Mikkleson Harbour
Deception Island, a flooded caldera, is “C” shaped. Its protected inner bay lay long undiscovered, “deceiving” early explorers. We started the day at Deception’s Baily Head, the site of a large Chinstrap penguin colony. From the ship we could see masses of penguins high up on the hills of the island. Chinstraps are the mountaineers of the pygoscelid world, so to find them on steep lofty slopes was no surprise. We intended to land, but nearing the shore in Zodiacs, we saw that the surf was giving even the penguins a pounding, and decided on a gentler landing spot.
The Captain eased the ship through the island’s hidden entrance. Imposing cliffs, rich in black and ruddy tones, towered above us. The rusting hull of a whaling ship was a sharp reminder of the tricky nature of this pass. But once inside, the water was placid and benign. Whaler’s Bay lies just beyond the entrance, and here we dropped anchor. Along the shore were buildings from the whalers’ operation, and the historic lodgings of the British Arctic Survey. All were wrecked by volcanic eruptions in the 1960s. We landed near huge oil towers leaning at drunken angles. We walked around barracks and meeting halls where flensers and harpooners traded tales. Barrel staves rose from the sand like clustered tombstones. Try pots, where were rendered many a leviathan, crumbled into their foundations. Yet, as if they were still in use, the air seemed full of smoke. This was steam, the result of volcanic heat, rising from the sand. Inspired by this thermal superabundance, many sequestered bathing suits ‘neath their Antarctic anoraks, and, after ecdysial frenzy, plunged into the icy Southern Ocean! After a brief polar plunge, most retired to the hot springs, that, they assured us, really were quite comfortable. Others, with less ambition and more normally developed nerve endings, opted for a historic tour of the buildings, or hiked down the beach. They passed somnolent seals, calculating skuas and a few wandering penguins, then climbed to a wind-blasted view of the cliffs at “Neptune’s Bellows,” an oceanic overlook.
P.M., we headed south. After tea, we reached Mikkleson Harbour, indented into Trinity Island’s southern shore. The harbor’s flanks are smothered in ice. Huge glaucous swells and hoary cataracts plunge to seaside cliffs of ice. During our visit the glaciers calved several tons of new icebergs. The harbour holds a tiny jewel of an island. Landing there, we wandered through an assemblage of hillocks. Each was topped by a group of nesting Gentoo penguins, while every trough was filled with snow. Suddenly, the morning Chinstraps’ hill-climbing habit made sense. Like many a protected bay, Mikkleson Harbour was once a whaling station. The beach was strewn in whalebones. A ruined boat lay among them, the scavenged ribs of hunter and prey mingled in historic melancholy. Surrounded by the penguins’ cacophony and the stillness of the bones, we contemplated the history, the fecundity, and the fragility of Antarctica.
Deception Island, a flooded caldera, is “C” shaped. Its protected inner bay lay long undiscovered, “deceiving” early explorers. We started the day at Deception’s Baily Head, the site of a large Chinstrap penguin colony. From the ship we could see masses of penguins high up on the hills of the island. Chinstraps are the mountaineers of the pygoscelid world, so to find them on steep lofty slopes was no surprise. We intended to land, but nearing the shore in Zodiacs, we saw that the surf was giving even the penguins a pounding, and decided on a gentler landing spot.
The Captain eased the ship through the island’s hidden entrance. Imposing cliffs, rich in black and ruddy tones, towered above us. The rusting hull of a whaling ship was a sharp reminder of the tricky nature of this pass. But once inside, the water was placid and benign. Whaler’s Bay lies just beyond the entrance, and here we dropped anchor. Along the shore were buildings from the whalers’ operation, and the historic lodgings of the British Arctic Survey. All were wrecked by volcanic eruptions in the 1960s. We landed near huge oil towers leaning at drunken angles. We walked around barracks and meeting halls where flensers and harpooners traded tales. Barrel staves rose from the sand like clustered tombstones. Try pots, where were rendered many a leviathan, crumbled into their foundations. Yet, as if they were still in use, the air seemed full of smoke. This was steam, the result of volcanic heat, rising from the sand. Inspired by this thermal superabundance, many sequestered bathing suits ‘neath their Antarctic anoraks, and, after ecdysial frenzy, plunged into the icy Southern Ocean! After a brief polar plunge, most retired to the hot springs, that, they assured us, really were quite comfortable. Others, with less ambition and more normally developed nerve endings, opted for a historic tour of the buildings, or hiked down the beach. They passed somnolent seals, calculating skuas and a few wandering penguins, then climbed to a wind-blasted view of the cliffs at “Neptune’s Bellows,” an oceanic overlook.
P.M., we headed south. After tea, we reached Mikkleson Harbour, indented into Trinity Island’s southern shore. The harbor’s flanks are smothered in ice. Huge glaucous swells and hoary cataracts plunge to seaside cliffs of ice. During our visit the glaciers calved several tons of new icebergs. The harbour holds a tiny jewel of an island. Landing there, we wandered through an assemblage of hillocks. Each was topped by a group of nesting Gentoo penguins, while every trough was filled with snow. Suddenly, the morning Chinstraps’ hill-climbing habit made sense. Like many a protected bay, Mikkleson Harbour was once a whaling station. The beach was strewn in whalebones. A ruined boat lay among them, the scavenged ribs of hunter and prey mingled in historic melancholy. Surrounded by the penguins’ cacophony and the stillness of the bones, we contemplated the history, the fecundity, and the fragility of Antarctica.
