January 8, 2000

In the ice cave near Old Palmer Station. (Photo by Steve Dunbar).

Palmer Station was a hive of activity with cargo and personnel transfer. Steve and I loaded up our zodiac and made for Outcast Islands--windswept skerries at the periphery of our 2-mile boating limit. A science party had gone ashore to do some work and, while they were in the area, we took advantage of the opportunity to do some acoustic soundings nearby--listening for whales and any other passers by. We stopped by the island to check in for safety reasons and Dan "Sparky" Weisblatt told us that they had just spotted a pair of humpbacks making their way north in the direction of Wylie Bay. The swell picked up and we bounced our way into more open water to listen. The waters were quiet, except for distant cracks from calving bergs, a few leopard seal trills and a couple of distant whale sounds.

Popping out of the ice cave. (Photo by Steve Dunbar).

Clusters of icebergs have gathered in the direction of Halfway Island and Dream Island--tall, towering sculptures with deep fractures and craggy peaks. It began to snow and we decided to make for Old Palmer Station--to an ice cave that had been opened for the season several weeks ago. The entrance was a hole in a snowy hillside and a slushy slide into a narrow wedge of space. Overhead, the ice was clear and we could see suspended debris, moraine, gathered in seams nearly two feet from the surface. Bubbles of air were trapped and cracks had formed in random lattices. Light from outside the cave cast shadows of blue and grey. As our eyes became accustomed to a soft, diffuse light more and more details revealed themselves: icicles, slumping slush, what appeared to be minerals leaching or colonies of microbial growth. Water dripped and trickled, rendering flutes and flanges in the ceiling surface. These elements took on the appearance of vaulting. Through a narrow fissure, there was a long chamber, with another entrance further along the hillside. Water had pooled and drops splashed, making indeterminately pitched sounds, variable depending on the depth of a given pool. The reverberation from the ice was fantastic! We made plans to return and make recordings. Steve suggested that we bring ice screws to suspend microphones and cables and that we wear our knee boots. It was hard to judge the depth of the water and whether or not we were dealing with false floors, which could yield to other layers of water and ice. The ice cave was an invitation into another realm, described by eerie light and otherworldly echo.

Lichens and ground cover.

Steve and I wandered around the rise that was Old Palmer, noting foundations and tracks from bulldozers that are the only reminder of human presence: etchings that seem to endure in the mosses and rocks. Brown skuas announced our arrival on the scene by flying over our heads in cautionary sortees; there were nests nearby. They can pack quite a punch but thankfully neither of us got dinged and we were careful to stay clear of their sites. Lichens and mosses proliferate here and the ground lay strewn with shells of sea creatures which had made for tasty treats for the resident seabird population.

Shells left by seabirds.

I received news late last night that my brother-in-law's father, Robert F. Sharpe, Sr., died in Memphis, Tennessee. I thought of Bob today and the 20 years I have known him; of visits, weddings and family reunions, barbecues in the backyard, strumming "Milk Cow Blues" on the guitar, with cicadas rasping in the trees, and marathons of Scrabble that ran well into the night. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Sharpe family at this time.