Tristan da Cunha
Anticipation can build like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining mass and momentum the steeper the incline and the farther it rolls – or the longer it builds. We had spent the last four days decompressing from our Antarctic experiences, shifting gears, and priming ourselves for a landing at the Tristan da Cunha archipelago, one of the most remote island groups on the globe. During our passage across the South Atlantic a transition was incrementally but noticeably taking place. Air and water temperatures were slowly raising, durations of day and night were equalizing and the map of the celestial sphere was rotating by degrees. Onboard we had reflectively followed suit. Rubber boots and parkas had been relegated to closets and suitcases. We were spending more time outside wearing shorts and sandals. Some of us had actually begun to bask in Ra’s warming rays. The seas were reflecting a clearer, more cobalt hue of blue, and new breeds of avian escorts were now shadowing our vessel’s northeasterly course.
Spectacled, gray, and soft-plumaged petrels; yellow-nose and Tristan albatrosses; broad-billed prions; and great shearwaters were our aerial escorts. They had replaced the pintado petrels, gray-headed and black-browed albatrosses. They were indicators of changing latitude and longitude, signaling a transition to lands beyond. The morning was subtropical with warmth and humidity. A bright red sun, loosely veiled in stratus and cirrus clouds, began to heat a burgeoning blue sky. The temperate seabirds were riding invisible waves of tepid air. We were clearly in a different climate. Change was taking place, and anticipation of new experiences was swelling with it.
On the horizon in the east, backed by a rising tide of light, the volcanic silhouette of Tristan da Cunha broke the horizon with a mighty six-thousand foot, A-frame profile. Behind our vessel, in the ethereal early morning light, Inaccessible and Nightingale Islands stood tall as rugged distant phantoms, their powerful frames, only recently molded from the Earth’s newly-extruded raw materials.
The Tristan da Cunha group is a relatively recent geologic addition to the Earth’s landmass. Nightingale is the oldest at 18 million years old. Inaccessible Island (second largest in the archipelago) is 2 to 3 million years old and used to be the same size as Tristan. Tristan itself, at roughly 200,000 years old, is the fledgling of the bunch. No sooner had any of these islands emerged from the sea, the sea and rain began to wear them down again. As the ocean batters the coast it undermines the relatively soft rock to create the huge cliffs around Tristan today. Rain falling on the mountain creates deep erosion gullies (gulches) that carry away the volcanic sediment towards the sea. The slower volcanic molten rock cools, the harder it becomes. Molten rock ejected as lava creates soft, easily erodible rock. However, the rock that has cooled and solidified slowly, deep inside the volcano, has become much harder. This rock sometimes stands out in places as rock walls or pinnacles. Tristan’s flanks are festooned with such structures, which sometimes form hanging valleys, and though dry at the time of our visit, support brilliant seasonal waterfalls.
Ashore we were led on a walks of varying difficulty. All began and went through the heart of Edinburgh, the Tristan group’s only settlement situated on a broad fan-like lava flow on the island’s north shore. On the settlement’s eastern flank stand the graves of all the early settlers, which held this part of the world as their final Earthly vision. Beyond lay grassy, rich plains copiously sprinkled with livestock and the unique, simple structures that house them. Beyond, at the base of the great mountain, rises a parasitic cone, source of the Tristan’s last eruption which caused a total evacuation of the island. From the apex of its modest height the long walkers could gaze down at the little village below, one of the most isolated on the planet. This sole outpost of humanity is home to the approximately 260+ residents of the islands, some to whom this lonely outpost of rock was a universe of reality, all they’d ever known and would know. Provinciality runs strong here and parallels the residents’ pride. This they shared with us in no small measure through their hospitality, outward congeniality, and stories. Landing here is no forgone conclusion. Timing and the elements must be in line to grant access to this very exposed island. Forces had been cast in our favor, and we were all the richer for it.
Anticipation can build like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining mass and momentum the steeper the incline and the farther it rolls – or the longer it builds. We had spent the last four days decompressing from our Antarctic experiences, shifting gears, and priming ourselves for a landing at the Tristan da Cunha archipelago, one of the most remote island groups on the globe. During our passage across the South Atlantic a transition was incrementally but noticeably taking place. Air and water temperatures were slowly raising, durations of day and night were equalizing and the map of the celestial sphere was rotating by degrees. Onboard we had reflectively followed suit. Rubber boots and parkas had been relegated to closets and suitcases. We were spending more time outside wearing shorts and sandals. Some of us had actually begun to bask in Ra’s warming rays. The seas were reflecting a clearer, more cobalt hue of blue, and new breeds of avian escorts were now shadowing our vessel’s northeasterly course.
Spectacled, gray, and soft-plumaged petrels; yellow-nose and Tristan albatrosses; broad-billed prions; and great shearwaters were our aerial escorts. They had replaced the pintado petrels, gray-headed and black-browed albatrosses. They were indicators of changing latitude and longitude, signaling a transition to lands beyond. The morning was subtropical with warmth and humidity. A bright red sun, loosely veiled in stratus and cirrus clouds, began to heat a burgeoning blue sky. The temperate seabirds were riding invisible waves of tepid air. We were clearly in a different climate. Change was taking place, and anticipation of new experiences was swelling with it.
On the horizon in the east, backed by a rising tide of light, the volcanic silhouette of Tristan da Cunha broke the horizon with a mighty six-thousand foot, A-frame profile. Behind our vessel, in the ethereal early morning light, Inaccessible and Nightingale Islands stood tall as rugged distant phantoms, their powerful frames, only recently molded from the Earth’s newly-extruded raw materials.
The Tristan da Cunha group is a relatively recent geologic addition to the Earth’s landmass. Nightingale is the oldest at 18 million years old. Inaccessible Island (second largest in the archipelago) is 2 to 3 million years old and used to be the same size as Tristan. Tristan itself, at roughly 200,000 years old, is the fledgling of the bunch. No sooner had any of these islands emerged from the sea, the sea and rain began to wear them down again. As the ocean batters the coast it undermines the relatively soft rock to create the huge cliffs around Tristan today. Rain falling on the mountain creates deep erosion gullies (gulches) that carry away the volcanic sediment towards the sea. The slower volcanic molten rock cools, the harder it becomes. Molten rock ejected as lava creates soft, easily erodible rock. However, the rock that has cooled and solidified slowly, deep inside the volcano, has become much harder. This rock sometimes stands out in places as rock walls or pinnacles. Tristan’s flanks are festooned with such structures, which sometimes form hanging valleys, and though dry at the time of our visit, support brilliant seasonal waterfalls.
Ashore we were led on a walks of varying difficulty. All began and went through the heart of Edinburgh, the Tristan group’s only settlement situated on a broad fan-like lava flow on the island’s north shore. On the settlement’s eastern flank stand the graves of all the early settlers, which held this part of the world as their final Earthly vision. Beyond lay grassy, rich plains copiously sprinkled with livestock and the unique, simple structures that house them. Beyond, at the base of the great mountain, rises a parasitic cone, source of the Tristan’s last eruption which caused a total evacuation of the island. From the apex of its modest height the long walkers could gaze down at the little village below, one of the most isolated on the planet. This sole outpost of humanity is home to the approximately 260+ residents of the islands, some to whom this lonely outpost of rock was a universe of reality, all they’d ever known and would know. Provinciality runs strong here and parallels the residents’ pride. This they shared with us in no small measure through their hospitality, outward congeniality, and stories. Landing here is no forgone conclusion. Timing and the elements must be in line to grant access to this very exposed island. Forces had been cast in our favor, and we were all the richer for it.
