Godthul, Cumberland West Bay
An individual’s lot in life is often a matter of perspective. One’s whole reality can alter as a result of the outwardly and apparently difficult, yet deceptively simple, task of changing one’s view, and resultantly, one’s attitude. Merely being in South Georgia, and opening oneself to its magic spell, can force an individual to see the world, and perhaps his/her place in it, from an entirely different perspective. The pulse of this almost unknown southern Eden can be felt and internalized. It is powerful and omnipresent. The animals that dwell here are entirely in tune with such a heartbeat. Its cadence dictates the ebb and flow of their lives. For a period, it can do the same for us – if we are open.
The change was beginning to take place within us. Our previous day was swept by a tsunami-like wave of weather changes - from the glory of sunshine and warm breezes in the morning to cold, driving winds and rain in the evening. This place has moods, and they can come with the frequency and force of baseballs out of a pitching machine. Weather forecasting in South Georgia barely rises above voodoo science. The trick here is to open up to the realm of myriad possibilities – to take it as it comes – just like the animals that live by voices we shall never hear.
The island woke up stirred and angry. By 0530 winds were gusting to 90 knots. On slow approach to Ocean Harbor, it was clear we had little chance of finding a suitable lee within which to lower Zodiacs and mount a landing operation. Before attempting anchoring EL Tom Ritchie made the quick but shrewd decision to abandon the effort. The bridge crew turned the National Geographic Explorer to the northwest, towards the small bay of Godthul, in hope of finding more favorable conditions.
Approaching Godthul in a full gale, there was uncertainty as to the viability of attempting a landing within its relatively protected reaches, as the winds were screaming from the west. This would mean little swell, but the possibility of katabatic winds (gravity drawn gusts that race down leeward slopes) loomed. Once inside, our vessel found a bit of a reprieve. But was it enough, and how long would it last? For a spell the winds were still too strong. Powerful gusts periodically scorched down the valley on the harbor’s northwest side, funneling their energy and whipping the waters into frenzied williwaws. These were no trifling breezes, and safety mandated that we wait them out.
After about an hour spent pensively in a holding pattern, the winds abated and the ship’s brain trust decided to launch Zodiacs. Most of us landed on a cobble beach in Godthul’s southwest corner, site of a long-abandoned shore-side whaling operation. Two whale catchers once serviced a floating factory ship stationed here each summer from 1908 to 1917 and again from 1922 to 1929. The shore depot that supported this enterprise has been reduced by time and the elements to rusting barrels, a collapsing wooden shed, the skeletons of a couple of old dories, and an impressive collection of whale and elephant seal bones. These vestiges of that overly exploitive era are all that remain on this site to tell the tale of southern profiteering by maverick men long gone.
The steep, tussock-covered slopes above the shore were generously festooned with fur seals, but with diligence all hikers were able to negotiate the annoyed, growling gauntlet, and soon stood on a level plain cradled in a natural snow-dusted rocky amphitheatre. A medium-sized lake sat in the plain’s great depression, lending one to conjure alpine parallels. A herd of reindeer loped across the grassy flats, occasionally stopping to graze on the abundant vegetation. If it weren’t for the sight of gentoo penguins and the reverberating guttural groans of distant elephant seals, we could have fancied ourselves high in the Alps.
Those unwilling to make the climb set in for a Zodiac cruise around Godthul’s impressive shoreline. Fur and elephant seals, gentoo and king penguins, and an assortment of seabirds dotted the fractured shores. All animals occurred singly or in small groups, as if in seclusion from, or banished to the distant edges of, their own colonies. Two species of large brown kelp, Durvillea and Macrocystis, guarded the shores’ inner reaches. Fresh water cascaded gently in spots from snow packs or small lakes on high, enlivening the rock faces with streaks of lush, verdant mosses. As our requisite time period drew nigh, almost on cue, the winds once again began to howl. In minutes they were in full fury, driving our ship’s anemometer to spin wildly over 70 knots. Through a pelting maelstrom of thick chop and horizontal spray we returned from shore and Zodiac cruising to the protective womb of our mother ship.
By midday the sun had parted the clouds, but the winds continued to drive. Wind speeds fluctuated between 40 and 90 knots during lunch and repositioning. Away from the immediate protection of South Georgia’s coastline the National Geographic Explorer began to heave through mounting swells. After an hour and a half of such ungainly lurching she turned westward into Cumberland West Bay. Only once safely ensconced within its protective embrace did the winds begin to subside. Along the northwestern shore we found calm water lapping a gently-graded, protected cove. Conditions had dictated destination.
The topography of this infrequently visited site lends itself to exploration. The beach is a long arc of round stones backed by a broad flat. Climbing up to its edge we were quick to discover that the flat was comprised almost entirely of mosses, tussock, and other grasses broken by a maze of pools, many bearing the signature pungent reek of elephant seal habitation. A small, fledgling king penguin colony was trying to establish a toehold at the back of the flat. All around, on tussock lumps and in wallows, fur seals and elephant seals pocked the landscape.
A sizeable herd of reindeer meandered across the plain, frequently stopping to graze. Most had begun to shed their velvet, but one still in velvet, stood out as a multipronged genetic aberration. It possessed a rack any hunter would have drooled over. And like true hunters we stalked it, hoping to shoot it not with guns, but with cameras. The beast was leery of our presence. And so the greatest success came to those, not surprisingly so, with the biggest lenses. It was an unusual representative of its species to be sure, but still a member of its nation – a nation that switched its internal clock and timed it anew to the rhythm of South Georgia in one short season long ago. Even though transplanted from a different hemisphere, the reindeer herds continue to thrive on the flanks of this southern Eden – for they are gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or shall never attain. If lost, we can get them back – but only by shifting our perspectives. This place can, by casting its spell, and aid such a cause.
An individual’s lot in life is often a matter of perspective. One’s whole reality can alter as a result of the outwardly and apparently difficult, yet deceptively simple, task of changing one’s view, and resultantly, one’s attitude. Merely being in South Georgia, and opening oneself to its magic spell, can force an individual to see the world, and perhaps his/her place in it, from an entirely different perspective. The pulse of this almost unknown southern Eden can be felt and internalized. It is powerful and omnipresent. The animals that dwell here are entirely in tune with such a heartbeat. Its cadence dictates the ebb and flow of their lives. For a period, it can do the same for us – if we are open.
The change was beginning to take place within us. Our previous day was swept by a tsunami-like wave of weather changes - from the glory of sunshine and warm breezes in the morning to cold, driving winds and rain in the evening. This place has moods, and they can come with the frequency and force of baseballs out of a pitching machine. Weather forecasting in South Georgia barely rises above voodoo science. The trick here is to open up to the realm of myriad possibilities – to take it as it comes – just like the animals that live by voices we shall never hear.
The island woke up stirred and angry. By 0530 winds were gusting to 90 knots. On slow approach to Ocean Harbor, it was clear we had little chance of finding a suitable lee within which to lower Zodiacs and mount a landing operation. Before attempting anchoring EL Tom Ritchie made the quick but shrewd decision to abandon the effort. The bridge crew turned the National Geographic Explorer to the northwest, towards the small bay of Godthul, in hope of finding more favorable conditions.
Approaching Godthul in a full gale, there was uncertainty as to the viability of attempting a landing within its relatively protected reaches, as the winds were screaming from the west. This would mean little swell, but the possibility of katabatic winds (gravity drawn gusts that race down leeward slopes) loomed. Once inside, our vessel found a bit of a reprieve. But was it enough, and how long would it last? For a spell the winds were still too strong. Powerful gusts periodically scorched down the valley on the harbor’s northwest side, funneling their energy and whipping the waters into frenzied williwaws. These were no trifling breezes, and safety mandated that we wait them out.
After about an hour spent pensively in a holding pattern, the winds abated and the ship’s brain trust decided to launch Zodiacs. Most of us landed on a cobble beach in Godthul’s southwest corner, site of a long-abandoned shore-side whaling operation. Two whale catchers once serviced a floating factory ship stationed here each summer from 1908 to 1917 and again from 1922 to 1929. The shore depot that supported this enterprise has been reduced by time and the elements to rusting barrels, a collapsing wooden shed, the skeletons of a couple of old dories, and an impressive collection of whale and elephant seal bones. These vestiges of that overly exploitive era are all that remain on this site to tell the tale of southern profiteering by maverick men long gone.
The steep, tussock-covered slopes above the shore were generously festooned with fur seals, but with diligence all hikers were able to negotiate the annoyed, growling gauntlet, and soon stood on a level plain cradled in a natural snow-dusted rocky amphitheatre. A medium-sized lake sat in the plain’s great depression, lending one to conjure alpine parallels. A herd of reindeer loped across the grassy flats, occasionally stopping to graze on the abundant vegetation. If it weren’t for the sight of gentoo penguins and the reverberating guttural groans of distant elephant seals, we could have fancied ourselves high in the Alps.
Those unwilling to make the climb set in for a Zodiac cruise around Godthul’s impressive shoreline. Fur and elephant seals, gentoo and king penguins, and an assortment of seabirds dotted the fractured shores. All animals occurred singly or in small groups, as if in seclusion from, or banished to the distant edges of, their own colonies. Two species of large brown kelp, Durvillea and Macrocystis, guarded the shores’ inner reaches. Fresh water cascaded gently in spots from snow packs or small lakes on high, enlivening the rock faces with streaks of lush, verdant mosses. As our requisite time period drew nigh, almost on cue, the winds once again began to howl. In minutes they were in full fury, driving our ship’s anemometer to spin wildly over 70 knots. Through a pelting maelstrom of thick chop and horizontal spray we returned from shore and Zodiac cruising to the protective womb of our mother ship.
By midday the sun had parted the clouds, but the winds continued to drive. Wind speeds fluctuated between 40 and 90 knots during lunch and repositioning. Away from the immediate protection of South Georgia’s coastline the National Geographic Explorer began to heave through mounting swells. After an hour and a half of such ungainly lurching she turned westward into Cumberland West Bay. Only once safely ensconced within its protective embrace did the winds begin to subside. Along the northwestern shore we found calm water lapping a gently-graded, protected cove. Conditions had dictated destination.
The topography of this infrequently visited site lends itself to exploration. The beach is a long arc of round stones backed by a broad flat. Climbing up to its edge we were quick to discover that the flat was comprised almost entirely of mosses, tussock, and other grasses broken by a maze of pools, many bearing the signature pungent reek of elephant seal habitation. A small, fledgling king penguin colony was trying to establish a toehold at the back of the flat. All around, on tussock lumps and in wallows, fur seals and elephant seals pocked the landscape.
A sizeable herd of reindeer meandered across the plain, frequently stopping to graze. Most had begun to shed their velvet, but one still in velvet, stood out as a multipronged genetic aberration. It possessed a rack any hunter would have drooled over. And like true hunters we stalked it, hoping to shoot it not with guns, but with cameras. The beast was leery of our presence. And so the greatest success came to those, not surprisingly so, with the biggest lenses. It was an unusual representative of its species to be sure, but still a member of its nation – a nation that switched its internal clock and timed it anew to the rhythm of South Georgia in one short season long ago. Even though transplanted from a different hemisphere, the reindeer herds continue to thrive on the flanks of this southern Eden – for they are gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or shall never attain. If lost, we can get them back – but only by shifting our perspectives. This place can, by casting its spell, and aid such a cause.
