Deception Island
Was it all a dream? The skies were blue but a shade converted to pastel by high cirrus clouds. Our regular companions, tabular and sculpted bergs joined us, perched on the horizon of a charcoal sea which in the lee of Livingston Island exhibited not a wrinkle. Light and moisture joined to deceive, hiding our destination from inquiring eyes until we were close to its shores. The rocky mountainous rim of Deception Island seemed inhospitable and insurmountable but it too engaged in trickery.
We landed in the surf at Baily Head, Deception’s southwestern corner. Black volcanic ash formed the beach and striped the icy finger of a nearby glacial tongue. Confined between the ice and a layered eroded rocky cliff an improbable valley swarmed with life. Commuter traffic moved in a constant stream, no laws regulating flow other than the consistent behavior of generations that apparently long ago had decided that keeping to the right was the way to go. Thousands of compact black and white forms marched from the hills to the sea and the sea to the hills on a natural highway broken into well-defined lanes that even included exit ramps for satellite communities in adjacent valleys. Road rage occasionally reared its ugly head but only at stream crossings where uncertainty or hesitation stopped the motion. Usually a well-aimed peck or a firm wing slap moved the offender to the side of the road or propelled him or her on their way, often awkwardly to a wet landing. Suburbia might possibly have been patterned after the arrangement of penguin colonies that dotted the hillsides as far as the eyes could see. Collectively they housed at least one hundred thousand pairs of chinstrap penguins and their offspring. Lush green Prasiola crispa, formed a green parkland between the whitewashed cobbles of closely placed nests. The sound of the city was much like that of a gentle hum formed by the blending of many voices in quiet conversation but it was consistently broken by the harsh rasping shouts of birds announcing their arrival home or declaring the spot was uniquely theirs. More frightening perhaps was the ripple of bellows, passed from one to the next as dozens of skuas made threatening low aerial passes in search of a breach in vigilance. Any soft gray fluffy chick would do or maybe just an egg or two snatched from beneath a feisty fighting chinstrap adult would provide a meal for these predator birds. As we crested the ridgeline the spectacular views diverted our attention from wildlife momentarily.
But it was not this secretive community that gave this island its name. Only one clue unlocked the door to discovering the mystery inside. Neptune’s Bellows yawned in a tight-lipped fashion that barely concealed the teeth of a rocky ridge hidden below the sea. Daring sailing masters faced its peril and slipped through the narrow passage to discover that the island was hollow inside. We too sailed into the crater of this old and ancient volcano and spent the afternoon examining its innards. Penguin life was sparse and only a few lounged on the shore here and there. At Whalers Bay we strolled the reddish black outwash plains amidst wisps of steam rising from within the sands. We climbed to Neptune’s Window accompanied by the twittering sounds of nesting pintado petrels. Mysterious forms half buried in the sand unraveled the history of whaling. Water boats stood silently, planking fractured, never again to carry their cargo of fresh water to the processing ships. Barrel staves, bleached and weathered by time stood in random patterned mounds awaiting whale oil that never was found. The crumbling ruins of pressure cookers and storage tanks were somber reminders of an exploitive past. Science came next in the region’s past but the roaring volcano put an end to the activities at both the British Antarctic Survey base and a nearby Chilean station, both deserted after the eruptions of 1967 and 1969 spewed fire and ash. Comic relief was needed to divert our attention from the past to the bright sunshine and warmth of the day. Suddenly coats and clothing were peeled away and a rowdy batch of revelers leaped into the frigid waters in search of the what some might think were the mythical hot springs and pools.
Curiosity drew us to Telefon Cove to climb the slopes of the cinder cone formed and look down to the crater floor nearly 900 feet below. A waterfall tumbled from high above, slowly eroding its way through the alternating dark and light layers of glacial ice. A secondary explosion crater pocked its side. Oblivious to the geology, a group of Weddell seals lounged at the shore distracting us from our initial goal. But then, this is an expedition and the unexpected is the norm.
Was it all a dream? The skies were blue but a shade converted to pastel by high cirrus clouds. Our regular companions, tabular and sculpted bergs joined us, perched on the horizon of a charcoal sea which in the lee of Livingston Island exhibited not a wrinkle. Light and moisture joined to deceive, hiding our destination from inquiring eyes until we were close to its shores. The rocky mountainous rim of Deception Island seemed inhospitable and insurmountable but it too engaged in trickery.
We landed in the surf at Baily Head, Deception’s southwestern corner. Black volcanic ash formed the beach and striped the icy finger of a nearby glacial tongue. Confined between the ice and a layered eroded rocky cliff an improbable valley swarmed with life. Commuter traffic moved in a constant stream, no laws regulating flow other than the consistent behavior of generations that apparently long ago had decided that keeping to the right was the way to go. Thousands of compact black and white forms marched from the hills to the sea and the sea to the hills on a natural highway broken into well-defined lanes that even included exit ramps for satellite communities in adjacent valleys. Road rage occasionally reared its ugly head but only at stream crossings where uncertainty or hesitation stopped the motion. Usually a well-aimed peck or a firm wing slap moved the offender to the side of the road or propelled him or her on their way, often awkwardly to a wet landing. Suburbia might possibly have been patterned after the arrangement of penguin colonies that dotted the hillsides as far as the eyes could see. Collectively they housed at least one hundred thousand pairs of chinstrap penguins and their offspring. Lush green Prasiola crispa, formed a green parkland between the whitewashed cobbles of closely placed nests. The sound of the city was much like that of a gentle hum formed by the blending of many voices in quiet conversation but it was consistently broken by the harsh rasping shouts of birds announcing their arrival home or declaring the spot was uniquely theirs. More frightening perhaps was the ripple of bellows, passed from one to the next as dozens of skuas made threatening low aerial passes in search of a breach in vigilance. Any soft gray fluffy chick would do or maybe just an egg or two snatched from beneath a feisty fighting chinstrap adult would provide a meal for these predator birds. As we crested the ridgeline the spectacular views diverted our attention from wildlife momentarily.
But it was not this secretive community that gave this island its name. Only one clue unlocked the door to discovering the mystery inside. Neptune’s Bellows yawned in a tight-lipped fashion that barely concealed the teeth of a rocky ridge hidden below the sea. Daring sailing masters faced its peril and slipped through the narrow passage to discover that the island was hollow inside. We too sailed into the crater of this old and ancient volcano and spent the afternoon examining its innards. Penguin life was sparse and only a few lounged on the shore here and there. At Whalers Bay we strolled the reddish black outwash plains amidst wisps of steam rising from within the sands. We climbed to Neptune’s Window accompanied by the twittering sounds of nesting pintado petrels. Mysterious forms half buried in the sand unraveled the history of whaling. Water boats stood silently, planking fractured, never again to carry their cargo of fresh water to the processing ships. Barrel staves, bleached and weathered by time stood in random patterned mounds awaiting whale oil that never was found. The crumbling ruins of pressure cookers and storage tanks were somber reminders of an exploitive past. Science came next in the region’s past but the roaring volcano put an end to the activities at both the British Antarctic Survey base and a nearby Chilean station, both deserted after the eruptions of 1967 and 1969 spewed fire and ash. Comic relief was needed to divert our attention from the past to the bright sunshine and warmth of the day. Suddenly coats and clothing were peeled away and a rowdy batch of revelers leaped into the frigid waters in search of the what some might think were the mythical hot springs and pools.
Curiosity drew us to Telefon Cove to climb the slopes of the cinder cone formed and look down to the crater floor nearly 900 feet below. A waterfall tumbled from high above, slowly eroding its way through the alternating dark and light layers of glacial ice. A secondary explosion crater pocked its side. Oblivious to the geology, a group of Weddell seals lounged at the shore distracting us from our initial goal. But then, this is an expedition and the unexpected is the norm.
