Antarctica: Frozen in Time

At sea to Antarctica

A once-in-a-lifetime trip for most, Roderick Eime remembers his time among the icebergs as if it were yesterday.

Like the bristly tail of some giant, prehistoric sea creature, the Antarctic Peninsula thrusts out past the Antarctic Circle, lunging vainly toward its sibling, the Andes, across the infamous Drake Passage. As far as the Antarctic is concerned, the peninsula is the most densely populated location on the continent, sprinkled with international research bases and minute outposts alike. At the height of the summer season, the human population numbers over 3,000 – not counting tourists. That figure shrinks to less than 1,000 during the intensely chilly winter.

I’m standing on the bow of a modern ice vessel watching hefty chunks of disintegrating pack ice thud against the hull as we pick our way gingerly through a narrow channel. Lonely groups of Adélie Penguins watch curiously as we inch past, while in the distance, a lone Leopard Seal dives for cover under the flow.

Having already penetrated the snoozing caldera of Deception Island where we revelled in the novel sensation of swimming in the only warm patch of water in the whole Antarctic, our captain prepares to make the delicate entry into the ever-diminishing confines of the the Palmer Archipelago.

During the pre-dawn, we enter the relatively broad expanse of the Gerlache Strait and well before the first smell of morning coffee wafts up from the galley, we’re all perched around the bow, goggle eyed, as the snow-splattered peaks embracing the Lemaire Channel loom above us. This is the sort of vision that lasts to the grave – a manic chequerboard of ice chunks, too small to be called ‘bergs’ are arrayed out before us. Now at a virtual crawl, the ‘bergy-bits’ are gently nudged aside, the ice-strengthened steel bow ushering them delicately around the hull amid muffled, squeaking protests.

After a reinforcing breakfast we reach Petermann Island, where a very basic survival hut erected by the Argentines in 1955 provides essential food, shelter and magazines for marooned explorers – handy to know if I miss the last zodiac home. A cross erected nearby bears witness to those who didn’t make it. Apart from the curious hut, the little outpost plays host to the southernmost flock of breeding Gentoo Penguins while Sheathbills, Shags and the ever-opportunistic Skuas patrol nearby.

Next; some leisurely Zodiac cruising among the grounded icebergs off Pleneau Island. Seasoned by a stiff, sleety breeze, the scene is like a frozen graveyard – these doomed bergs aren’t going anywhere. Arranged in random assortments, these guys are gathered here from all around the peninsula, their normal migration halted permanently by the shallow harbour. No two even vaguely alike, the forlorn sculpted slabs still exhibit a marvellous range of intense blue dictated by varying oxygen density. Our passage is often slowed by a thickening, smoky pane of ice forming before us and we are forced to bash our way through with oars as the lightweight inflatable displays its total lack of ice-breaking ability. Heads turn as a timid female Leopard seal and pup suddenly appears and just as mysteriously disappears among the frosted icescape – a rare sight even for experienced expeditioners.

Port Lockroy, British Antarctic Territory

Next port of call is the refurbished, Port Lockroy on tiny Goudier Island. Abandoned by the British Antarctic Survey in 1962, the cute, heritage listed hut is now chock full of artefacts from the mid 20th century’s Antarctic expeditions. A radio room, a galley and a working post office where you can send a genuine Antarctic postcard and get your passport stamped. Caretakers, Dave and Nigel cheerfully answer questions while dispensing stamps and souvenirs at the most visited place on the peninsula.

At the Chilean mainland base of Gonzales Videla at Waterboat Point, where we set foot on Antarctica proper. So named because two typically foolhardy Englishmen wintered there in 1921-22 in an abandoned Whaler’s boat. The boat itself, oozing history, was burnt by the Chileans as junk. The guano-coated base is completely overrun by incontinent Gentoo Penguins, all fiercely protected by the dozen or so military personnel who are quick to interdict if wandering visitors stray too close.

We salute the Chilean flag that flies above the ashes of the original water boat as we sail into the aptly named Paradise Bay – the epitome of classic Antarctic Peninsula scenery. Deceptively tranquil waterways dotted with ice cakes and framed by snow-dusted cliffs, completely silent except for the occasional screech of a wheeling seabird.

I believe we all posses a photographic memory and when I close my eyes and recall these evocative vistas in all their glory, I’m grateful for this small power of the mind that allows me to relive this unforgettable journey.