Devil Island, Erebus & Terror Gulf, Antarctica
The atlas lies open on the desk, its pages turned to reveal the sting-ray shape of the Antarctic Continent. Unlike the land masses portrayed on other leaves, it is colored white with a hint of blue, a land of ice and snow. There are no boundary lines for the territories blur, owned by none, claimed by many. The White Continent, or so she has been called, has many faces, all, like those of a mime, painted in frosty white.
The east wind churned the sea into a froth of whitecaps and wind riffles, dampened only by the presence of a gallery of drifting ice. Patches of brash were interspersed with charcoal black waters textured and napped by the wind. Snowflakes, miniature six-pointed lacy doilies, delicate in design traveled sideways, seemingly foiled in their attempt to reach the ground. Somehow they managed to accumulate on the decks and on the land.
In the lee of Vega Island, two dark horns ornament a tiny islet, aptly named Devil. But it was not hell we explored when deposited upon the land. The beach was littered with grounded bergy-bits, some flat, some fluted. Around their toes filed quick-stepping black and white forms, their feathers sleek and shining, pink feet pattering on the cobbled stones. We saw no rapid transit signs but at seemingly designated locations, they gathered in huge crowds, pushing and shoving to ensure that someone else would be the one to take the plunge. Occasionally the gang would turn as one and rush to another spot as if the bus had missed a station and a transfer was required to another line.
The shore rose sharply to a gentle plateau where parts of the city slumbered. Clusters of nest sites collected into large apartment units, separated from the neighboring unit by very narrow streets. Voyeurs we were for hours, staring into each family home, watching who was living there and who came, who went and who was welcomed. Adelie penguins definitely prefer high density housing. Most were lying with snowy backs turned against the wind. Occasionally a stretch was needed or just a visual check of the one or two pale greenish white eggs protectively held within warm brood pouches. Here and there a partner returned from a long feeding foray. Heads wagging in unison, both members of the pair loudly proclaimed their pleasure at this reunion. Might he or she be telling of the difficult transit between the neighbor's nests and how damaging pecks were avoided only by doing a "slender walk?”
If one trades in the wind, sometimes the result is another shade of white. Fog came and went all afternoon wrapping the land and sea in mystery. Partings might reveal a land of layers defined by newly fallen snow or maybe a tabular berg. There might be first year ice, looking slushy or fractured floes rafted into puzzling patterns. Or maybe what we had been looking for, fast ice. We found it finally in Herbert Sound solidly blocking the passage between James Ross and Vega Islands. As the ship pushed her way forward, cutting a path, crabeater seals looked on. Snow white snow petrels became the living snowflakes, beautiful, delicate creatures that live far south here, among the ice.
Tonight we push our way farther south. Who knows where we might be tomorrow?
The atlas lies open on the desk, its pages turned to reveal the sting-ray shape of the Antarctic Continent. Unlike the land masses portrayed on other leaves, it is colored white with a hint of blue, a land of ice and snow. There are no boundary lines for the territories blur, owned by none, claimed by many. The White Continent, or so she has been called, has many faces, all, like those of a mime, painted in frosty white.
The east wind churned the sea into a froth of whitecaps and wind riffles, dampened only by the presence of a gallery of drifting ice. Patches of brash were interspersed with charcoal black waters textured and napped by the wind. Snowflakes, miniature six-pointed lacy doilies, delicate in design traveled sideways, seemingly foiled in their attempt to reach the ground. Somehow they managed to accumulate on the decks and on the land.
In the lee of Vega Island, two dark horns ornament a tiny islet, aptly named Devil. But it was not hell we explored when deposited upon the land. The beach was littered with grounded bergy-bits, some flat, some fluted. Around their toes filed quick-stepping black and white forms, their feathers sleek and shining, pink feet pattering on the cobbled stones. We saw no rapid transit signs but at seemingly designated locations, they gathered in huge crowds, pushing and shoving to ensure that someone else would be the one to take the plunge. Occasionally the gang would turn as one and rush to another spot as if the bus had missed a station and a transfer was required to another line.
The shore rose sharply to a gentle plateau where parts of the city slumbered. Clusters of nest sites collected into large apartment units, separated from the neighboring unit by very narrow streets. Voyeurs we were for hours, staring into each family home, watching who was living there and who came, who went and who was welcomed. Adelie penguins definitely prefer high density housing. Most were lying with snowy backs turned against the wind. Occasionally a stretch was needed or just a visual check of the one or two pale greenish white eggs protectively held within warm brood pouches. Here and there a partner returned from a long feeding foray. Heads wagging in unison, both members of the pair loudly proclaimed their pleasure at this reunion. Might he or she be telling of the difficult transit between the neighbor's nests and how damaging pecks were avoided only by doing a "slender walk?”
If one trades in the wind, sometimes the result is another shade of white. Fog came and went all afternoon wrapping the land and sea in mystery. Partings might reveal a land of layers defined by newly fallen snow or maybe a tabular berg. There might be first year ice, looking slushy or fractured floes rafted into puzzling patterns. Or maybe what we had been looking for, fast ice. We found it finally in Herbert Sound solidly blocking the passage between James Ross and Vega Islands. As the ship pushed her way forward, cutting a path, crabeater seals looked on. Snow white snow petrels became the living snowflakes, beautiful, delicate creatures that live far south here, among the ice.
Tonight we push our way farther south. Who knows where we might be tomorrow?
