Deception Island, Antarctica
Sometimes you just happen to be in the right place at the right time. All adventures begin with research and planning, but no amount of preparation can make the unusual occur. Who would have thought when the winds of morning were churning the charcoal seas into a froth that the day would present us with many surprises?
Wilson's storm-petrels danced in the waves while pintado petrels painted abstract images that changed as rapidly as our minds perceived the patterns. Deception Island was as confusingly speckled as their wings, its countenance basically black with smatterings of snow and ice upon the surface. Baily Head jutted from the outer edge, its rocky mass a perfect shelter on lucky days or on others a dangerous collector of the surf. Today the fates were in our favor and our feet fell nimbly on the coarse black sands. The resident community, dressed in their military finery awaited us as if expecting royalty. Shoulder-to-shoulder they stood, dressed in black and white with their helmets neatly fastened beneath their chins. But standing still was not their role and a closer glance revealed a frenzy of activity. It soon became apparent that not all individuals were so neatly dressed. In fact a number were just plain filthy, their breasts smeared with red stains and their backs bearing their neighbor's excrement. Careful observations and just plain curiosity led us to discover that the sparkling clean erupted from the sea while the shabby chaps marched down a valley from far inland. The highway they traveled upon was crowded, squirming with commotion. Carefully traveling upon the edges of their roadway, we journeyed to a magical land. As far as the eye could see, rising higher and higher to the cliff edges, chinstrap penguins went about the business of raising their young. Raucous calls bounced from the hillsides, greetings given to returning mates. Fluffy chicks tottered, taking their first steps from the nests. Others still hovered close to a reassuring parent. Skuas swirled about the sky like threatening aerial snipers searching for the unwary, set to steal an egg or chick. Once attained, their reward was hard to keep, for others of their kind waited to participate in their thievery. At times the prize became the ball in a bruising battle resembling a rugby match.
One wonders what it is like to be the chosen one, to be the one in 300,000 birds that is different than all the others. Many search the continent for years to see a leucistic penguin. But, here, a milk chocolate individual strolled back and forth among us all the morning long. Questions flew about. Did it know that it was special? Would it be an outcast for its life? Oh, for more time to watch, to observe, to learn.
Even the sea held surprises for us. We were not searching cetaceans, only transiting from A to B, from Baily Head to Neptune's Bellows, the gateway to Deception's caldera. But, there in our way, was a pod of killer whales, type B. The tall six foot dorsal fins of two adult males cut through the water, a stark contrast to the miniscule falcate fins of two tiny calves. Four or so females completed the group, their pale skin and huge "eye-patches" clearly visible beneath the waves. They were in no hurry to go anywhere but just slowly meandered about. A mother and calf humpback whale cruised by, ignoring the predator's presence. They seemed to sense that this variety preferred the meat of seal to that of whale.
Neptune's Bellows swallowed us and we were transported to the past. In our minds we could see Whaler's Bay come to life. In reality only remnants of whalers, researchers and adventurers remain. Many times the island has roared casting ash and lava bombs high into the sky from where they rained upon the land. Black and gray and rusty red are the colors now of the island. Only here and there is there a tiny window revealing the icy white of glaciers hiding beneath. The crust is thin here, molten magma close at hand. Steam rises to the surface as evidence that the stomach of this monster rumbles still and someday, maybe soon, it will awake again. Where there is steam between the tides, one knows that there at least will be a trickle of warming water. Heavy clothes were stripped from bodies and a swim of sorts ensued.
Dessert was barely swallowed before the call of "whales" rang out. Charcot Bay was a cauldron of humpbacks seeking plentiful krill. Hidden in the corner is lovely Lindblad Cove. The late evening clouds split, sending blue beams to illuminate the glaciers pouring from the peaks. Cascading steeply from on high, the frozen rivers were crazily fractured, deep crevasses like a furrowed brow. Bergy bits and ice floes littered the calm waters like puzzle pieces upon a gold and blue satin cloth.
Although the hands on the clock indicate the day is done, the colors of twilight go on and on. Maybe some of us will watch until the light of a new day arrives. For every moment in Antarctica is filled with new surprises.
Sometimes you just happen to be in the right place at the right time. All adventures begin with research and planning, but no amount of preparation can make the unusual occur. Who would have thought when the winds of morning were churning the charcoal seas into a froth that the day would present us with many surprises?
Wilson's storm-petrels danced in the waves while pintado petrels painted abstract images that changed as rapidly as our minds perceived the patterns. Deception Island was as confusingly speckled as their wings, its countenance basically black with smatterings of snow and ice upon the surface. Baily Head jutted from the outer edge, its rocky mass a perfect shelter on lucky days or on others a dangerous collector of the surf. Today the fates were in our favor and our feet fell nimbly on the coarse black sands. The resident community, dressed in their military finery awaited us as if expecting royalty. Shoulder-to-shoulder they stood, dressed in black and white with their helmets neatly fastened beneath their chins. But standing still was not their role and a closer glance revealed a frenzy of activity. It soon became apparent that not all individuals were so neatly dressed. In fact a number were just plain filthy, their breasts smeared with red stains and their backs bearing their neighbor's excrement. Careful observations and just plain curiosity led us to discover that the sparkling clean erupted from the sea while the shabby chaps marched down a valley from far inland. The highway they traveled upon was crowded, squirming with commotion. Carefully traveling upon the edges of their roadway, we journeyed to a magical land. As far as the eye could see, rising higher and higher to the cliff edges, chinstrap penguins went about the business of raising their young. Raucous calls bounced from the hillsides, greetings given to returning mates. Fluffy chicks tottered, taking their first steps from the nests. Others still hovered close to a reassuring parent. Skuas swirled about the sky like threatening aerial snipers searching for the unwary, set to steal an egg or chick. Once attained, their reward was hard to keep, for others of their kind waited to participate in their thievery. At times the prize became the ball in a bruising battle resembling a rugby match.
One wonders what it is like to be the chosen one, to be the one in 300,000 birds that is different than all the others. Many search the continent for years to see a leucistic penguin. But, here, a milk chocolate individual strolled back and forth among us all the morning long. Questions flew about. Did it know that it was special? Would it be an outcast for its life? Oh, for more time to watch, to observe, to learn.
Even the sea held surprises for us. We were not searching cetaceans, only transiting from A to B, from Baily Head to Neptune's Bellows, the gateway to Deception's caldera. But, there in our way, was a pod of killer whales, type B. The tall six foot dorsal fins of two adult males cut through the water, a stark contrast to the miniscule falcate fins of two tiny calves. Four or so females completed the group, their pale skin and huge "eye-patches" clearly visible beneath the waves. They were in no hurry to go anywhere but just slowly meandered about. A mother and calf humpback whale cruised by, ignoring the predator's presence. They seemed to sense that this variety preferred the meat of seal to that of whale.
Neptune's Bellows swallowed us and we were transported to the past. In our minds we could see Whaler's Bay come to life. In reality only remnants of whalers, researchers and adventurers remain. Many times the island has roared casting ash and lava bombs high into the sky from where they rained upon the land. Black and gray and rusty red are the colors now of the island. Only here and there is there a tiny window revealing the icy white of glaciers hiding beneath. The crust is thin here, molten magma close at hand. Steam rises to the surface as evidence that the stomach of this monster rumbles still and someday, maybe soon, it will awake again. Where there is steam between the tides, one knows that there at least will be a trickle of warming water. Heavy clothes were stripped from bodies and a swim of sorts ensued.
Dessert was barely swallowed before the call of "whales" rang out. Charcot Bay was a cauldron of humpbacks seeking plentiful krill. Hidden in the corner is lovely Lindblad Cove. The late evening clouds split, sending blue beams to illuminate the glaciers pouring from the peaks. Cascading steeply from on high, the frozen rivers were crazily fractured, deep crevasses like a furrowed brow. Bergy bits and ice floes littered the calm waters like puzzle pieces upon a gold and blue satin cloth.
Although the hands on the clock indicate the day is done, the colors of twilight go on and on. Maybe some of us will watch until the light of a new day arrives. For every moment in Antarctica is filled with new surprises.
