Booth & Petermann Islands, Antarctica
We've changed while we've been here. Don't expect us to come back home and be the same person that got on the plane and headed south such a short time ago. It's hard to explain what has happened. Maybe it was the ice that did it. Maybe it was the vastness, the solitude. Maybe the birds stuck out their tiny feet and said, "Stop, look at us. We can show you how to live."
When we arrived we were like the chinstrap penguins; excitable, in a rush, ready to take on everything. Hit the beach. March up the hill. Get the photos and move on for more. We were Adélies too; quite content in our close-spaced, compact colony but careful to "slender walk" through the crowd so as not to disturb any friend or neighbor. Now we are like the gentoos: calm, gentle, laid back; that doesn't mean they are unaware of the dangers swirling by and nor will we be. They just seem to be able to observe and analyze, to adjust to what is there.
We've learned to listen too. Penguins find their mates, their parents and their chicks by vocal clues. To us one member of a species sounds just like any other of that sort. Yes, we have become skilled enough to recognize the meaning of some of their calls. Ear shattering mutual displays simply mean "Honey, I'm home. How was your day? I'll take care of the kids now. You go out for dinner." Aerial attacks or surveillance flights by marauding skuas elicit a cry somewhere between a growl and meow. We've fine-tuned our auditory pathways so that now we hear the differences between species. We recognize the scream of the skua too and know when to duck or back away.
Now we pause to listen to the low rumbling of a glacier and the rice crispy like crackle of bergy seltzer as ancient ice turns back to liquid form giving up its imprisoned gaseous bubbles. Most importantly of all, we've come to savor the sound of silence. With that stillness comes a vision of mirror calm ebony waters tossing back images of intricate icy sculptures. Somehow the two senses have become entwined into one.
Booth and Petermann Islands are connected by their history and we enjoyed the tales of Charcot, the gentleman explorer and his early expeditions. Smoothed and polished granodioritic ridges were perfect stepping stones to points above secluded, protected coves. We could imagine Français and Pourquoi Pas? anchored there safe from raging storms. How many of those men climbed like we and sat and simply listened to the penguin symphony? How many rowed their tiny boats around the edges where we paddled our nimble kayaks and heard the gentle lap of water upon the shore? Unchanged and unchanging, the echoes of the sea and shore unite past, present and future too.
We've changed while we've been here. Don't expect us to come back home and be the same person that got on the plane and headed south such a short time ago. It's hard to explain what has happened. Maybe it was the ice that did it. Maybe it was the vastness, the solitude. Maybe the birds stuck out their tiny feet and said, "Stop, look at us. We can show you how to live."
When we arrived we were like the chinstrap penguins; excitable, in a rush, ready to take on everything. Hit the beach. March up the hill. Get the photos and move on for more. We were Adélies too; quite content in our close-spaced, compact colony but careful to "slender walk" through the crowd so as not to disturb any friend or neighbor. Now we are like the gentoos: calm, gentle, laid back; that doesn't mean they are unaware of the dangers swirling by and nor will we be. They just seem to be able to observe and analyze, to adjust to what is there.
We've learned to listen too. Penguins find their mates, their parents and their chicks by vocal clues. To us one member of a species sounds just like any other of that sort. Yes, we have become skilled enough to recognize the meaning of some of their calls. Ear shattering mutual displays simply mean "Honey, I'm home. How was your day? I'll take care of the kids now. You go out for dinner." Aerial attacks or surveillance flights by marauding skuas elicit a cry somewhere between a growl and meow. We've fine-tuned our auditory pathways so that now we hear the differences between species. We recognize the scream of the skua too and know when to duck or back away.
Now we pause to listen to the low rumbling of a glacier and the rice crispy like crackle of bergy seltzer as ancient ice turns back to liquid form giving up its imprisoned gaseous bubbles. Most importantly of all, we've come to savor the sound of silence. With that stillness comes a vision of mirror calm ebony waters tossing back images of intricate icy sculptures. Somehow the two senses have become entwined into one.
Booth and Petermann Islands are connected by their history and we enjoyed the tales of Charcot, the gentleman explorer and his early expeditions. Smoothed and polished granodioritic ridges were perfect stepping stones to points above secluded, protected coves. We could imagine Français and Pourquoi Pas? anchored there safe from raging storms. How many of those men climbed like we and sat and simply listened to the penguin symphony? How many rowed their tiny boats around the edges where we paddled our nimble kayaks and heard the gentle lap of water upon the shore? Unchanged and unchanging, the echoes of the sea and shore unite past, present and future too.
