Charcot Bay, Mikkelsen Harbor
From 1903-05 and then again from 1908-10 Jean-Baptiste Charcot, the great French explorer, plied the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula aboard his vessels the Francais and then the Porquois Pas? respectively. His missions were focused on conducting scientific investigations and charting coastlines and islands. Though difficult and challenging expeditions, they were roundly successful in terms of achievement. The scientific knowledge garnered filled volumes, and the detailed maps he created were still being used over a quarter of a century later, by whalers profiteering in Antarctica’s cetacean-rich waters.
Our first introduction to the great white continent came via the south Shetland Island Group the previous day. This morning we awoke to the sublime yet cloud-shrouded scenery of the Trinity Peninsula, northernmost stretch of the continent itself. Our day’s first destination was an inspired choice – a small dent on the peninsula’s northern coast - Charcot Bay (named after France’s greatest polar explorer) within which sits a place called Lindblad Cove. This place was named in 1995 in commemoration of Lars-Eric Lindblad (1927-1994), a pioneer of Antarctic expedition cruises. A noted conservationist, Mr. Lindblad operated the first cruise to Antarctica in 1966 and was a leader in the concept of expedition travel as a means of environmental awareness. Guests who don the official Lindblad colors today keep his pioneering spirit alive.
The waters were a millpond within an absolutely still and heavy, cold-laden air. Low clouds and mist statically hung from the heights like smoke. Ice falls and glaciers spilled from jagged sentinels girdling the entire inset coastline. The bay’s waters were practically choked with various subtly-shifting forms of ice. Bergy bits and growlers, small rafts of frozen sea ice, chunks of brash, and even some towering icy cathedrals graced the liquid stage, which had the sheen and color of mercury in the translucent early light. Onto this setting we dropped and then fanned out aboard the Zodiacs along individual paths of discovery.
Charcot Bay was teeming with a variety of frenetic Antarctic fauna. Scores of Wilson’s storm-petrels, kelp gulls, brown skuas, Antarctic terns, southern fulmars, and southern giant petrels flew purposefully around the low skies, often dipping to or skimming the waters to feed. They occasionally alighted on the surface or sat contentedly on the ice for a brief spell before once more taking to the wing.
Leopard seals, as well, had gathered individually on separate ice floes by the dozens – an almost unheard of sight within the expedition cruise industry. What could have brought such numbers to these parts? What quirk of nature could have marshaled such activity? A look below revealed all. Even with just a cursory glance the answer was obvious and clearly visible through the crystal waters. Charcot Bay was positively alive with the Antarctic krill species Euphausia Superba. The krill are after the phytoplankton on which they feed, the absolute foundation of the Antarctic food chain, the small crustacean upon which Antarctica’s trophic pyramid is richly (but delicately) balanced.
With afternoon came a visit to Mikkelsen Harbor, another carved out corner of one of the northern peninsula’s principle ice-covered bodies, Trinity Island. A small islet nestled within the icy embrace of Trinity’s south coast once served as a flensing platform for whaling enterprises of a century before. It is now home to a small colony of gentoo penguins. The vestiges of this historically thriving industry littered our landing site. Piles of whale bones and the slowly decaying skeletons of old dories were all that were left to tell the tale. But written within the lost and forgotten byproducts of the whalers former exploits were pieces of the picture never taken, aspects of the story not written.
Forensic details of what and who, coupled with a working knowledge of the realm’s natural and whaling history, could be deduced upon closer inspection of the remains. The bones were large, and some of the vertebrae showed signs of physiological fusion (osteophytes) – generally a sign of pathology in vertebrates. These were probably the bones of old finback and blue whales. One could take some solace in the notion that perhaps their violent endings were marked by the cessation of a certain suffering. The dories were of a construction and design popular with Norwegian whalers approximately one-hundred years ago.
A light and fluffy snow fell gently on all that remained of that bygone era, tempering the scene and partially covering the signature of slaughter with white brush strokes of change and renewal. Though the pattern of biological decay and recycling is brought to a crawl here by extreme temperatures, a look back at the gentoos with their tiny chicks, juxtaposed against the slowly-decomposing remains of dead and forgotten giants, spoke to any intuitive mind of the ever-spinning cycle of life and death on the frozen continent, and the role that humans played in it.
From 1903-05 and then again from 1908-10 Jean-Baptiste Charcot, the great French explorer, plied the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula aboard his vessels the Francais and then the Porquois Pas? respectively. His missions were focused on conducting scientific investigations and charting coastlines and islands. Though difficult and challenging expeditions, they were roundly successful in terms of achievement. The scientific knowledge garnered filled volumes, and the detailed maps he created were still being used over a quarter of a century later, by whalers profiteering in Antarctica’s cetacean-rich waters.
Our first introduction to the great white continent came via the south Shetland Island Group the previous day. This morning we awoke to the sublime yet cloud-shrouded scenery of the Trinity Peninsula, northernmost stretch of the continent itself. Our day’s first destination was an inspired choice – a small dent on the peninsula’s northern coast - Charcot Bay (named after France’s greatest polar explorer) within which sits a place called Lindblad Cove. This place was named in 1995 in commemoration of Lars-Eric Lindblad (1927-1994), a pioneer of Antarctic expedition cruises. A noted conservationist, Mr. Lindblad operated the first cruise to Antarctica in 1966 and was a leader in the concept of expedition travel as a means of environmental awareness. Guests who don the official Lindblad colors today keep his pioneering spirit alive.
The waters were a millpond within an absolutely still and heavy, cold-laden air. Low clouds and mist statically hung from the heights like smoke. Ice falls and glaciers spilled from jagged sentinels girdling the entire inset coastline. The bay’s waters were practically choked with various subtly-shifting forms of ice. Bergy bits and growlers, small rafts of frozen sea ice, chunks of brash, and even some towering icy cathedrals graced the liquid stage, which had the sheen and color of mercury in the translucent early light. Onto this setting we dropped and then fanned out aboard the Zodiacs along individual paths of discovery.
Charcot Bay was teeming with a variety of frenetic Antarctic fauna. Scores of Wilson’s storm-petrels, kelp gulls, brown skuas, Antarctic terns, southern fulmars, and southern giant petrels flew purposefully around the low skies, often dipping to or skimming the waters to feed. They occasionally alighted on the surface or sat contentedly on the ice for a brief spell before once more taking to the wing.
Leopard seals, as well, had gathered individually on separate ice floes by the dozens – an almost unheard of sight within the expedition cruise industry. What could have brought such numbers to these parts? What quirk of nature could have marshaled such activity? A look below revealed all. Even with just a cursory glance the answer was obvious and clearly visible through the crystal waters. Charcot Bay was positively alive with the Antarctic krill species Euphausia Superba. The krill are after the phytoplankton on which they feed, the absolute foundation of the Antarctic food chain, the small crustacean upon which Antarctica’s trophic pyramid is richly (but delicately) balanced.
With afternoon came a visit to Mikkelsen Harbor, another carved out corner of one of the northern peninsula’s principle ice-covered bodies, Trinity Island. A small islet nestled within the icy embrace of Trinity’s south coast once served as a flensing platform for whaling enterprises of a century before. It is now home to a small colony of gentoo penguins. The vestiges of this historically thriving industry littered our landing site. Piles of whale bones and the slowly decaying skeletons of old dories were all that were left to tell the tale. But written within the lost and forgotten byproducts of the whalers former exploits were pieces of the picture never taken, aspects of the story not written.
Forensic details of what and who, coupled with a working knowledge of the realm’s natural and whaling history, could be deduced upon closer inspection of the remains. The bones were large, and some of the vertebrae showed signs of physiological fusion (osteophytes) – generally a sign of pathology in vertebrates. These were probably the bones of old finback and blue whales. One could take some solace in the notion that perhaps their violent endings were marked by the cessation of a certain suffering. The dories were of a construction and design popular with Norwegian whalers approximately one-hundred years ago.
A light and fluffy snow fell gently on all that remained of that bygone era, tempering the scene and partially covering the signature of slaughter with white brush strokes of change and renewal. Though the pattern of biological decay and recycling is brought to a crawl here by extreme temperatures, a look back at the gentoos with their tiny chicks, juxtaposed against the slowly-decomposing remains of dead and forgotten giants, spoke to any intuitive mind of the ever-spinning cycle of life and death on the frozen continent, and the role that humans played in it.
