learned the value of bracing yourself and of using the adhesive placemats in the galley - without them your neighbor would suddenly lay claim to your dinner!  Despite my improved balance, I still avoided the shower.
            Sitting up in the bridge seeing the horizon sway back and forth in all directions is so interesting because you forget how huge the ship is when it is tossed about like a toy in a bathtub.  The ocean is just that big and that powerful.  Another interesting artifact of sleeping downstairs in the berthing vans is you are privvy to the powerful booms that reverberate through the walls when the waves hit the ship at the right angle - they send a shockwave of rattling vibrations through our quarters... very tough to sleep through, but made me chuckle all the same.  It's hard to get annoyed or frustrated at anything in an experience like this. 
        As I said before, some people are anxious to get off, but I am really enjoying these days on the boat.  Before, it was forced relaxation.  Now, it is the only buffer I have between me and going back to school!  I have mainly spent my mornings up on the bridge enjoying the view and catching up on schoolwork.  It has been a lovely transition, despite having moments when you feel so heavy that all you can do is sleep!  The view has been mostly ocean, but what an ocean it is.  Through the Drake Passage, the water is this unbelievable color of blue because nothing grows in it - no plants or even animals to absorb and scatter the light.  Birds will also occassionally encircle the boat for a few hours.  The beautiful cloud patterns complete the picture.
        Other than that, we have a fire drill this afternoon and dock around 2am Sunday morning.  Customs will meet us and then we are free to frolic about Punta Arenas for the day - I've heard rumor of a chocolate shop that we missed the first time around!  We're also staying in a beautiful old hotel with a glass greenhouse that sits directly on the town square.  Yep, traveling in style. An update: we saw these dolphins once we entered the strait of Magellan - so fun!  They were playing in our wake. 

Antarctica By the Numbers

Last night the station band gave us quite the send-off.  We had 2+ hours of rock 'n roll and many smiles into the wee hours of the morning.  Today the line-handlers will untie us and off we'll go, waving goodbye to Palmer station and heading for the open ocean.  It's been snowing all morning and everyone is in good spirits.  Stay tuned for final thoughts after the trip north, but first, Antarctica by the numbers......

  

Scint vials processed: 1500

Photographs taken: 900

Fantastic meals: ~100

Beatles songs in the Rad Lab: at least 40

Peaceful nights sleep:30

Days on the ice: 27

Bowls of homemade granola consumed: 15?

Mornings out with Bruiser: 12

Hours spent in the cold room: at least 9

Marine mammal species sighted: 8

Birthdays celebrated: 7

Cruise ships boarded: 6

House mouses and GASHs: 5

Evenings in the hot tub: 4

Climbs up the glacier: 3

Named icebergs: 2

Fantastic research buddy: 1

Polar Plunges: 1

Beautiful sights: Infinite

Great conversations and smiles: Countless

What a fantastic adventure.

Day of the Whales

There are a few pictures up around the station that are titled "Day of the Whales, 1987" that depict zodiaks meters away from big, curious humpback whales.  I never expected to experience this myself, but we marked Feb. 1st as "Day of the Whales, 2010."  A day that merits this designation is more than a series of lucky close encounters or distance spout sightings.  Rather, "Day of the Whales" refers to a whole day or even several hours where many pods come into the area to feed and play.  Not only that, but for me it means that everything is about them rather than us, when they could care less about our presence.  Well, today was certainly one of those days and it was........ for fear of using the word "surreal" yet again, I will call it phenomenal.

       Where to begin on humpback whales... Let me first set the stage.  Alice and I were regrettably retained in the lab throughout the day and became more and more agitated about being cooped up inside when we could here exclamations of awe over the radios from those out on the boats following the whales around.  But, we got lucky in the late afternoon and were able to sneak away when we heard that they were still there.  The first few dorsal fins and tails we saw just overwhelmed me, but the bubble feeding was an entirely different and more incredible sight to witness.  We could see a ring of bubbles forming on the surface..... then a fin..... then a sudden burst of activity with three or four gaping mouths surging into the air.  This was always followed by a mix of strangely curved and colored body parts as the whales sank back under the surface.  These were not just isolated displays but continued happening for at least an hour and in multiple pods around us and far off into the distance.  Day of the Whales indeed. 

        What was perhaps most incredible about this experience was how close we got to the animals.  We kept a safe and respectful distance, most of the time.  We were so close that we were occasionally overwhelmed by their awesome but gross-smelling spew.  I felt like a whale pod groupie.  They would surface, give us a frothy baleen show of bubbles, swim briefly underwater, and repeat.  Each time they moved, we moved alongside or behind and then oooooed and aaahed when they came up again.  

         Three things surprised me most about getting up close and personal with the humpbacks today.  First is the distinctly recognizable variation that you can see between each individual.  We practically had our small pod named within ten minutes.  "Oh, that's orange tail," or "there goes curvy fin!"  Their flukes really are like fingerprints, where no two are alike, but I always thought you needed fancy imaging techniques or binoculars to distinguish between them.  As it turns out, that is not the case at all.  Second, is their form.  Humpback whales are somewhat oddly-shaped creatures when it comes down to it.  I have seen dozens of textbook outlines and diagrams, and I have even been whale-watching.  However, none of these previous exposures had prepared me for the immensely large chin pouch or how strangely flat the tops of their heads are.  Their surfaces are also very heterogeneous.  Everyone has heard of the barnacles that mooch off this gracious host, but those little mounds combined with the natural nubs they have on their heads and flippers make for a very lumpy sight.  Lumpy but spectacularly graceful, of course.  Diagrams also don't do justice to the distinct grooves that run all along their underside.  Third, humpback whales are not just black, grey, and white.  Whether it is algae also hitching a ride on their huge bodies or whether it is true skin pigment, these whales have orange and brown patches on their chin like a beard!  The white underbelly is a beautiful contrast to their sleek black heads. 

           We followed one pod along the backside of the penguin island as they moved away.  At one point, they seemed to take a turn in front of us and suddenly, the unbelievable happened!  One and then another of the whales breached and flew into the air.  The second even added a half twist for effect.  We were all nearly speechless!  It was like a postcard or some other picture-perfect representation of reality.  The penguins and birds were also taking advantage of the krill that the whales were driving to the surface.  It was a beautiful display of natural excitement.  Overall I think the most awe-inspiring aspects of them are their size and grace.  Their backs are massive coming out of the water; pinnochio really could have been easily swallowed in the surge of water entering their bodies.
            As you can imagine, this was an incredible ending to our final, more normal day here at the station.  Tomorrow the boat arrives and the whole place will be abuzz with cargo operations, changing room assignments, and a great amount of science equipment being disassembled and reassembled or packed away.  It is difficult to imagine what it will be like having our big ship docked at the pier and seeing distantly familiar faces that signify leaving.  Last night, the Gould did a fly-by and appeared out of nowhere off at the very limits of our boating range.  It went something like this: "IS THAT THE GOULD?!?!?!  Nooooooo!"  It just feels like an intrusion to even think about disrupting the routines we have established here. 

          But, in truth, I am ready to come home and have so much to look forward to when I do.  I am only trying to convey how strongly confused and emotional this transition feels.  But, I am guessing that once the ship arrives, it will all feel natural to carry my suitcase down the plank and back into the bowels of the ship.  It has just been such a grand adventure, and because it has been so big, I almost don't feel too sentimental about it.  There haven't been any "lasts" to worry about because I have already absorbed more than I ever thought possible.  Thank you, whales, for the great show.  They must have known it was a special night! 
         

Climate and the Peninsula

 I mentioned climate change in passing in an earlier entry and I wanted to take this opportunity to elaborate on this subject as it relates specifically to the Antarctic Peninsula.  Climate change is such an enormously complex issue scientifically, politically, ethically, socially, and geographically, that it is impossible to make generalizations that answer the scariest and also the simplest questions about the future.  I have known that this controversial topic is one of the most difficult to communicate, but it has actually been the cruise ship passengers that have reminded me of its intrigue and mystery among general audiences that don't live and breath these thoughts and words daily. 
       Our boss, Hugh Ducklow, is a master of climate change communication and I never would have suspected it.  He has a scientific presentation about changes they have observed on the peninsula that had me on the edge of my seat because he makes it into such a good story.  I will not be able to reproduce the story here (I lack his practice), but I will try to explain the highlights of the picture that has started developing from the information collected in the very project that I am a part of.  I will spoil one punch line to emphasize how fascinating this system is.  The western side of the Antarctic Peninsula is the fastest-warming place on the planet.  It seems like a self-centered statement coming from an antarctic researcher, but the records don't lie - average winter air temperatures have already risen 11 degrees F in the last several decades.  While this is a huge number, I find it interesting (and wonderfully scientifically pure) that Hugh speaks about the data and his curiousity before he taints the topic with socio-political dramatics and fear-driven woes.  (This description should not leave you with the impression that he is unconcerned.  Rather, it seems as though he can turn his science and social switches on and off, which is an ability that I admire).  
        If I have learned one thing about Antarctic ecology, it is that sea ice matters.  As it turns out, sea ice matters a great deal.  Sea ice is important for all of the animals in the food web, but most importantly, it is absolutely essential for the teeny-tiny plants that support all life in the ecosystem.  The microscopic plants are eaten by vegetarian sea-insects such as itty-bitty shrimp and krill, which are in turn eaten by sea birds such as penguins.  And we all know what eats penguins!  That's right, the seals. Imagine sea ice as a very thick, retractable roof in a greenhouse that is designed to give the plants the perfect amount of light and warmth (or cold).  Clearly, it is not simply the presence or absence of a roof that the plants depend on, but their growth changes depending on how thick the glass is and how many days of the year it covers them.  Sea ice shades the plants underneath during the winter but the thick layer of freshwater sitting at the sea surface also prevents the water from mixing.  Mixing is neither good or bad, but these plants are used to a specific amount of mixing, just as they are adjusted to a specific amount of sun and nutrient-rich food.   
       So, what happens when temperatures warm up?  Simply put, less sea ice forms.  In some places where there used to be permanent sea ice, it now breaks up during the summer.  In this case, the plants are getting more light than they used to and are actually growing more than they used to.  More plants means more krill.  In other areas, such as our own Arthur Harbor, the story is changed slightly.  Here the sea ice traditionally only covers the surface in the winter.  Now there is no ice to keep the surface calm, so the winds mix up the water and the plants are sent much deeper than they are used to being.  And just like people, plants need to take in more energy than they use, and once they sink to where it is too dark for them to get energy, they die.  This is a problem for krill, people who try to study and collect krill, and mostly the penguins.  More complicated, it is not bad for all penguins.  The Adelies have suffered the most within recent decades, but the gentoo and chinsrap penguins have moved in from south america and find these krill patterns very well suited to their breeding season.   
        One common misconception (possibly the biggest), is that all of these small changes will even out in a geographic region, or even across the globe.  Unfortuantely for the Adelie penguins and other long-lived animals such as tigers or bears, old habits die hard.  Penguins return to the same historical nesting colonies for decades and if those areas no longer overlap with krill hotbeds, they cannot simply move in search of more food.  This is a complex idea known as the match-mismatch hypothesis that is well-known in ecological circles.  It happens everywhere and at unpredictable rates.  This is the largest fear for ecologists worldwide, not because they are all tree-hugging, panda-loving idealists, but because of the natural products and processes that we depend on.  Of course, no one wants to see the world's last polar bear, of course, but there are so many other interesting and complex implications of change. 
      Not to delve too deeply into these issues, but one last misconception is that this mismatching would find balance again, similar to a pendulum that always finds equilibrium.  This would certainly be true except for two main problems: time and space.  These changes are happening so fast and we have not left animals and plants the space to move to where they find it most comfortable.  The issue of space is irrelevant for Antarctica, so I will return to the topic at hand. 
        The tip of the peninsula is slowly becoming warmer and wetter while the southern reaches are becoming colder and drier (bad news for those dull conversations at McMurdo!).  The reason that it is warming so quickly here is the strong ocean current that continuously circles the continent unimpeded by land.  The water stores a great amount of heat and energy from the friction and runs right into the peninsula finger!  An interesting point that Alice made clear for me is that the reason Antarctica became so cold in the first place (hundreds of millions of years ago) is that this strong current completely isolates it from the weather patterns that are driven by winds nearer to the equator.  This current alone shows how complex and interconnected everything is, from weather to sun to seals - it's a very old system.
       My intentions with this post were no more or less than to show how hugely complex one relatively small area of the planet can be when talking about change.  Complexities abound and this is what is hardest to explain when someone asks a pointed question about the ice core carbon dioxide or how fast the glaciers are melting.  So, I think if I could have one wish or suggestion for anyone thinking about these difficult issues now and into the future, it would be to step back and think simultaneously about the intricacy of even the smallest areas and the interconnectedness of the world at large.  It makes me think, wow. 

The Lemaire on the Amsterdam

Let me first begin by saying that this has been one of the most beautiful days in Antarctica so far, which strikes me as a perfect way to begin saying goodbye.  Another routine cruise ship visit was slated for today, one very similar to the Veendam, but what an incredible experience it turned out to be.  Our two zodiaks greeted curious faces on the upper decks of the Amsterdam this morning, which is on a four-month "grand voyage" around the world.  Today their destination was the Lemaire Channel and we were all thrilled for the chance to see it in the blue sky weather window that surprised everyone this morning.  A statement I have heard echoed throughout the station is that the Lemaire on a clear day is the most coveted and sought-after Antarctic experience.  Now I can say that there is definite truth to those words. 
       You know the distant mountains that are the subject of many of my photographs?  Well, we got up close and personal with them, where their height and majesty truly left me speechlessly smiling.  They are just so big, so spectacular, and yet so unassuming - they have existed for hundreds of millions of years and here they still are for us to gape at.  Midway through the cruise, the captain announced the location of a penguin colony to eager onlookers that immediately dashed to the port side of the deck to see them.  One of the more normal-seeming passengers that was standing next to me was having difficulty spotting them.  I said, "See that lighter-brown, backwards 'C' shape?"  She was following me.  I then said, "See those ants dotting the path?"  She couldn't believe that they looked so small on the rocks.  Yep, the mountains are just that enormous.  There is a particularly large, dark rock pinnacle near the entrance of the passage and Alice commented that it reminded her of those giant statue men that line the river in Lord of the Rings. This idea definitely conjures a bit of the magic that you feel being there.  But, at the same time that your eyes don't believe the scenery, it also feels almost natural to be experiencing it at this point in our adventure. 

         Once we had sailed well into the channel, the captain announced that we would soon turn around and retrace our route so that they could return the scientists and keep to their timetable.  I didn't think much of it at the time, but making that turn was totally surreal from the bow!  The captain even did an extra 360 that made me feel like I was in some sort of movie or magnificent snowglobe.  The way out of the channel was just as beautiful with the sun playing with the curves in the distant glacier mountains.  It is incomprehensibly expansive, with mountains and slopes and piedmonts extending as far as you can see, with the additional bonus of the earth giants in the foreground.  We did not see nearly as much wildlife as last week on the Veendam, but the mountains stole the spotlight anyways.  Alice and I found a fantastic spot on the lower walkaround deck where we could enjoy the view on the way home while staying out of the ferocious wind. 
         I cannot speak about this day without describing certain oddities about this particular group of passengers.  Yes, there are the slouched, bedecked women in too much make-up and yes, there are the "regular" people that you hold your breath for, but there is also something strange that happens in the middle of the spectrum, and it seemed concentrated in this group.  As soon as we got out of the elevators, passengers were wide-eyed and started asking to take our pictures.  We graciously consented, but after a while, I started to wonder if the crew had somehow built us up to quasi-celebrity status! 
        The most annoying part, however, was this group's insistence that we were underfed.  These comments are pretty typical because everyone wants to know what and how we eat, but I cannot tell you how many times I was told to make a doggie-bag and smuggle some extra cookies to our "poor friends" back at the station.  Usually we can change their minds, but this group was verging on insulting!  That said, we did thoroughly enjoy their buffet.  Sitting at lunch with a group of the support staff that don't usually venture out was one of the day's highlights.  Everyone took advantage of the salad and sushi bars and the ice cream that practically came with Bailey's on top (I had never been exposed to this apparently well-known practice).  Despite the good quality of our food at home, the ship did send us back to station with about twenty boxes of much-appreciated fresh fruit and vegetables, so much so that our taxi zodiaks' call names became "grocery carts one and two."  Lots of happy faces (and clean-cut and shaven!) came back to the station where we enjoyed cocktail hour and an italian-themed dinner.  A wonderful Saturday. 

Rice Crispies Anyone?

I have written a few times about how dynamic this place is, and I wanted to note that it is not only visually.  This place is full of such a range of sounds that change throughout the day depending on the weather.  One of the interesting sounds that fascinate me each time I experience it is the delicate popping of brash ice.  You can only hear it on a calm day and the pieces have to range from bowling ball to fist-sized.  You don't even have to listen hard for the snaps, crackles, and pops.  You can imagine it as what happens right when you put ice cubes in a glass of water, except continuous.  It's all you can hear out on the water on a calm day with the ice all around you.  If you're really paying attention and looking, you can see tiny ripples encircling each tiny chunk as they crack and change.  Unfortunately, I don't know exactly why it happens, but it makes them seem alive!
         Another equally interesting but perhaps more beautiful sound is what you hear when these same brash ice chunks clink together with a light swell.  I can only think to describe it as a combination between a chandelier in a small aftershock and the sould of someone sifting through pottery shards.  The tinkling sounds can only be heard in the boat when you yourself are relatively still, because the sound of the boat going over these ice chunks is less than pleasant.  It has come to mean adventure and excitement in my mind, but you can hear each and every ice chunk either hitting the pontoons or slowly scrunching under the boat from the front to the back until it hits the propeller with a big clunk (and sometimes even causing the boat to lurch!).  Just imagine trying to drive an inflatable (but sturdy, of course) boat through a dense field of sharp, glass rocks.  While Bruiser is the biggest, baddest, strongest boat they have here on station, he is still no match for the ice and you must slow down and practically idle through it, trying your best to steer away from the chunks that are half the size of the boat.  Large patches of the stuff can really impede your forward progress, but it's a great opportunity to remember that there's never a rush.
        Being in the boat is not the only way to enjoy the diverse sounds of brash ice.  I have discovered that our "backyard" is a fantastic place to go for adventure and quiet.  We have a large space of land behind the station where the glacier continues to recede, but the fun part for me is that you can boulder-hop along the harbor and it's just too much fun.  Each nook and cranny presents something beautiful to watch and I think this sentiment is rooted in my love for intertidal zones.  Intertidal zones in any coastal area are arguably the most dynamic ecosystems because the animals that live there have to cope with being completely immersed and then completely dried out through the day due to the changing height of the waves and tides.  There aren't too many intertidal creatures here, but that doesn't make these antarctic tidepools any less beautiful to me.
         When I climbed down to the shore, I was again struck by the heterogeneity of the landscape.  Even from my bedroom window, the rocks all look dark brown.  However, upon closer examination, they are filled with reddish and golden yellow colors.  In addition to that, they are covered by the one species of moss that grows here.  The area is also littered with beautiful ice chunks that are just waiting to be swept back out at high tide.  Coming back to my original point, you can sit here and enjoy the tinkling of the ice chunks as they bonk each other and the rocks with each small swell.  Imagine ice bumper cars!  It is from this vantage point that I often watch seals atop their ice platforms floating out of the harbor.         

Jacobs Island: Neverland

So camping turned out to be one of those unforgettable, amazing experiences that I won't do justice in my description.  But, if I were to convey one thing about the adventure, it would be that each of these islands is so much more dynamic than they appear to be from even a short distance away.  It was so incredible to get off on the island and be met with all of these unique and beautiful details that seemed unlike anything I had seen before.  But, I will back up and start from the beginning.
      All Saturday afternoon, it looked like the trip might fall through, and then suddenly at dinner, one of the enthusiasts came up to me and said, "How about Jacobs Island?"  I said that it sounded great, not actually knowing where it was or what merits it had.  Apparently, there was a good camping spot in a "crack" in the rocks and a notable tidepool that was also a source of excitement.  So, thirty minutes later, we loaded our gear into our boat and set off.  The island turned out to be nestled in an area that our water sampling had not taken us to, so my eyes were already taking in the new sights.  The sea had become a little "swelly," as it is affectionately called, and we buzzed around for a while looking for a safe landing spot.  Well, unfortunately, landing spots are not something that one should settle for, but settle we did, and it did not pay off.  I was the second to get off and just after I scampered up the boulders, a larger swelly swell pushed the boat up onto some partially exposed rocks!  Hmmm.... you don't usually see these folks making these kinds of mistakes!  Well, the guys we were to camp with eventually managed to get the boat straightened out and all of the right passengers on and off so that our taxi chauffers could go home with the boat.  They all promised not to speak of the incident to anyone!  Nobody is perfect, I guess.
       Once our boat left us on the rocks with all of our gear, we started hunting around for the praised crack.  The first large gap in the rocks looked like a great spot, minus the groggy elephant seal covered in doodoo.  We searched on.  Once we climbed to the higher rock plateaus, we took a moment to take in the scenery and just then, a humpback surfaced in the channel directly in front of us.  We all "Wowed" and confirmed that it wasn't just the one, but a momma and baby pair.  The five of us stood there quietly watching and listening to everything around us until it disappeared from sight.
       Now back to the search.... We continued to clamber around on the island, pretty joyously I might add, until we found another suitable place to haul our gear to.  We set up camp and then I scurried off with my camera to catch the sunset light.  I knew I would vanish so I told the rest of the crew not to worry.  I explored very excitedly, hopping from boulder to boulder back to the waters edge.  I first came across a beautiful chinstrap penguin basking in the sun.  Next I came to a cove with three (THREE!!) different seals that were settling in for the evening.  I first noticed the big dark brown one and thought, Oh, a sea lion!  And then I remembered that I'm not in Kansas anymore.  No, that's a fur seal!  I'm not sure which species it was because Southern fur seals have expanded their range from Australia and New Zealand to include Antarctic waters that have been warming up in recent decades.  On either side of the fur seal were two Weddell seals (I think!), one big and fat, the other young and slender.  Even though they were all just resting, it was so exciting for me, because even in their dullest moments, I don't think these animals could ever get old for me.

         After I watched them for a while, the sun had set and I decided it was time to find the rest of the group again.  The bottle of wine had survived the dramatic landing and was chilled and ready.  We sat on the rocks, talked, and enjoyed the dusk.  Once it got colder, we passed around a thermos of hot chocolate and heard stories of what it is like to "winter over" at McMurdo station much farther south on the mainland.  Aside from the incredible nacreous clouds (clouds of ice particles high up in the atmosphere act as prisms when they catch the morning light), another much less enjoyable winter phenomenon is dulled conversations.  Apparently one's brain actually functions more slowly with repeated exposure to extreme cold because a certain neurotransmitter no longer gets produced.  Our friend Rex described it as an uncomfortable experience to witness people drifting in and out of conversations during meal times and to feel your own mental faculties declining.
          Those odd stories were accompanied by the personal trajectories that brought each of our companeros to Antarctica.  Hearing how and why people came and chose to stay here has been a continual source of interest for me because I keep searching for a label or stereotype to explain why someone would know to seek out this lifestyle.  I have found none, which has led me to the conclusion that these people, for the most part, hear of these opportunities and perhaps accept the positions out of curiosity and then simply fall in love.  We stargazed at a few satellites and then I realized it had gotten too cold not to retreat to the tent.  I shivered and deep-breathed for about twenty minutes (I blame the oversized sleeping bag!) but eventually fell asleep to the sounds of the water all around us.

         I awoke bright and early in the morning and was ready to warm up my blood and take my camera for another spin.  I was drawn back to the sleeping seals and then ambled on toward the tidepool area that was experiencing some pretty big waves!  I won't relay all of my adventures that morning, because I circled the whole island!  I will say, however, that it was so so much fun to be out there by myself.  I almost felt like an explorer.  I kept being surprised by the heterogeneity of the island.  Each sight was so dynamic, with stillness to one side and crashing waves on the other.  Mossy crannies were abutted with granite rocks and thousands of empty limpet shells were scattered across the rocks where the huge petrels make their nests.
         I cannot talk about this island without mentioning the birds.  Oh, the birds!  The petrels are large, quiet, and scare easily, which presents only a small problem for oblivious adventurers.  After I scared a few mommas off their nests, I started peeking around corners and above rocks more carefully before proceeding into uncharted territory.  However, I must introduce you to the avian doberman pinscher.  Meet the skua.  Skuas are extremely territorial and guard their nesting areas by divebombing intruders while squawking loudly.  I will just let you imagine my plight.  Darn birds.

         Needless to say, I had a fantastic morning.  It was raw nature at it's most innocent and I loved being a visitor to it, even if ignorant to certain invisible boundary lines.  I returned to our campsite and realized that the guys were still asleep, outside their tent on the rocks.  Crazy.  They were all awakened when the station radioed in to check up on the "Marooned 5."  Breakfast burritos ensued, followed by a crazy wind-whipped ride home in what the boating coordinator called "waves like a rodeo."  A great time was had by all. 
       

Glitz and Glam on the Veendam

My mind and body were so excited this morning that I woke up before my alarm, a peachy 6:00am.  The sun was shining and we were scheduled to go aboard Holland's Veendam cruise ship to interact with the public and wish some of our researchers a good trip back to Punta Arenas.  First of all, leaving for these excursions is always really fun.  Everyone dons their float coats for the boat over and it turns out to be an unusual combination of people in what are fondly referred to as these "taxi" rides.  We normally only go out in the boats for our sampling and an occasional joy ride, so it is somehow really great to have the support staff thrown into the mix.  Put simply, it's because everyone just laughs and has fun with each other with even more gusto than our normal interactions at meals, in the hallways, etc.  This day was no different.  We all hopped into two boats and I laughed and smiled all the way to the ship.  I think there is also an element of pride that everyone feels as they go out to share their experiences here.  It is the perfect combination of official business and goofy fun.
      Second, this was a big big ship and at 7:30am, passengers were lining each of the ten or so decks to document our approach.  One immediate highlight was briefly seeing the bridge - holy moly it was huge.  Lots of radar screens, maps, fancy chairs, and a beautiful panaramic view of the landscape that must strike people as the oddest and most uncomfortable place to call home.  Next we dispersed to explore the ship's many luxuries, which included a spa salon, slot machines, art galleries, and much more.  Alice and I saw the pool and upper sports decks, where signs informed us that twelve laps around was equal to one mile.  Now that would be a scenic workout.  We saw all of the amenities but were mostly interested in the view because we were taking a little cruise over to the Bismark Straight.
       We lucked out for the weather and it couldn't have been more beautiful.  The wildlife also gave us quite a show and everything just seemed so alive.  You might imagine Antarctica to be cold and deadened, but once again, it is the summer and there are animals that just love the cold.  Alice and I were looking out from one of the side decks and saw whales, which was great as it was.  But, as soon as I saw the second one, I thought, wait a minute.... They were orcas!!  The dorsal fins were much larger than the minke whales we'd seen and we could make out their white patches.  They were also faster and more energetic than the minkes.  This was just so exciting because neither of us had ever seen them in the wild, or anywhere but the television screen, and they don't swim near enough to the station that we would have seen them otherwise.  It was a whole pod and it was great.  We also saw numerous humpacks and dozens of feeding penguin colonies out on the water.
      After our station and lab managers gave their normal speeches, we were all brought up on the stage for introductions and a Q & A.  The audience was mainly curious about climate change, the ozone hole, and about life on the station.  After having said I originally hailed from L.A., a couple from Burbank stopped me to chat for a while after the presentations were finished.  Aside from the misconception that we are underfed and undershowered, talking with the passengers was very enjoyable.  I met a British couple who were saddened by the apparent apathy toward climate change on the ship and annoyed that their host had misinterpreted their question for us.  They shared some of the same overwhelming "wow" sentiments that I have had and it was great to connect with them on a personal level rather than being a more distant "scientist" in their mind.  All in all, they were all so happy and curious about having us on the ship for a few hours and were suprised when we had to leave.  Once again, they all lined the decks to see us off. 

       This kind of reception somewhat puts my role here in perspective, not necessarily in terms of importance but more for its rarity.  Participating in these "outreach" events, the new buzzword in science, has been really fun and enlightening for me and is encouraging me to keep considering education as a potential component of my career goals.  Our boating coordinator arrived to pick us up, sunglasses goofily askew, and we climbed back down the wooden ladder into our zodiak for a laughter-filled ride back home.  A great way to spend a Saturday morning.  Now I'm off to one of the islands for an overnight camping adventure... I'll let you know how it goes! 

Now this, this is Antarctica....

When you think of Antarctica, you think cold, ominous, desolate, right?  Well, I have had to keep reminding friends and family that it is summer here, and therefore not that cold (25-40 degrees).  But, one thing I didn't really think about was the actual weather I would be experiencing.  Our first week, it was unnaturally sunny and clear.  Our second week, things started getting interesting.  Our third week, well, let's just say that it was more like what you would expect for a place that is so far away and covered in icebergs.  At first we just heard rumors of strong winds, and then we experienced first hand what that entailed and I'd like to describe what it was like to be out in even the milder moments of the several storms that came blazing through.
            After we missed our regular sampling day, we snuck out during a calmer window the next day.  The snow was falling and it really looked beautiful.  I was at the helm as we headed out.  I thought to myself, this isn't that bad, so my face will get chilled, who cares?  And then we got out of the harbor.  As I put the boat into higher gear, the wake splash started soaking me from head to knee.  (Imagine a silly commercial with someone in rain gear getting a bucket of water repeatedly thrown at them but not reacting to it).  Once we got farther out, the swell was so big that I had to slow down.   But once the spray stopped getting me, then it was the snow pelting me in the face.  Thank goodness for sunglasses on a cloudy day, because those flakes sting!  It felt like downhill skiing in a snow storm - hard to see, windburn, must keep going, must keep going...  Our farthest sampling spot is two miles from the station and once we got there, I just had to chuckle to myself.  How in the world are we going to pull this off?  It is difficult to describe, but I can certainly say that I felt the ocean's character that day. 
        The swell was 2-4 ft and good ol' bruiser was a champ, but there was a small part of me that had raised eyebrows and exclamation points running through my mind.  (More out of excitement than for safety concerns, mom).  I knew we would be fine, but I also knew that someone would have to sit on that platform and load our sampling bottles onto the wire without holding onto the boat.  That someone turned out to be me!  It was totally fun, but there were a few exhilarating and stomach-turning "whoooaaaa" moments when we went over the crests of the larger waves that unexpectedly changed my sense of balance and gravity.  These experiences seem to force-quit the logical side of my brain because it is so wonderfully overwhelming to take everything in.  The snowflakes falling around us into the ocean, the drifting icebergs, the dark clouds hanging over the mountains, whitecaps as far as you can see.... all of these aspects of nature create such an incredible atmosphere when combined that it escapes description.  Maybe we all need a little less reason and a little more wonder in our lives......   
       All in all, it was a great adventure and we came back to the lab full of energy from the excitement.  However, we needn't have been out in the boat to enjoy the storms.  Even from our bedroom window, we could see the waves hitting the islands and shoals where there is usually calm.  Interestingly, the oddest part of the storms was the day that it rained.  I love the rain, but something struck me as very odd about it, as if the Antarctic Peninsula would have somehow been isolated from normal weather patterns as it seems isolated from everything else linking us to a more normal life and recognizable landscape.  Icebergs and rain?  I'm still not sure what it was, but I know it felt weird to me.  Less strange though, was the grand rainbow that followed, stretching from island to sea.         
        Needless to say, everyone had a quiet, cozy couple of days.  As it turns out, we didn't realize how rare that sunshine in the first week really was.  The clouds have been blowing in and out ever since those big storms, with only glimpses of blue sky in the early morning and much later into the evening when the sun begins to set and I pull the ice cream out of the freezer  : )    In other weather-related news, the sun stays below the horizon for about three hours now, and I am determined to do some late-night stargazing before I leave.

Happy Birthday, Dad!!

Happy birthday, daddio!  Thanks so much for always loving and supporting me so much.

That goes for everyone reading about and following my adventures as well.  I have appreciated all of the positive energy and excitement that you have shared with me from when I first found out about this trip up to now.  That said, I'd love to take the time throughout my last ten days here to answer any questions you might have about what it's been like, what it looks like, whether the ice is really that blue, or anything you've been wondering about in general.  So, if you have any questions that you'd like answered, send me a comment or an email and I'll see what I can do!  We've got quite a few experts around here. 

Other than that, I continue to have interesting thoughts about this place and see wonderful things each day.  I am not yet ready to leave and even though the end of the trip is fast-approaching, each day can feel very long sometimes, so I don't even have to worry about it yet! 

Antarctic Hiking

Glaciers are all around us here so I thought it would be a good idea to do a little research about them.  What I learned was that they really do move and that they form when more snow builds up than melts in any given place.  However, glaciers are not simply mountains of snow.  Their entire surface is as hard as rock because the snow is compacted by the weight of what lies above it.  The snowflakes get compacted into granular snow, which then turns into what is called "firn" after repeated thawing and freezing.  This firn layer becomes compacted into glacial ice, where the original air within the snowflakes becomes trapped within the water molecule crystals.
      Glaciers begin to move when the pressure from above actually breaks apart the chemical bonds of the ice in a process called deformation.  Glaciologists are actually physists in disguise, so I don't pretend to know the tricky details, but deformation (read melting) combined with the gravity on a mountain slope causes the glacier layers to flow downward very very slowly.  Cracks and crevasses then occur when some layers travel faster than others.  The process known as "calving" refers to when pieces of tidewater glaciers (those that come up to the water - what we've got here) fall off into the sea.  This doesn't necessarily happen because the glacier is melting, but because it is being pushed from behind.
     Of course, you need not know all of those things to appreciate a glacier.  As I have learned, all you need to do is go climb on one!  Alice and I made our second trip up our backyard glacier today and had a grand time.  My first odd realization was how hard and crunchy it really was.  My second thought was that I couldn't wait for the view.  When we reached the midpoint rescue cache and snowmobile, I realized that the hike would be much longer than we expected from our comfy vantage point at the bottom.  Of course, it was beautiful from the top and WINDY all the way.  We could see the valley and mountains behind the station that make me forget that we are actually on a big island.  It was fantastic to look out on the other small islands and feel the vastness of it all.      
     Today the quiet on the glacier was punctuated by the sudden and surprising sound of the glacier calving across the harbor.  You see it before you hear it.  If you're lucky enough to be looking at it when it starts, you get the full effect of the big moment.  If not, you hear the building thunder of one hundred feet of ice rearranging itself and falling into the water, followed by the wave that ripples outward.  Hours later, you can still see the brash ice floating outward from the glacier, which provides seal sleeping spots! 
      Seeing a few of these bigger calvs has reminded me about the importance of perspective.  It is absolutely boggling that such a seemingly small piece of the glacier could create such a racket, but then you have to remember that the whole thing is gigantic, so the piece was not actually very small.  Does that make sense?  When our neighbor glacier was not grumbling, it was exceptionally quiet and I could hear the distinct tinkling of flowing water that had melted far below our feet.  This might seem a little disconcerting, and in fact, it was.  I have found that you have to bury dramatic visions of Hollywood crevasses and just trust your safety officers and the solid that you feel beneath your feet!  Another great afternoon adventure. 

Community: The Plot Thickens

 The white board: where we receive important daily announcements. 

When I first got here, it took a few days to learn names, nicknames, positions, routines, etc.  But not only do I know who where's the pants around here and which unlikely pairs sleep in the couples' rooms, now I know who has style.  In other words, I feel like an insider.  This sentiment also comes with the mindset that I live here as opposed to just being on an amazing vacation.  With the inside scoop comes new appreciation for the individuals, the community as a whole, and the things they do here to make it through the season, mental health intact.

       Every morning people enjoy breakfast alongside neatly printed and stapled copies of the NY Times Digest.  And of course, with the news comes the crossword puzzle!  Will Shortz has quite a following here and I have eagerly joined in the fun.  Alice and I consistently rock mon-wed and manage to scratch through the others at lunch.  On Sunday mornings, you have to put earplugs in so as not to hear answers generated from the "regulars'" table - a group of four to five of the men who don't leave breakfast until it's finished!  During the weekday, a completely different clique of males grabs a plate of food and hurries to the tv lounge for an episode of Battlestar Gallactica or Star Trek, every day. 

      Other Palmer traditions relate more to evening and weekend activities.  The lab manager creates a unique cocktail to accompany Saturday night appetizer dinner.  Art in the Bar, Sunday Cartoons, and Chick Flick are all popular weekly events.  The bar hosts billiards and ping-pong tournaments, and Mr. Hyde's transformation pales next to some competitive spirits here.

       I did not expect to become attached to the people here, but this whole experience has been much more personal than I had imagined.  I have become privvy to inside jokes and the butt of others (see Horses, below).  Speaking of funnies, radio communication at the station is also fuel for laughs.  While completely professional in nature, I can't help but chuckle at the radio chatter from groups out on the water or those working in logistics.  Just as everyone knows when the "A-Team" arrives back on station, we get to hear when the "WuTang" divers get into the water or when the "Friday Warriors" search for krill.  I thought it would be nutty to work, live, eat, and play with the same group of forty people, but I haven't been compelled to seek out alone time and I can see that nobody else is too bothered by it either.  All in all, it continues to be a great experience!  

       

Talk About an Adventure....

As I have mentioned before, we get a lot of visitors to the station.  Some are high-rolling tourists on fancy boats and others...... well, others come in sailboats.  These people certainly get bravery points in my book.  Crossing the Drake Passage in a small sailboat doesn't spell safety to me.  And yet, many do it.  I think they are a type of people that I had only seen or heard of from dusty books and hollywood.  Adventure still exists in the world, and the other day, it came to us in the form of a family of six, from France.

      It was just another lazy Sunday morning in the dining room lounge when the admin assistant came through the building with six bright, smiling faces in tow.  A mom and a dad, three girls, and a little boy.  They were giddy with excitement to be on land and touring a research facility.  We all sat down to have lunch together and that's when I learned that they are nearly halfway through a four-year "trip" around the world.  I say trip in quotes because I'm not even sure what to call it when a family lives at sea and in port towns for that long.  Life hiatus?  The ultimate tour de Force?  Either way, not many people experience what they are doing.
        Seeing the world via boat must be incredible, but think of the logistical challenges!  They work things out by shipping themselves supplies and making friends everywhere they go.  When they come into port, they have very few plans and stay as long as they like.  The children have a wall of school books in their "room" and take turns cleaning the dishes each night.  The eldest daughter, Josephine, is an aspiring diver at thirteen but told us that she is homesick for a more normal life.  All of the children spoke beautiful English, were learning Spanish, and were especially excited when the cooks brought out our ice cream.  After a few days tied up in our inlet, they said goodbye and sailed out in the direction of South Africa.  It makes me wonder how many adventure-seekers are out on the water, climbing mountaintops, or traversing deserts around the world.  Maybe we can all borrow a little bit of their spirit.

        Speaking of visitors, the Gould's sister ship came by last week to drop off one of their science groups that was desperately in need of internet.  In this group of five, one was a Grinnell grad '06 and the other a Scripps PhD student with whom I shared a class last semester!  Their original plans were thwarted by impassable sea ice on the east side of the peninsula where the famous Larrson B ice shelf collapsed several years ago.  They could still run their aerial projects and helicopter operations but it was decided that the ship wasn't tough enough to break through the ice.  Safety first.  So, they came all the way to Palmer for a day to research other possibilities.  Science on the fly.
       My favorite part of the story, though, is what the ship did after it dropped them off.  The Palmer and crew sailed south to assist the LTER cruise because they had suffered a few unlucky breaks aboard the Gould.  I don't know the details, but they hadn't been able to retrieve a few important pieces of science equipment and needed some muscle.  I'm not sure why I find it so endearing, but it's very neat that they are willing and ready to communicate and coordinate in that way despite being chartered for completely separate agendas.  It is a good reminder of how much effort goes into this work, and more importantly, that normal people are behind it all.  The ship is just filled with equipment and each one is operated, maintained, and deployed by hard-working individuals.  Just normal people making honest mistakes and heart-felt decisions.  I bring this up because those truly human components of research are often overlooked in popular visions of the scientific process.  There is a lot of glory in fieldwork and publishing journal articles, but there's a lot of grime and heartache that aren't in the manuscripts as well.  And in life, I think perception is what matters most in the end.       

The Three Musketeers, and others...

One of the most distinctive features of this landscape are its icebergs and I would like to share some of the wonder that they have inspired in me.  Icebergs are so intellectually and visually intriguing that it is difficult to know where to begin, so pardon the mental scatter, if you would.  If I could only convey two things about "bergs," it would be that (1) no two are alike, and (2) that your brain cannot make sense of their unique shapes because it is nearly an impossible challenge to perceive how they might have melted that way.  It's a frozen cloud game and everyone is encouraged to play.  You do not have to have a child's imagination to see the magnificent castles, gaping craters, smooth hillsides, endless tunnels, weathered boulders, and the countless other abstractions that float by.  The best thing is that they stick around.  You can even invent stories about them.

       One epic tale was concocted the moment Alice and I moved into our room.  We looked out the window and saw these enormous icebergs floating a stone's throw away behind our nearest island, just begging for a history.  I said, "wow, we should give it a name!"  In the excitement of the moment and the shuffle of our first hours as official Palmerites, I suggested, "how about The Three Musketeers?"  The name has stuck even since we have learned that they are really all for one.  The intrigue grew as the light played beautifully on it's surfaces at dusk and each day, we speculated about how it melted that way and we schemed to get a closer look.  One evening, a whole week later, we were finally set for the long-awaited adventure.  We approached by boat and it was quite a scene, with the large mountain peak and the glacier hill behind it.  Our plan was to circle it in the zodiak and The Three Musketeers did not disappoint.  Of course, we had to explain to our boating companion where the name had come from, since clearly it was one big piece.

      Our beautiful neighborhood iceberg was full of surprising shapes and even had complementary icicles hanging from the top ledge.  It has a pointed spire and two slanting plateaus.  It also has layers of horizontal blue stripes from when the glacier formed.  As we rounded the berg, we caught a glimpse of the brilliant blue color where the nearly invisible ice still barely holds the pieces together below the surface.  Water directly underneath or near the base of the bergs always appears bright blue because you're looking through less sea water.  If I worked for the International Ice Patrol, I would call it a medium pinnacular dry-dock for it's turret and hollow inside pool.  But because I'm just me, I prefer to think of them as simply awesome, wondrously large blocks of broken glaciers - completely solid and entirely asymettrical snowflakes, for a giant.
            Their size leaves an impression on you, almost as if you've just visited some geological national monument.  But even if you remember and imagine how much bigger they are underwater, size alone is not the whole experience.  For me, the way they float so quietly all day, seemingly unchanged, is part of the attraction and awe.  Before we became more personally acquainted with our musketeers, we watched each day as they shifted in and out of the inlet with the winds and currents.  At first we weren't sure that they were on the move, but as the days passed, they went from one side of our window to the other and back.  After our most recent storm, they were blown out of the inlet and out of sight, gone.  Now they're back, though farther away impressing more distant islands.

         Of course, icebergs aren't the only hard water substance down here.  We've got sea ice, brash ice, pack ice, glaciers, snow, and piedmonts.  Sea ice occurs where the surface of the ocean freezes over and is most common in the winter here at Palmer Station.  Brash ice, on the other hand, plagues our boating excursions constantly.  Brash ice is a sea of "growlers," or mini ice chunks, that is created when our backyard glacier calves into the ocean.  These small bergs are also beautiful and unique.  You think that because they are small, they would move out of the way.  However, Alice likens them to large rocks and she's right - that's exactly what it sounds like when you ride over it in the boats.  This ice doesn't even have to come from our glacier.  Sometimes we'll wake up in the morning and our entire harbor is covered, the ice having blown in from elsewhere.  But what blows in must eventually blow out, so the sea and the ice are subtly ever-changing.  Kind of peaceful if you think about it.  I don't believe that icebergs could ever get old.  

Close Encounters of the Natural Kind: Part III

 As we pulled up to our sampling station the other afternoon, we were getting our supplies ready when I saw a whale surface in the distance.  I pointed in that direction and said, "whales."  The winch had started and the others hadn't heard, so I repeated the gesture again, a little louder and more enthused when I saw it surface again.  Just as they stopped to look, there was a huge burst of air and water directly behind me.  I turned around and saw the huge, dense back of a humpback whale gliding across the surface of the water not fifteen feet from our zodiak!  The whale showed us it's classic tail fin as we stood in awe, silently.  After it disappeared beneath the surface, someone uttered a "wow," followed by a moment of happy laughter.  I told you, whales.  They continued to surface for a while, getting farther away as we sent our water sampling bottles down one hundred and fifty feet.
        This experience was worthy of an email to the boss on the ship.  He is somewhat jealous of the attention that whales receive, outcompeting bacteria for the spotlight.  His one valid point is that once a sighting is relayed to others, everyone rushes to the windows and onto the deck to gaze out at an empty horizon - a whale doesn't linger long; such a tease.  The boss is somewhat jaded about whale sightings and even questions their existence, jokingly, of course.  When he shared his feelings with me about whales, I couldn't help but think of Christopher Moore's novel, Fluke.  

           In truth, humpback whales are very real and swim quietly throughout all of the world's oceans as perhaps one of the most charismatic yet unassuming marine creatures on the planet.  Humpback whales are famous for their song, and many researchers have argued that their vocalizations, among other behavioral traits, are evidence for whale culture.  One such cooperative behavior is known as bubble net feeding.  A group of whales dives down underneath a school of unsuspecting fish and start swimming in a circle blowing bubbles.  They swim in smaller and smaller circles until the moment when they all surge toward the surface, mouths gaping.  Feeding frenzy.  Aside from these orchestrated sprees, humpbacks can stun their prey with their flippers.  They eat so much in the summer that they live off their blubber throughout the long, cold winter. 
      It is true, whales are elusive and sightings are fleeting moments, but they are recurring moments for those who are patient.  One cozy evening, I was reading quietly in the dining room and saw several whales surface in the outer harbor.  I told others who quickly came to the window to look, but, of course, they never did see any that way.  I enjoyed them for at least twenty minutes, just watching.  I think the ones in the harbor were actually minke whales, distinguished from the humpbacks by their small size and dorsal fin that is actually shaped similarly to that of a dolphin's.  Seeing that whale so close to our boat was a wonderful experience - one of those moments that so quickly reminds you where you are.  Not that I easily lose sight of the mountain range, the beautiful islands, or the lone penguins flying through the water, but it is easy to get caught up in your obligations, science fieldwork or otherwise.  Whales are such an interesting component of the wildlife here and have their own peaceful personality in my mind, especially compared with the louder and more gregarious seals and penguins.  The following might seem like a strange commment, but perhaps what I love most about the wildlife here is that the animals are just living completely naturally, regardless of our presence - they make me feel like the visitor that I am.