Orne Harbor, Cuverville Island, Antarctic Peninsula
The day dawned cool and gray; the air was crisp, and the breeze mild. The morning was a mercury vapor-lit monotony of even-toned light. Sea and sky seemed to meld into a monochromatic field of uniform, dull hues. Only the ice-covered mountains of the northern Antarctic Peninsula to the east and white-capped hills of Brabant Island to the west added depth to the scene. The National Geographic Endeavour was plying the Gerlache Strait, a bed of uneven, gently-undulating liquid charcoal, and main thoroughfare to the heart of Antarctic Peninsula adventure.
Shortly after breakfast the call came over the ship's public address system, "Ladies and gentlemen: we have humpback whales in front of the ship, so grab your binoculars and cameras and make your way outside." In moments the front quarter of the National Geographic Endeavour was choked with red-parka clad guests straining for a view of these magnificent denizens of the deep. For roughly half an hour we watched as a pair of leviathans repeatedly sounded and surfaced, slapped their flippers on the water's surface, and we stood rapt as one even breached its massive bulk skyward. The deep resonant sounds of their bellows, their long white pectoral flippers, the uniquely patterned undersides of their flukes, and even the hair follicles on their blubbery hides, all staged against the ice-covered, scythe-like peaks surrounding Orne Harbor, were details attainable only through the slow, sensitive approach of the Captain and the rest of the bridge crew.
As the whales moved methodically back out into the Gerlache Strait we explored the details of Orne Harbor by Zodiac. This double-lobed inlet of water is rimmed almost completely by ice. However, its southern end is defined by a sheer, dark, lichen-covered rampart of igneous rock called Spigot Point; at its base, amid a jumble of rock and snow, sits a small Chinstrap penguin colony, a few nesting Kelp gulls, and an enclave of Antarctic shags. We became privileged dress circle witnesses to one act of a slice-of-life Antarctic drama.
During lunch our ship bridged the relatively short distance to the blocky, coal-colored island of Cuverville at the mouth of the Errera Channel. The air was still and the sky a low-slung blanket of gray and sepia cloud cover. Gentoo penguins are the island's dominant residents. Most were squatting on eggs, while others made their way to and from the sea along well-worn penguin paths. The largest of the brush-tailed penguins, Gentoo numbers have climbed markedly in recent years along the Antarctic Peninsula, exploiting terrain once dominated by their Adelie and Chinstrap relatives. The jury is still out on exactly why such a demographic shift has taken place, but climate change is being explored by scientists as a possible culprit.
The area just to the south and west of Cuverville is quite shallow, a dead end for icebergs. Cruising back to the National Geographic Endeavour all Zodiacs detoured through this stockyard of frozen ice-sculptures, their shapes as variable as clouds. Some were tall and stately, others rough and rounded, and others still, symmetrically grooved and deeply furrowed. Some had the texture of foam egg-carton mattresses worn hard and shiny as porcelain. Most all, regardless of shape, through the molding elements of time, pressure, and gravity, were shot through with bolts of electric blue, a brilliant byproduct of their lengthy formation from snow to glacial ice and finally to iceberg. Our cameras clicked away the seconds and minutes of our exploration. Our time among them was an evolution of slow and awed discovery.
The day dawned cool and gray; the air was crisp, and the breeze mild. The morning was a mercury vapor-lit monotony of even-toned light. Sea and sky seemed to meld into a monochromatic field of uniform, dull hues. Only the ice-covered mountains of the northern Antarctic Peninsula to the east and white-capped hills of Brabant Island to the west added depth to the scene. The National Geographic Endeavour was plying the Gerlache Strait, a bed of uneven, gently-undulating liquid charcoal, and main thoroughfare to the heart of Antarctic Peninsula adventure.
Shortly after breakfast the call came over the ship's public address system, "Ladies and gentlemen: we have humpback whales in front of the ship, so grab your binoculars and cameras and make your way outside." In moments the front quarter of the National Geographic Endeavour was choked with red-parka clad guests straining for a view of these magnificent denizens of the deep. For roughly half an hour we watched as a pair of leviathans repeatedly sounded and surfaced, slapped their flippers on the water's surface, and we stood rapt as one even breached its massive bulk skyward. The deep resonant sounds of their bellows, their long white pectoral flippers, the uniquely patterned undersides of their flukes, and even the hair follicles on their blubbery hides, all staged against the ice-covered, scythe-like peaks surrounding Orne Harbor, were details attainable only through the slow, sensitive approach of the Captain and the rest of the bridge crew.
As the whales moved methodically back out into the Gerlache Strait we explored the details of Orne Harbor by Zodiac. This double-lobed inlet of water is rimmed almost completely by ice. However, its southern end is defined by a sheer, dark, lichen-covered rampart of igneous rock called Spigot Point; at its base, amid a jumble of rock and snow, sits a small Chinstrap penguin colony, a few nesting Kelp gulls, and an enclave of Antarctic shags. We became privileged dress circle witnesses to one act of a slice-of-life Antarctic drama.
During lunch our ship bridged the relatively short distance to the blocky, coal-colored island of Cuverville at the mouth of the Errera Channel. The air was still and the sky a low-slung blanket of gray and sepia cloud cover. Gentoo penguins are the island's dominant residents. Most were squatting on eggs, while others made their way to and from the sea along well-worn penguin paths. The largest of the brush-tailed penguins, Gentoo numbers have climbed markedly in recent years along the Antarctic Peninsula, exploiting terrain once dominated by their Adelie and Chinstrap relatives. The jury is still out on exactly why such a demographic shift has taken place, but climate change is being explored by scientists as a possible culprit.
The area just to the south and west of Cuverville is quite shallow, a dead end for icebergs. Cruising back to the National Geographic Endeavour all Zodiacs detoured through this stockyard of frozen ice-sculptures, their shapes as variable as clouds. Some were tall and stately, others rough and rounded, and others still, symmetrically grooved and deeply furrowed. Some had the texture of foam egg-carton mattresses worn hard and shiny as porcelain. Most all, regardless of shape, through the molding elements of time, pressure, and gravity, were shot through with bolts of electric blue, a brilliant byproduct of their lengthy formation from snow to glacial ice and finally to iceberg. Our cameras clicked away the seconds and minutes of our exploration. Our time among them was an evolution of slow and awed discovery.
