Stroll with the penguins
Dec. 23rd, 2007 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
poletopoleShip's Position at 12:00:
The ship is jammed bow-first into the ice this morning and Adelie penguins are swimming about its stern in flocks of several dozen, piling out onto shore in waves, and following one another back into the water like lemmings. There are hundreds, always more coming while some are going out to sea or back to their (unseen, distant) rookery. They travel to and from the open water in groups, forming long trains of tobogganing penuins and usually reusing the same trails, so that the shallow grooves their stomachs make become polished and even smoother and easier to negotiate. A penguin prefers to follow another penguin, traveling in a group; the head stays down and tucked back, the wings balance the body and provide slight propulsive power, and the legs at the back pump as if on pedals. A line of dozens of penguins receding shows the uniform profile, the feet pushing rhythmically, all the same distance apart as they travel at a fixed penguin pace. Penguin pace tobogganing in these (good) conditions is around 3 mph, I think, perhaps a fraction more.
A single Adelie penguin is a lonely penguin and will call hopefully as it walks stolidly or toboggans along, craning its head about to scan the landscape for black dots, wanting to join up with more of its kind. Quonking back will bring the penguin over, confusing and disappointing it. There are no lonely penguins here, though; no penguin is ever far from a large number of other penguins.
It's bright and sunny and the snow is sharply white, the sky is perfectly blue, and the penguins are busy but curious. Before breakfast, I walk around with the penguins — they won't stay near the ship when the helicopters start up — and enjoy the snow. A flagged walk over to a glacier will be set up later but for now the passengers roam around and snap hundreds of penguin photos, ship photos, and photos of each other.
After breakfast, helicopter flights to Mawson Station begin. I'm lucky enough to be in the first group (groups rotate: next time we'll be last). The flight to the station takes less than half an hour and the view of the ice — which will be gone very soon, as the bay the station's in typically melts in summer — is fascinating. Gargantuan icebergs are frozen in situ — possibly some are grounded, but they're not going anywhere, not even melting — studding the flat white sea with irregular mountains. The ice itself, seen from above, has a thousand textures, but the most wonderful is a damask-like swirl of snow over ice tinged with seaglass-green. Dry wind scours this place constantly and the ice is polished by the snow that is carried along. A few crystals of snow lodge in an irregularity in the ice and the patterning begins: there can be ridges like waves, long lines, the swirls, geometric diamond patterns, scallops, anything.
From the air tide cracks are visible, too, which are useful to the seals. Weddell seals use their teeth to chew holes in the ice, and the tide cracks are weak spots. A crack or a section of one can even open a gap entirely and present an opportunity to get deep into the ice cover, as seals must come up for air. So seals are scattered all over the ice, far from open water, resting beside their exits.
Flat, glacier-ground ridges of dark brown rock project from the ice, nearly the same shape and color as the seals but far bigger. Some are shallow, and hardly rise above water or ice level; an interesting bullseye pattern forms around these when the ice freezes. The islands provide a focus for snow accumulation, so the rocks are ringed with white. The colors are brilliant and pure and there is no mist or fog or snow blowing to cloud any of the contours; this station has the reputation of being one of the most beautiful settings, justly. The dark rocks are unfreckled by algae or lichen; everything is elemental, unmixed.
The station visit, because of the helicopter schedule, is just two hours long. We have time for a leisurely stroll around the Lego-bright buildings, guided by a staffer, and a walk out to West Point (a rock peninsula) with two others, an ornithologist studying penguins and the station's carpenter. The station's been here for a long time (Antarctically speaking) and even has a couple of historical huts, now being restored. The ornithologist explains her work on Adelie penguins and shows us a snow petrel's nest (abandoned, I think — no petrel in residence) in a snowy crevice in the brown rock. We walk on toward three crosses at the end of the point. Suddenly time's up; we're still at West Point, we've not had a scone (this is a sad omission!) and everyone wants to mail postcards, although they're going nowhere till March. So it's a fast march indeed back to the main station — find the Operations office building ... find the post office ... find the postmaster... helicopter's coming, run.... I miss the helicopter and have to wait for the next one. Very, very embarrassing.
Back at the ship there's time for a quick bowl of soup before going on a longer walk on the ice, toward that moored iceberg. Not sure why one was chosen over another. The penguins are still commuting in droves and being scattered by the helicopters. The sun is high and bright but the ice shows faint shadows of the penguins' myriad footprints, their tangle of toboggan trails, and the arced scrape marks of tails where they've been walking. Tobogganning is the preferred method of travel, the feet pumping steadily to propel the penguin steadily along. I witness one penguin pileup: an outboud Adelie penguin fails to yield to a train of inbound Adelie penguins; the inbound penguins halt; he pushes on steadily; the inbound penguins must jump up and scamper around him, as he won't leave the trail. He plows through the group and carries on for the shore, while they sort themselves out and then lie on their stomachs again, feet pushing and wings flicking, to continue the long trip back to the rookery.
High, feathery cirrus clouds are moving in as I walk back to the ship, the iceberg unattained before the staff begin pulling flags up and herding the passengers back in. (Heaven forbid we should miss a meal.) The schedule indicated that we'd have more time to walk on the ice and maybe try to make a few snowmen (or snow penguins), and rumor advertises the chance to do a "polar plunge" into the sea here, but when passengers are all on board the ship pulls out and begins traveling again: no evening walk.
At an after dinner briefing meeting, we're told that we're en route to Auster rookery and that tomorrow's plan is to visit the emperor penguins there. The weather sounds distinctly unpromising though, with snow for the next couple of days. A visit to two rock outcrops (are they big enough to be small mountains, at 1000 m?) called the Scullin and Murray monoliths is a possibility in the afternoon — Adelie penguins, no emperors, lots of other birds though.
The incoming bad weather does us one favor — we have a most beautiful sunset as the ship passes through still, clear water among icebergs and ice floes of all sizes and descriptions. The ice is beautiful in the low-angled light, from the earliest freezing of ice veiling the top of the sea to the enormous tabular icebergs the ship skirts around carefully. At one point we pass through an amazing area of frozen slush — nuclei of more usual ice have trapped enough snow, it looks like, around them and the temperatures have been cold enough to make a lumpy green-and-white surface which is still flexible, so the ship's bow wave and wake undulate through it slowly. The highlight of the evening is a pod of eight to 10 orcas, hunting in the area (a solitary penguin on an ice floe watches the fins from the middle of his resting spot, bolt upright). They curvette up and down, exhaling and inhaling, in unison or in a cascade of three or four at a time, circling the quiet area among the giant icebergs and the mist-covered ice pack. The ship circles once to allow a good viewing for all and then strikes off into the pack ice again, onward. The sun slides obliquely to the horizon and begins climbing again, coloring the ice and water and clouds — a perfect evening, a moment that lingers and outlasts its natural life. And because it's due to the earth tilting 23.33 degrees, not Mephistopheles, we can enjoy it as long as we can stand up and see.
But everyone wants to get some sleep. We'll be awakened at 05:30 for the "polar plunge", a walk on the ice, and a visit to the Auster penguins. Weather, as ever, permitting...
- 67°03.8' S 62°14.7' E
- Course —; Speed —
- Air temperature 10°C; Wind 4 kts; Direction 120°
- Weather: Fine; Visibility 10
- Ice Cover: In fast ice
- Distance covered past 24 hours: 150.2 nautical miles
The ship is jammed bow-first into the ice this morning and Adelie penguins are swimming about its stern in flocks of several dozen, piling out onto shore in waves, and following one another back into the water like lemmings. There are hundreds, always more coming while some are going out to sea or back to their (unseen, distant) rookery. They travel to and from the open water in groups, forming long trains of tobogganing penuins and usually reusing the same trails, so that the shallow grooves their stomachs make become polished and even smoother and easier to negotiate. A penguin prefers to follow another penguin, traveling in a group; the head stays down and tucked back, the wings balance the body and provide slight propulsive power, and the legs at the back pump as if on pedals. A line of dozens of penguins receding shows the uniform profile, the feet pushing rhythmically, all the same distance apart as they travel at a fixed penguin pace. Penguin pace tobogganing in these (good) conditions is around 3 mph, I think, perhaps a fraction more.
A single Adelie penguin is a lonely penguin and will call hopefully as it walks stolidly or toboggans along, craning its head about to scan the landscape for black dots, wanting to join up with more of its kind. Quonking back will bring the penguin over, confusing and disappointing it. There are no lonely penguins here, though; no penguin is ever far from a large number of other penguins.
It's bright and sunny and the snow is sharply white, the sky is perfectly blue, and the penguins are busy but curious. Before breakfast, I walk around with the penguins — they won't stay near the ship when the helicopters start up — and enjoy the snow. A flagged walk over to a glacier will be set up later but for now the passengers roam around and snap hundreds of penguin photos, ship photos, and photos of each other.
After breakfast, helicopter flights to Mawson Station begin. I'm lucky enough to be in the first group (groups rotate: next time we'll be last). The flight to the station takes less than half an hour and the view of the ice — which will be gone very soon, as the bay the station's in typically melts in summer — is fascinating. Gargantuan icebergs are frozen in situ — possibly some are grounded, but they're not going anywhere, not even melting — studding the flat white sea with irregular mountains. The ice itself, seen from above, has a thousand textures, but the most wonderful is a damask-like swirl of snow over ice tinged with seaglass-green. Dry wind scours this place constantly and the ice is polished by the snow that is carried along. A few crystals of snow lodge in an irregularity in the ice and the patterning begins: there can be ridges like waves, long lines, the swirls, geometric diamond patterns, scallops, anything.
From the air tide cracks are visible, too, which are useful to the seals. Weddell seals use their teeth to chew holes in the ice, and the tide cracks are weak spots. A crack or a section of one can even open a gap entirely and present an opportunity to get deep into the ice cover, as seals must come up for air. So seals are scattered all over the ice, far from open water, resting beside their exits.
Flat, glacier-ground ridges of dark brown rock project from the ice, nearly the same shape and color as the seals but far bigger. Some are shallow, and hardly rise above water or ice level; an interesting bullseye pattern forms around these when the ice freezes. The islands provide a focus for snow accumulation, so the rocks are ringed with white. The colors are brilliant and pure and there is no mist or fog or snow blowing to cloud any of the contours; this station has the reputation of being one of the most beautiful settings, justly. The dark rocks are unfreckled by algae or lichen; everything is elemental, unmixed.
The station visit, because of the helicopter schedule, is just two hours long. We have time for a leisurely stroll around the Lego-bright buildings, guided by a staffer, and a walk out to West Point (a rock peninsula) with two others, an ornithologist studying penguins and the station's carpenter. The station's been here for a long time (Antarctically speaking) and even has a couple of historical huts, now being restored. The ornithologist explains her work on Adelie penguins and shows us a snow petrel's nest (abandoned, I think — no petrel in residence) in a snowy crevice in the brown rock. We walk on toward three crosses at the end of the point. Suddenly time's up; we're still at West Point, we've not had a scone (this is a sad omission!) and everyone wants to mail postcards, although they're going nowhere till March. So it's a fast march indeed back to the main station — find the Operations office building ... find the post office ... find the postmaster... helicopter's coming, run.... I miss the helicopter and have to wait for the next one. Very, very embarrassing.
Back at the ship there's time for a quick bowl of soup before going on a longer walk on the ice, toward that moored iceberg. Not sure why one was chosen over another. The penguins are still commuting in droves and being scattered by the helicopters. The sun is high and bright but the ice shows faint shadows of the penguins' myriad footprints, their tangle of toboggan trails, and the arced scrape marks of tails where they've been walking. Tobogganning is the preferred method of travel, the feet pumping steadily to propel the penguin steadily along. I witness one penguin pileup: an outboud Adelie penguin fails to yield to a train of inbound Adelie penguins; the inbound penguins halt; he pushes on steadily; the inbound penguins must jump up and scamper around him, as he won't leave the trail. He plows through the group and carries on for the shore, while they sort themselves out and then lie on their stomachs again, feet pushing and wings flicking, to continue the long trip back to the rookery.
High, feathery cirrus clouds are moving in as I walk back to the ship, the iceberg unattained before the staff begin pulling flags up and herding the passengers back in. (Heaven forbid we should miss a meal.) The schedule indicated that we'd have more time to walk on the ice and maybe try to make a few snowmen (or snow penguins), and rumor advertises the chance to do a "polar plunge" into the sea here, but when passengers are all on board the ship pulls out and begins traveling again: no evening walk.
At an after dinner briefing meeting, we're told that we're en route to Auster rookery and that tomorrow's plan is to visit the emperor penguins there. The weather sounds distinctly unpromising though, with snow for the next couple of days. A visit to two rock outcrops (are they big enough to be small mountains, at 1000 m?) called the Scullin and Murray monoliths is a possibility in the afternoon — Adelie penguins, no emperors, lots of other birds though.
The incoming bad weather does us one favor — we have a most beautiful sunset as the ship passes through still, clear water among icebergs and ice floes of all sizes and descriptions. The ice is beautiful in the low-angled light, from the earliest freezing of ice veiling the top of the sea to the enormous tabular icebergs the ship skirts around carefully. At one point we pass through an amazing area of frozen slush — nuclei of more usual ice have trapped enough snow, it looks like, around them and the temperatures have been cold enough to make a lumpy green-and-white surface which is still flexible, so the ship's bow wave and wake undulate through it slowly. The highlight of the evening is a pod of eight to 10 orcas, hunting in the area (a solitary penguin on an ice floe watches the fins from the middle of his resting spot, bolt upright). They curvette up and down, exhaling and inhaling, in unison or in a cascade of three or four at a time, circling the quiet area among the giant icebergs and the mist-covered ice pack. The ship circles once to allow a good viewing for all and then strikes off into the pack ice again, onward. The sun slides obliquely to the horizon and begins climbing again, coloring the ice and water and clouds — a perfect evening, a moment that lingers and outlasts its natural life. And because it's due to the earth tilting 23.33 degrees, not Mephistopheles, we can enjoy it as long as we can stand up and see.
But everyone wants to get some sleep. We'll be awakened at 05:30 for the "polar plunge", a walk on the ice, and a visit to the Auster penguins. Weather, as ever, permitting...
