January 14, 2000

Recording in the ice cave at Old Palmer. (Photo by Steve Dunbar).

Last night in the hut I heard a few distant crashes of calving. The brash ice has become quite dense in Arthur Harbor with all the glacial activity: shoaling, drifting and curling in an endless cycling of tides, swell and currents. The New York Times crossword puzzle occupied much of the morning for me. We also had a science meeting followed by our redeployment meeting. It is hard to believe that we head back in a few weeks. Steve is planning to spend a month hiking and climbing in Patagonia. I'll head home to Petaluma, California to look for work.

We decided to wait until after lunch before heading out. The wind was pretty calm--however, still coming out of the the south and west. The reason that this poses a challenge is that we stand a possibility of getting iced in while we are out traipsing about one of the islands. Not a good prospect... We have grown accustomed to having our daily schedule dictated by the weather. Always interesting, but it beats a 9 to 5 timetable any day!

Icicles and light in the ice cave.

The folks on Station were preparing for another cruise ship visit. The Russian vessel, Professor Multanovskiy, was due to arrive in the afternoon with 48 passengers. Steve went up the the GWR building, which houses our dormitory and climbed up to the roof to survey the extent of the pack ice. We were toying with the idea of recording Antarctic terns around the far side of Bonaparte Point. A large iceberg stood in the way, and the wind seemed to be stronger on this exposed coast. So, we opted to make our way back to Old Palmer to record in the ice cave. Donna Patterson, who was planning to visit her giant petrels on nearby Humble Island, mentioned that, "there is a club of skuas who hang out in the lake, as you head over the rise to Loudwater Cove." Sounded like a good plan.

Steve got the boat ready and the necessary gear for recording in the ice cave. Last week, there was a lot of water and the integrity of the floor was dubious. We brought knee boots, ice screws, plastic bags and towels. Steve also had the foresight to bring a small crate to put the recording gear on. I got the rest of the microphones and cables together. We puttered through the brash in Hero Inlet and set an intercept course for the Professor Multanovskiy, which was steaming to Palmer through the narrow channel between Janus Island, DeLacca Island and neighbouring Litchfield Island. We passed the ship in a good swell, gave them a wave, and swung around the backside of Torgersen Island and on to Old Palmer.

Steve Dunbar in the ice cave at Old Palmer.

The day was shaping up nicely with low wind and the sun peeking through a tumbling sky. The light in the ice cave is beautiful--diffuse in a soft modulation that casts the ice in a creamy white, blue, yellow and greenish glow. The intensity and hue constantly changes above our heads according to the cloud cover outside. The reverberation throws all sound into a high relief: a polyrhythmic, percussive patter of melting ice! The cave has changed since our visit last week. The floor is solid ice and the rivulets of water have stemmed to trickles. There are large crystals on the lower parts of the walls and on rocks that seem like little islands. They shimmer like mica as they catch the light: large snowflake and star shapes that hang in constellations, or clusters, and balance by a thread of ice. Occasionally, they fall and shatter in shards, like glass. We set up the microphones and leave for a half hour. It is so quiet that the slightest rub of fabric or breathing seems to be amplified.

Ice crystals.

With the tape rolling, Steve and I scout out the skua "club" up the hill. I am wary of these birds. They are large and fairly intolerant. While at Cape Bird several years ago, I had to run a gauntlet of nesting skuas to get to an Adelie penguin rookery. They can fly at a fair clip and will swoop right down and smack you in the head with considerable force. I have heard of people being knocked senseless. They are also very bold. Steve tells the story of coming out of the galley at McMurdo Station a few years ago, holding a bagel in his teeth while he zipped up his jacket. A skua flew at him--got in his face, as it were--and took the bagel right out of his mouth! We made our way along the edge of the snow. As we got to the rise, several birds took notice and headed in our direction. Sorties passed overhead, some within a few feet of our heads--just checking us out. The landscape in this area looks like the moon--glacial moraine, dusty and muddy. A group of several dozen birds lay resting on the gound, enjoying the sun. Another 30-40 bathed in the lake beyond. The water was shared with a flock of kelp gulls.

The lake, with brown skuas gathered along the shore, near the ice cave at Old Palmer.

We found a couple of sheltered spots for the microphones, little coves that faced the water and the terminus of the neighbourhood glacier. The skuas and gulls called and splashed in the water--their sounds reverberating off the ice and the surrounding rocks. It was a wonderful place to listen! After about half an hour, Steve and I went back to the ice cave. We had noticed that the echo sounded different in various places. There was a long reverbration time along the main corridor and a several sweet spots, where the walls were in such a relationship that they produced a flutter echo--a series of short reflections that seemed to bounce back and forth into a hum. Luckily, the crate that Steve had chosen to bring for our work was an unfinished speaker cabinet, made of plywood and particle board. It had two holes: one large and one small--a perfect drum, with different pitched areas depending on how hard and where one hit. I jammed for about an hour, trying different sounds and rhythms--playing to the echo! This would be a great hall for a concert. I thought of my friend, David Rothenberg, who is a clarinetist and very fond of reverb. He would love this place...

Skuas fly overhead. It is hard to get a sense from this photo, but the bird was only a few feet above me.

We then packed up and chatted briefly with some scientists and folks from Station who were passing through and checking on some equipment in the area. Settling in near the shore of the lake, we quickly set up and retreated up the hill some 50 metres to listen and watch as skuas and gulls came and bathed--announcing themselves with great fanfare. Skuas face off with wings spread and call to one another, throwing their heads back with mouths agape. They took some interest in the microphone, particularly the Rycote wind screen--which resembles a very fuzzy penguin chick (or a caricature of boxing promoter, Don King). There were many curious flybys, but none of the birds tried to drag it off, as one had attempted a few weeks ago at Torgersen. Steve thought to anchor the cables, just in case. In the stillness, we could hear wingbeats and edge tones from the air passing over feathers as the birds shot past.

Click here to listen to an MP3 sample of brown skuas bathing and calling in a glacial lake.