Ice, ice, baby... (1) The highlights

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Antarctica. The windiest, coldest, highest, driest continent on this planet. The amorphous and largely-ignored white bit at the bottom of the map. The last place on Earth to be conquered by man. The obsession of near-legendary explorers such as Scott, Shackleton, Mawson, Byrd and Amundsen, and the death of many who sought to push the boundaries of man’s survival. A land of 24-hour daylight in summer and incomprehensible endless night in winter. Penguins, seals, whales. And all a very, very long way away.

This was always going to be totally different to any other travelling I’ve ever done: long periods at sea, freezing temperatures and an itinerary that was, at best, aspirational and, at worst, quite likely to be rendered fictitious. 160 people - passengers, staff and crew - joined an ice-strengthened Russian vessel in Bluff, Invercargill, and set off in a southerly direction. What happened next and when would be entirely in the hands of the weather gods…

It became a truly incredible trip. The gods certainly threw us some challenges: head winds whipping up waves that broke over the bridge five decks above the ship’s waterline, seemingly-endless pack ice at the entrance to the Ross Sea, blizzards on the mountain above Cape Adare cutting short helicopter flights, refreezing icebreaker-smashed ice in McMurdo Sound prompting fleeting thoughts about wintering at the US base nearby, and a “pea-souper” fog at Macquarie Island necessitating the ship’s radar and GPS systems being used to guide Zodiacs back to the ship… to name but a few. But that’s all par for the course for a trip South. What makes these trips so special is the moments in between, when the seas calm, when the ice lets you through, when the albatross soar, when a dorsal fin breaks the surface, when the whole world is the chatter of penguins, the “singing” of a Weddell seal, or the creak of a glacier.

When a hike in the hills of Campbell Island takes you to a lively colony of southern royal albatross, clacking and parading in preparation for the next year’s breeding season and, at the top of the path, a youngster sits in the grass only feet away trying very hard to pretend you’re not there.

When you set foot on Antarctica for the first time, to be greeted by a welcoming crowd of Adélie penguins, shuffling and tummy-skating busily around you, everyone watched ominously by the continent’s Gestapo, the ever-present skuas.

When the captain rams the ship firmly into a vast floe of sea ice, allowing you to walk down the gangway and straight out onto the ice, there to wander freely, stretching ship-cramped limbs, consorting with seals and penguins, grappling with the incredible beauty and remoteness of your surroundings.

When the whirl of the helicopter dies away, leaving you to drink in the atmosphere of the not-so-barren Dry Valleys, the nearby glaciers and the frozen lakes, magical and timeless in the glorious late afternoon light.

When a pair of minke whales surface repeatedly to blow noisily before swimming towards you, and diving, at the last possible minute, below the sea ice on which you are standing, their “bow wave” washing over the lip of the floe.

When a large pod of orca spend the afternoon trawling the edge of the channel in which the ship is now stationery, and a lone seal stays well away, sunbathing and “singing” on the pack ice.

When your senses and emotions are assaulted by relics and reminders of the great explorers of this continent: from huts built and occupied, on the cusp of survival, by the likes of Borchgrevink, Shackleton and Scott, to the minutiae which still litter them as if the occupants have only stepped out for a while, such as Teddy Evans’ name-taped socks, provision tins labelled with still-known manufacturers’ names, snow-covered wooden kennels for husky puppies, and the still-present smell of horses.

When king penguins stomp over to check out the latest arrivals on their beach, approaching fearlessly, staring curiously, pecking at knees and bags if the chance arises. Who’s watching whom?

When a curious rumbling from the tussocks is not your neighbour’s hunger pangs but passing comment on life by a grumpy, moulting elephant seal.

This blog was always going to be hard to write. How to put into words the magic and sensations of such an extraordinary place upon which, after all, we only actually set foot for a few hours, the intensity of our experiences completely out of proportion with the time spent there. It is tempting to let the photographs tell their own story... but that would be a cop-out. I’ll do my best, but will split my story over a number of blogs to ease digestion…

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Photos

nosy
king penguins on Macquarie Island

edge of the glacier
Canada Glacier, Taylor Valley in Antarctica's "dry valleys"

walking out onto the ice
Terra Nova Bay, near the Campbell Glacier ice tongue

hitting the big one
sailing into a head wind on the Ross Sea

cracks in the ice
frozen lake in Taylor Valley, one of Antarctica's "dry valleys"

waiting for the next meal
skuas and Adelie penguins at Cape Adare

what's everyone looking at?
king penguin and Aurora folks on Macquarie Island

Comments

[Rosalind]

A very different desert
Wow Elizabeth, this is a trip I would love to take, and a far cry from our Namibian elephants! Thanks for sharing it, I look forward to further glimpses. And congratulations on managing to keep travelling all this time

[Kari12]

Beautifully, beautifully said... There is never a way to explain all that simply stepping on the continent does to you. It is something that you will have for the rest of your life, a yearning to return and recapture it all