Cuverville

In early 1898, Adrien de Gerlache plied the waters between Anvers and Brabant Islands and the Antarctic Peninsula in his ship the Belgica, a stretch of sea that now bears his name. Aboard his vessel was Roald Amundsen (first to the South Pole), a veteran of extreme expeditions in the far north, on his first expedition to the Antarctic; Dr. Frederick A. Cook, later of North Pole fame, was also a member of the crew. The Belgica expedition was a tale of madness, death, and ultimately, heroism – the perfect recipe for a gripping southern yarn.

Aboard the National Geographic Explorer, we harbored no inclinations to contribute to the annals of southern expedition lore in the vein of de Gerlache and his compatriots. However, the historical significance of such trials could not be overlooked, for it was in their wake we now sailed. The men of that bizarre sojourn had paved the way for future enterprises around the great white continent. In recognition of their efforts de Gerlache himself would be the first to hallow the names of those that died by crowning islands in their honor. Later generations of map makers and international decision-making bodies would reaffirm said designations by officially placing their names on nautical charts and topographic maps, helping to guide future explorers.

During the night we had crossed the Bransfield Strait from Deception Island in the South Shetlands and entered the Gerlache Strait, a body of water Adrien de Gerlache had sailed more than a century before. The day dawned cool and gray. The early morning weather was thick with gloom; fog and heavy, dark clouds hung in the still air. A light snow was falling. Rocky, ice-covered sentinels rose on both sides of our ship, their shapes ethereal and shifting in the reduced, almost translucent visibility, their features revealed only upon closing proximity. Icebergs of all shapes loomed around us. The weather’s tone elicited empathy for the early explorers who had daringly sailed these waters under similar conditions in much cruder crafts.

Shortly after breakfast the National Geographic Explorer found herself drifting off the west side of Cuverville, a relatively small, rocky, snow-covered plug of an island situated at the mouth of the Errera Channel. Had men from de Gerlache’s expedition laid eyes upon this hunk of rock? Almost certainly. Had they landed and climbed to the top perhaps looking to gain a greater perspective on the waterways that surround it? Unlikely, but maybe. As they were in virtually uncharted waters, a view from the top would have added much to their topographical knowledge. There exists, however, no such known accounts by those who were aboard, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t take place. Gazing at Cuverville it would be easy to surmise as much, as the island affords some of the only reasonable climbing in the area. All around it are (on Ronge Island and the Peninsula) ice cliffs, heavily crevassed glaciers, and sharp peaks, studies in difficult and dangerous mountaineering. Cuverville’s rounded slopes and comparatively gentle grade beckon to be hiked.

It would be up to each of us to decide what to do ashore. The island boasts a couple sizeable groups of gentoo penguins, whose chicks, by and large, had only recently hatched. Compared to gentoos on other islands this colony was collectively behind in the breeding cycle. Discerning why was a matter of conjecture, but an assessment of the island and its features revealed certain clues. The island is coifed by a permanent snow cap and its flanks hold more snow than previously visited locations. Penguins, for obvious reasons, cannot lay and incubate eggs on snow. Perhaps the island’s penguin breeding sites became snow-free later in the season, causing a delay in the birds’ reproductive cycle. A reasonable supposition.

A hike (or climb more likely) to the top of the island revealed strength of character and determination, as well as stunning views of the surrounding terrain. The hike began mildly enough over angular rocks on a low-grade slope generously festooned with breeding penguins and nesting skuas. The rocks then gave way to a broad snow field approximately one third of the way to the top. Across this frozen expanse the grade rose gently towards the island’s southern flank. About a hundred meters up the flank the grade increased to the point where hands would have been required for a straight summit shot. At this juncture a short traverse across the rising snow slope was necessary to get through a small gap in the rocks near the flank’s eastern shoulder. This was the only reasonable alternative path to the summit cap. With less or no snow the path would have been virtually non-negotiable without climbing gear or undue risk-taking, as the rocks were steep. The snow gave us freedom to beat a level, albeit narrow, pathway. Above the gap we broke new ground. The grade to the summit above the gap was probably the hike’s steepest section; it required deliberate hiking in a switch-back fashion. The snow up here was hardened by the chilling winds. Each step was an effort, requiring us to break the icy crust to establish a firm purchase. But slowly, step by step, we made way over the leveling cap and eventually to the top. Atop the island we could soak in the views, and for a brief spell revel in the glory of accomplishment. With more inclement weather moving in from the west, bringing with it snow flurries and increasing winds, it was time to move on - first down the mountain sledding on our bums and trudging on foot and then southwards aboard our ship.

Though our visibility had reduced further in the last hour or so it was our time to sail through the Lemaire Channel, one of the most photographed locations in the Antarctic Peninsula and affectionately called the ‘Kodak Gap’ or ‘Fuji Funnel’ and more recently, the ‘Pixel Passage’. Though the tops of this narrow waterway’s rugged ramparts were obscured by clouds, there was still enough visibility to allow for a sense of the channels’ constricted and dramatic profile. Ice and snow clung to very steep black rock at impossible angles, and spilled to the deep, liquid-black waters below - a cold and dramatic sight.

Emerging from the southern end of the Lemaire throat we sailed on a bit and then drifted off Petermann Island, a rocky outpost and home to breeding gentoo and adelie penguins. While a safe haven for nesting birds it is also an island of significant historical importance - Jean-Baptiste Charcot overwintered here aboard the Porquois-Pas? on his second expedition to the Antarctic almost exactly a century before us. The charming but flightless breeding birds here were clearly further along in the breeding cycle than those at Cuverville Island. And there was less snow on Petermann. Perhaps there is a correlation. Such observations leave us all food for thought, and stimulate our urge to understand more deeply the cycles of fickle weather in the Antarctic and its impact on the life and death of all who dwell here.

Under a brooding sky, thick with deteriorating weather, and a gathering western darkness we continued to sail farther south.