Godthul, Grytviken
South Georgia is an island oasis, an approximately 100 mile-long, 25 mile-wide arc of rock and ice in the extreme South Atlantic, famous not for the number of species that occur there, but for the sheer numbers of the ones that do. It rivals Africa’s Norongoro Crater and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge as a bastion of untamed wildlife and natural splendor. However, the fact that it is less well known and more difficult to travel to than the other two only adds to its appeal. As a one-of-a-kind calling card for explorers and nature lovers of extreme climes, it has no equivalent on the globe. In the words of Frank S. Todd, one of our great bird biologists, “If God were to take a vacation on Earth, he’d take it on the island of South Georgia.”
From brilliant sunshine to the darkest clouds and dense fog, mirror seas to howling gales, driving snow and pelting rain to warm breezes, we had experienced a kaleidoscope of weather changes in a day and a half. As an introduction to this fabled isle, the spirit of South Georgia had shown us many moods, as dynamic and changeable as a temperamental cat. What face would South Georgia put on next? Would she wake groggily from night with an angry hangover or rise with a sunny disposition?
During the night the National Geographic Explorer came to rest gently at anchor in Godthul, a small bay in the middle of South Georgia’s protected eastern shore. This was a welcome change from the previous evening’s rolling at anchor in St. Andrew’s Bay where the wind and ocean currents were at odds. Morning was overcast yet fractured with streaks of shifting blue. The wind was gentle and the seas calm - for now.
Many of the South Georgia’s valleys are separated from one another by formidable ranges of rock and ice. As a result some of the introduced reindeer herds are isolated, and thus form somewhat distinct populations. Godthul is well known for its prodigious herd, which roams its verdant slopes grazing on the abundant grasses. Above the whaling ruins, crowded with king penguins and young pugnacious fur seals, we could see the herd running with a sense of communal purpose across the lower ridges.
A short climb up a tussock-covered slope on the bay’s southeastern side brought us to a generous plain, a broad cirque in a mountain basin, strewn with metamorphic glacial erratics. These (along with their positions on the ground) are key indicators of the multiple sequences of South Georgia’s geologic past, which have led to its present make-up and topographical form. In the cirque’s greatest depression sat a beautiful tarn, looking for all appearances like a high alpine lake. It is South Georgia’s extreme latitude and rugged topography that lead one to conjure such Tyrolean parallels at low altitudes. On its far shore the reindeer herd grazed with watchful eyes.
Godthul is rimmed by stunning scenery. Jagged mountainous sentinels dusted and creased with fresh-fallen snow, steep tussock slopes, ribbon waterfalls and undulating cascades falling gently to the sea, and thrust-up cliffs of metamorphic rock define the bay’s profile. All of this cradles a protected and intimate harbor ripe for detailed exploration by Zodiac. Penguins, young elephant and fur seals, and a bevy of seabird species peppered the fractured shoreline as we shadowed its edge. Within the shallows, kelp species guarded the shore – thickets of whip-like Durvillea in the high intertidal and mats of Macrocystis anchored to the low.
We beat our boats through the aquatic forest tops scanning the scene. Before long a burst of unusual activity stirred the waters. Closing the gap, it was apparent that a raft of giant petrels was energetically mixing it up on the surface, displaying and fighting over a dead fur seal pup carcass. Others continued to join the fray until the number of birds was too great to count. The table was too small for all the hungry, so the battle for meat raged. This macabre show reinforced the notion that life here hangs on the edge, the strongest survive, and little goes to waste. The fight for food continued as we weighed anchor and sailed to our next destination.
Sir Ernest Shackleton is one of polar exploration’s most notable figures – his name synonymous with daring, leadership, and against-all-odds triumph. We had sailed in his wake across the Scotia Sea to the lonely shores of South Georgia. This afternoon we stood atop his old bones, interred for all time in Grytviken Harbor. A large igneous headstone amid the graves of lesser-known whalers in a small, nondescript, white picket fence-enclosed cemetery was what marked the final resting place of the “Boss.”
Tomorrow, forces of nature willing, we will re-trace Shackleton’s and his two companion’s footsteps from Fortuna Bay to Stromness, the final chapter in one of the heroic age of exploration’s greatest and improbable odysseys. To earn favor with forces greater than ourselves we raised glasses of whiskey and toasted his name. Then our Expedition Leader poured the last drops from his cup upon Sir Earnest’s earthen crypt out of respect and for good fortune – a superstitious gesture perhaps. But from a platform and lifestyle that engenders such a mindset (that of a sailor no stranger to stormy seas), it was only fitting. With the rain falling again, the winds rising, and South Georgia’s moods once again in flux we figured we could use all the help we could get.
South Georgia is an island oasis, an approximately 100 mile-long, 25 mile-wide arc of rock and ice in the extreme South Atlantic, famous not for the number of species that occur there, but for the sheer numbers of the ones that do. It rivals Africa’s Norongoro Crater and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge as a bastion of untamed wildlife and natural splendor. However, the fact that it is less well known and more difficult to travel to than the other two only adds to its appeal. As a one-of-a-kind calling card for explorers and nature lovers of extreme climes, it has no equivalent on the globe. In the words of Frank S. Todd, one of our great bird biologists, “If God were to take a vacation on Earth, he’d take it on the island of South Georgia.”
From brilliant sunshine to the darkest clouds and dense fog, mirror seas to howling gales, driving snow and pelting rain to warm breezes, we had experienced a kaleidoscope of weather changes in a day and a half. As an introduction to this fabled isle, the spirit of South Georgia had shown us many moods, as dynamic and changeable as a temperamental cat. What face would South Georgia put on next? Would she wake groggily from night with an angry hangover or rise with a sunny disposition?
During the night the National Geographic Explorer came to rest gently at anchor in Godthul, a small bay in the middle of South Georgia’s protected eastern shore. This was a welcome change from the previous evening’s rolling at anchor in St. Andrew’s Bay where the wind and ocean currents were at odds. Morning was overcast yet fractured with streaks of shifting blue. The wind was gentle and the seas calm - for now.
Many of the South Georgia’s valleys are separated from one another by formidable ranges of rock and ice. As a result some of the introduced reindeer herds are isolated, and thus form somewhat distinct populations. Godthul is well known for its prodigious herd, which roams its verdant slopes grazing on the abundant grasses. Above the whaling ruins, crowded with king penguins and young pugnacious fur seals, we could see the herd running with a sense of communal purpose across the lower ridges.
A short climb up a tussock-covered slope on the bay’s southeastern side brought us to a generous plain, a broad cirque in a mountain basin, strewn with metamorphic glacial erratics. These (along with their positions on the ground) are key indicators of the multiple sequences of South Georgia’s geologic past, which have led to its present make-up and topographical form. In the cirque’s greatest depression sat a beautiful tarn, looking for all appearances like a high alpine lake. It is South Georgia’s extreme latitude and rugged topography that lead one to conjure such Tyrolean parallels at low altitudes. On its far shore the reindeer herd grazed with watchful eyes.
Godthul is rimmed by stunning scenery. Jagged mountainous sentinels dusted and creased with fresh-fallen snow, steep tussock slopes, ribbon waterfalls and undulating cascades falling gently to the sea, and thrust-up cliffs of metamorphic rock define the bay’s profile. All of this cradles a protected and intimate harbor ripe for detailed exploration by Zodiac. Penguins, young elephant and fur seals, and a bevy of seabird species peppered the fractured shoreline as we shadowed its edge. Within the shallows, kelp species guarded the shore – thickets of whip-like Durvillea in the high intertidal and mats of Macrocystis anchored to the low.
We beat our boats through the aquatic forest tops scanning the scene. Before long a burst of unusual activity stirred the waters. Closing the gap, it was apparent that a raft of giant petrels was energetically mixing it up on the surface, displaying and fighting over a dead fur seal pup carcass. Others continued to join the fray until the number of birds was too great to count. The table was too small for all the hungry, so the battle for meat raged. This macabre show reinforced the notion that life here hangs on the edge, the strongest survive, and little goes to waste. The fight for food continued as we weighed anchor and sailed to our next destination.
Sir Ernest Shackleton is one of polar exploration’s most notable figures – his name synonymous with daring, leadership, and against-all-odds triumph. We had sailed in his wake across the Scotia Sea to the lonely shores of South Georgia. This afternoon we stood atop his old bones, interred for all time in Grytviken Harbor. A large igneous headstone amid the graves of lesser-known whalers in a small, nondescript, white picket fence-enclosed cemetery was what marked the final resting place of the “Boss.”
Tomorrow, forces of nature willing, we will re-trace Shackleton’s and his two companion’s footsteps from Fortuna Bay to Stromness, the final chapter in one of the heroic age of exploration’s greatest and improbable odysseys. To earn favor with forces greater than ourselves we raised glasses of whiskey and toasted his name. Then our Expedition Leader poured the last drops from his cup upon Sir Earnest’s earthen crypt out of respect and for good fortune – a superstitious gesture perhaps. But from a platform and lifestyle that engenders such a mindset (that of a sailor no stranger to stormy seas), it was only fitting. With the rain falling again, the winds rising, and South Georgia’s moods once again in flux we figured we could use all the help we could get.
