The Birth of Icebergs

I'm not sure why I'm destined to love one of the most remote and inaccessible places in the world. Perhaps it is just one of those quirks of character that define who you are and which, try as you might, you can't change. I could avoid it as an impractical dream or, helped by good fortune, obey.

On Wednesday I was craned onto the RRS Ernest Shackleton, my once-was home, and waved goodbye to the friends we are leaving on the shelf. This time there were just six of them, tiny spots on the massive sheet of ice, immediately separated from the ship by an ever-increasing space of cold blue. Everyone present at the scene knew instinctively which side of that gap they wanted to be on. And most were satisfied.

Gut reactions teach you a lot even if outward displays of emotion are often discouraged. Leaving Halley, and pulling away from the ice that day was one of the hardest things I can remember doing. Not hard like difficult, since I had no choice so in fact it was very easy. Hard like gut wrenching. Hard like "I don't want to do this". Just hard.

Simon's sister left a message on my last blog saying she thinks I'll be back. Thanks, Alice, thanks for your faith in me. As for Simon, I'll miss him lots but I know I'll know him for much longer than either of us are at Halley. Leaving him, and leaving the others here, isn't the most traumatic aspect of the separation. Leaving the ice and the moment that can never be repeated was the wrench. Knowing that there is a possibility, even a likelihood, that I'll never come back.

Judging by my gut reaction just now, however, I guess I'll have to return to something like this.

The ship was moored at N9. No, was sitting at N9, not moored as it couldn't get close enough to the edge of the ice. Sitting in what seems like a big cul-de-sac of water, surrounded by ice shelf on three sides. Ice shelf with cracks. I dozed for most of the white journey to the ship and realised that I haven't slept in the back of a ground-based vehicle for years!

The ship was, I must confess, in a majestic spot. Nestled in a bay, surrounded by ice cliffs. We assembled our clatsch, chatted for word of direction, turned around, and boom – there in front of us was a great big iceberg that I could swear hadn't been there before. The cliffs were literally crumbling around us. A large tabular berg floated on past, oblivious that its latest bump with the shelf had created another loner in the ocean. This is the land where icebergs are born.

We were craned onto the ship, hanging onto the Wor Geordie, a big net that floats, across the ocean gap. I didn't want to join the ship; I didn't want to leave the ice. For the rest of the day I kept a low profile. The next day was a real treat, however, and slowly I was reminded that there are other good things in the world too. We sailed up and down the coast, investigating potential creeks where we could collect the remaining people on Friday. Into creek two, creek five, creek seven, nuzzling the ice, stepping back and watching the coastline,- the formation of creeks and their source at the Rumples. Halley in context.

To many short-term visitors the creeks must have all looked the same, but to us, each one was a new discovery. And in the evening? Sea smoke. The Earth System doing its damndest to remind me of the continuing revelations that are out there. Sea smoke. Magical. Pouring off the cliffs, hitting the warmer water, floating and surrounding us. The sun set and the moon rose. You can't ask for more really!

Friday really was our last day at Halley. We picked the remaining people up at creek 7 and a few lucky ex-winterers, myself included, got to go on the ice again. It was possibly the most picturesque spot yet and appropriate to be manhauling food and bags as a final task on the ice. It felt really good to be back there again, one last time.

Once all were aboard, we cruised around to creek 2 to wave goodbye to the wintering crew. The ship was sailing across water that we drove 7 tonne containers across only a couple of months ago. The sea ice has gone completely, the cliffs have crumbled. That crevasse I explored on my winter trip – now open to the world. Bizarre.

Seeing the winterers one last time was fantastic, so close we could shout across to them and had to dodge flares they sent our way. They were happy to see us go, I know that, as happy as I was last year, and will have a fantastic year. Strange as we sailed away though, seeing these 14 small spots and knowing they were the only humans around on all the ice I could see to the horizon and far beyond. Within a few hours Antarctica was barely a stripe on the horizon, within a day the occasional iceberg was all that I had to remind me of where we had been.

Posted by Rhian at 10:28 EST

Comments

So what happened to PHAGE? Did it make it onto the Shack, or is it stuck in Antarctica for a year?

Posted by: Felix at 10:30 EST, March 01, 2005

FAGE is with us, everything made it actually, thanks for asking. It was touch and go for a while there but the ship's crew and base staff pulled out all the stops. Pretty impressive when you come to think of it.

What I want to know is what's gonna happen to your website design now...?

Posted by: Rhian at 12:59 EST, March 01, 2005

That's what I want to know. Where are you going to be next? Cambridge? What do they have there we could iconize? What's the color there? Shire green? Soot gray? Vauxhall brown? Granny-hair purple?

Posted by: Stefan Geens at 14:45 EST, March 01, 2005

Did you rescue any otherwise-doomed pengiuns?

Posted by: Matthew at 15:16 EST, March 01, 2005

Thanks for this poignant post. I've never made it down to the ice, but I hope to someday.

Posted by: Rachel at 17:59 EST, March 02, 2005

Not sure where you're going next, but Cambridge Blue (University) is light blue (Pantone 284) / greeny blue (Pantone 337) - not too different from your "ice" colour. So Felix might not have to change the design, although perhaps the map should be updated?

Posted by: Jean Sinclair at 15:37 EST, March 03, 2005

Hello, I found your piece moving. It took me back to my own departure from Antarctica. Unlike yourself we left on a Russian cargo jet. One minute we were suffering in out tents in -25 degree weather and the next (or so it seemed) we were baking in Cape Town. A truly bizarre experience. I'm typing this in Sydney, dressed in corporate gear and wondering if I too will get another opportunity to visit that cold paradise. I hope you acclimatise relatively smoothly back 'up north'. Best wishes - Alexa

Posted by: Alexa at 5:51 EST, March 10, 2005