Day 5 – Thursday, January 20
There are days, and then there are DAYS. They let us sleep until 7 A.M. today. When we got the captain’s wakeup call, our surroundings had completely transformed. The fog had lifted. There was not a cloud in the sky. The light was the clearest, most direct, most translucent that I have ever seen. Entire mountain ranges it seemed, both towered over us and continued without repetition in their pristine uniqueness as we glided down the passage toward the Antarctic Peninsula. Before we are even ready, mouths open and nobody interested in eating, we have stopped at Cuverville Island. The place is home to a large Gentoo Penguin colony. But the views which surround us, are stunning. There is every imaginable form of blue and green and white ice and snow, combined with rock, and visible miles away as if it were placed yards from our skiff. We get perfect symmetrical reflections off the water, from the barely disturbed passage. The bay is like glass. A brisk hike to the top of a lookout post, lands us in the middle of a large nest of penguins. Many of them have newborn chicks, and some eggs yet unhatched are evident. At this precise time, my camera battery gives out. The Expedition staff, is kind enough to give me a solo Zodiac ride back to the ship to retrieve my battery. When I return, we are given a 45 minute tour by Zodiac of the bay. The weather is so warm I am dressed only in lightweight pants and a T-shirt. At this time we see Crab Eater seals, much more polite and less offensive as well than the elephant seals from yesterday. We also get a chance to witness two situations in which the glaciers which empty into the bay, calve off sections probably 75 to 100 feet high. They send waves out into the bay, just as I am re-entering the Polar Star. I am literally shoved aboard, as the Zodiac must avoid an oncoming wave from the tons of ice suddenly dumped into the bay. The inflatable takes off, to crest out the expected ride, while I watch a series of expanding wave ripples and newly created ice floes expand toward us a quarter mile away.
Lunch is served. It is an afterthought. Nobody really cares (and the food here is outstanding – you will not lose weight, despite the weather and the usual cold). In the afternoon, we are dropped at Paradise Bay. Our first steps on Antarctica proper! In stages, we take a 45 minute tour of the bay, again witnessing a glacier calving event, and additional beautiful Crab Eater Seals. Mountains with too many intersecting glaciers to count, rise above us to probably 6000 feet or so. The glaciers stop at the waterline (meaning their foundation is on rock) and do not extend into the bay. It is probably 200 feet from waterline to the glacier surface. Many of the crazily jumbled sections overhang the water, and are seriously undercut by tide and current, so that you speculate just how long it will be before they unavoidably crash into the sea.
Soon thereafter we are landed at Almirante Brown. An Argentinian “scientific” station named after the father of the Argentinian navy. Not that a lot of scientific work is done there. The Argentines can’t afford it. The station exists more, for claims to Antarctica for a later date mid-century when current treaties prohibiting ownership of land and claims to the continent run out. It has several radio towers, about six red buildings (largely staffed by maintenance crews), and a back bay. Most importantly, it has a summit observation post which towers above it. And below that, the perfect steep but safe slope for sliding on our GoreTex the fifty to sixty yards down to a soft landing. Many pay homage to visiting the summit, supposedly for the view. But in reality, they want the shortcut down. And this applies to all. Six to sixty. Athletic and dormant. Room 330 appears to have weird science attached to it, as my roommate Adam and I make the climb and the slushy thrill ride four times. I am so enthralled with this childlike activity, that I forget to put on sunscreen and my face gets turned into a tomato by the time we are back at the boat.
Tonight, after dinner, no further landings. We just enjoy the Lemaire Channel, between the Antarctic Peninsula itself and Booth Island. Numerous rumors of Orca Whales abound, and one picture is actually obtained of what could be loosely construed as a dorsal fin, but I think it was primarily initiated by the Expedition staff to keep us running from one end of the ship to the other in order to drive up thirst for Happy Hour. And to keep us from asking questions about the expected storm for our return journey to Ushuaia, still four days away. And to keep us active, and alert, since tonight we will definitely get midnight sun, given the brilliance of the weather. How can they continue to top this?
Top it they do. Mother Nature, anyway. We pass through the Lemaire Channel, about 11 kilometers long, and so narrow it feels like you are cruising down 5th Ave in New York. The towering mountains astride our course cast shadows across both port and starboard sides of the ship. It is like being the celebrant in a ticker tape parade, without the confetti. The sun begins to go down on horizon’s edge at our bow. Ridgelines begin to appear in double and triplicate and continue to multiply as the light dims, each in a deepening shade of gentian purple, and the sky takes on a rose colored tint all its own. Everywhere, icebergs of all sizes and fantastical delicate crystal-like shapes reflect about five different colors of light. The huge orange ball finally dips below the horizon. The light barely changes, as we have had perfect weather all day. And just about this time, we discover there is a full moon at our stern. Perhaps ten of us, sprint back and forth across the wheelhouse (the Polar Star has an open bridge policy), photographing the descending sun and then the moon. We try desperately to somehow see both at once, maneuvering for just the perfect shot. We fail. But on this occasion, we have truly won the Daily Double anyway.
Most stay up past twelve, to see the midnight sun and compare experiences. Simon, Marco and I again close out the evening and are last out of the ship’s bar at 2 AM. The light in the sky has not changed at all. We try and fail to stay awake for the return of the sun about 3:17 AM. Slackers all …
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