Dramatic skies.

From a dark and brooding morning, to an evening sunset which set the  ice aglow.
Casey showed me her extremes on the day that marked the end of my first month on Station.
An emphatic reminder that whilst living inside our insulated Antarctic buildings, you need to keep one eye on the great outdoors, even if just from the front door step, so as to not miss the  spectacle that nature unfolds for us every day down here.

Morning cloud over the Clark Peninsula. Photo: Jacque Comery

 This cloud over the Clark Peninsula was like a living beast, visibly rotating, rolling  along towards the north and intensifying in colour as it went. I had just walked out of the red shed to walk to work at the operations building to work, and captured this on my phone.

Sunset from the heli pad. Photo: Jacque Comery

In a scenario which was the reverse of my experience in the morning,  I walked out of the door of the operations building to walk home to the Red Shed, straight into this. I had not seen this sunset unfold from my office window which faces north, until I walked outside. So very glad I chose this moment to  head home for the day!

The diminishing light.

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light."

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Whilst possibly a little dramatic for our context, I still love the sentiment of Dylan Thomas's poem  Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night published in 1951. We are implored to live life to the fullest, and push back against anything that draws us towards surrender. 

Here the daylight is leaving us so quickly, The soft golden sunrises and striking orange sunsets, are becoming all the more pronounced, as the altitude of the sun diminishes.  The arc that it tracks across the sky to the north, casts long shadows, and treats us to beautiful displays as its rays shine out from below low cloud over the sea, dotted with ice bergs.

I am reminded to soak up every day down here, to appreciate this waning light, and the beauty that it illuminates. Each day now shall be darker than that before it, and the daylight upon our icy world will slip away.

We are currently losing  around 7 minutes of light a day. Almost 50 minutes per week. At its highest point the altitude of the sun is a modest 15 degrees, and is dropping 0.4 degrees per day  (2.8 degrees per week).

Check out this great website to follow our journey into twilight here at 66 degrees south.

https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/antarctica/casey

Casey Sun and Moon

You can  manipulate the tools online to  check out the suns altitude and heading at any time of the day.

Reference: https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/antarctica/casey. Accessed 13-04-2017 at 1625 hrs

Reference: https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/antarctica/casey. Accessed 13-04-2017 at 1625 hrs

Reference: https://www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/antarctica/casey. Accessed 13-04-2017 at 1625 hrs

A week of sunsets from the heli pad.

Everyday for a week, I snapped a photo on my phone on my way home from work. The photos are taken from the heli pad outside of the Red Shed looking back along the road that leads to the operations building.  Interestingly, whilst i took these shots only a week and a half ago, it is already dark now at this same time of day.

Friday. Welcoming the weekend. Photo: Jacque Comery

Saturday. Sky on fire. Photo: Jacque Comery

Sunday. Low cloud on the horizon. Photo: Jacque Comery

Monday. Sun halo. Photo: Jacque Comery

Tuesday. Blue skies and sunset. Photo: Jacque Comery

Wednesday. Sun making a late appearance just as it sets. Photo: Jacque Comery

Thursday. Soft light and pretty clouds. Photo: Jacque Comery

 

Jack's Line Monday mission

The day started with a stunning sunrise, and stayed clear all day. I was on kitchen duty with Chef Andrew (Bongo) all day today, but in the afternoon, Mat came in and suggested that we should take a run  out to the Jack's Line and check that the route marking canes, that we installed last week survived the weekend blizzard.

The Jack's Line or J-Line as it is known is a route that leads out to Jack's Hut. With Mat and I in the blue hagg, and Chef Bongo and  Jimmy the aviation plant operator on quads, we headed out on the blue ice to check the canes.  The canes are to help give us a visual reference along our crevasse free travel routes. They comprise a bamboo cane, with a flag, and a recycled steel food can from the kitchen as a radar reflector.  They actually show up pretty well on the GPS radar units in the Hagglunds!

We installed one new cane, and the rest looked ok.

To install a cane we line up the hagg directly on our GPS travel line and measure out a distance of 15 m with a rope tied to the hagg, whilst the other person drills a hole into the ice to install the cane. We backfil the hole, water our bamboo tree and voila! one track marker cane installed.

Everyone loves power tools! Photo: Mat Callaghan

Crack cane line installation team. Photo: Mat Callaghan

 

Backfilling the drill hole. Photo: Mat Callaghan

Blue hagg on the blue ice. Photo: Jacque Comery

Sunday stroll around the Bailey Peninsula.

The blizzard that raged all Saturday night stopped abruptly early Sunday morning. We were presented with crystal clear skies and a view to the north..... of open water. 

Our burgeoning sea ice pack was gone. Dreams of sea ice travel anytime soon vanished.

After being unable to (or uninterested in) leaving the Red Shed during the blizzard travel restrictions yesterday, I was itching to depart the 'mothership' for a mini-hike, as a dear friend of mine would say, a photo mission, just a general stroll around. 

Mat, Adam and I deceided to grab our survival packs and set out on a 3-hour walk to the Shirley Island ice bridge and around the Bailey Peninsula.

Jacque overlooking O'Brien Bay with sea ice blown out. Photo: Adam Roberts

The landscape is so dynamic, and at every turn was evidence of the conditions of the past 24 hours and how it changes and sculpts the terrain. Swirling shapes in the snow pack, glowing blue ice stipped of its snow cover by the wind, the sound of the remains of the sea ice pack moving and creaking on the currents between the peninsula and Beall Island in O'Brien Bay. 

Bergs in the distance. Photo: Jacque Comery

Shirley Island sign post. Photo: Jacque Comery

Shirley Island at the ice bridge. Photo: Jacque Comery

As you walk every step has a musical quality. The packed snow squeaks and creaks beneath your feet. The micro spikes on your boots  ring and tinkle as the strike the ice underfoot, and frozen melt streams add a disconcerting crack and thud noise all at once as hollow pockets collapse and move under your weight. If you stop and listen you can hear your own heart beating, in between the huffing and puffing of your breaths in the cold air.

 

McMullin Island. Photo: Jacque Comery

Sculpted Snow. Photo: Jacque Comery

Rocky outcrop on the Bailey Peninsula. Photo: Jacque Comery

Crossing the frozen melt lake. Photo: Jacque Comery

Snow trapped in the ice. Photo: Jacque Comery

Bergs and blue ice. Photo: Jacque Comery

Mat and Adam. Photo: Jacque Comery

Beall Island. Photo: Jacque Comery

Ice scoured of snow cover by the blizzard. Photo: Jacque Comery

Shifting snow. Photo: Jacque Comery

Jacqueline, on the way home. Photo: Adam Roberts

View over Newcomb Bay on return to Casey. Photo: Jacque Comery