Summer storms
Monsoon season
After months and years of drought, the rains have come. With them, the desert is green and the flowers begin.
Defying gravity
The rain seems to have settled in and the days are a series of water, flowing, falling, ebbing. Six-hour windows of tide in, tide out, water falling from the sky, flowing downriver to the sea, and upriver on the incoming flood tide. The geese and ducks floating by in the rain-soaked air seem to say, “WTF? Are we swimming or flying?”
I will try flying. This year is about defying gravity. Are you ready?
p.s., Thank you for the most generous birthday president.
Day by day
The beginning
Afternoon light and cloud shadows play on snowy mountains.
As you may know, in October 2018, I spent three weeks in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard as a member of The Arctic Circle, an annual expeditionary residency program. Sailing from the town of Longyearbyen on the three-masted Barquentine ship, Antigua, we explored the coast and fjords, the light, textures, sounds, and landscapes, following the western edge of Spitsbergen, the largest and only permanently populated island of the archipelago, to the south and to the north and back again to Longyearbyen. In between, we motored; we sailed, putting up and pulling down sails; we ate and laughed; we heard stories of our shipmates, the residents, and the crew; we explored on foot, in the Zodiac, in the ship; we saw reindeer and seals, a handful of birds, polar bear tracks and snow angels; we heard glaciers; we watched the sun revolve around the horizon morning to night and again; we saw the aurora; it snowed, it rained, it was cold, windy, foggy, and raw; it was sunny, blue, and gorgeous; the water was calm and it was not; and day by day, we lost daylight as we revolved our way closer to the Polar Night and winter. And day by day, we lost, in the smallest modern human-pampered-on-a-ship way, what it meant to be separate from the landscape.
There is a lot to tell in this tale. And there is a lot that I cannot express, neither through words nor in my photographs. I kept a journal, of course, but it is perfunctory. I was too enthralled and engaged with the place and the people, too overloaded with the intensity of the space. My introverted anti-social self was in way over my head. Finding calm headspace to reflect and express the experience did not happen for me on board. And writing onshore in the cold and wet, well, many of you know my handwriting. In the months (!) since I meandered in and out of my photos, racing through them initially to share what may be of interest to the rest of the residents and crew, I bogged down when it came time to express the meat of the place in my images.
Arctic geometry: angles, triangles, and plane plains.
Via email, I lamented to my sweet friend Linda that I was not keeping up with my blog, ideas were percolating but I was reluctant to put them on paper or into the ether. Her response, “my sense is that you saw too much, know too much and hurt too much. Your slowness in letting it out is, I believe, more kind to us who think it’s going to hurt us too much.”
My lazier self says, yes, I am being kind. My practical self knows not where to begin or how to convey the mesmerizing passage of time and light in a place known for cold and dark. And, as this place passes from our memory in the years of melting ahead, I will mourn, as with all things, not for its passing but for my loss. For our loss. For all those who will not know it and who will wonder at its very existence. Like the miles-long herds of bison and the days-long flights of passenger pigeons, the Arctic is fading.
I don’t believe that we alone are entirely to blame, the planet has long worked in its own mysterious ways, but in no way have we helped. Exploiting everything we could for centuries, erasing landscapes for coal and oil, eliminating people and their ways of life, executing populations of fish and animals for our endless, grinding consumption, we certainly carry the brunt of the shame.
And so, I start the only place I can, with my experience and impressions. Like the Cooper Island series previously posted here, over the coming months I will share my journal, photos, and thoughts. I hope you’ll tag along.
Pastels meet mountains and sea.
Mixed Media
Tools of the trade
Not known for my technical skills or my use of cutting-edge technology, I found some photography challenges in Svalbard. The cold, the instant fog-up when entering the ship cabin (which opened directly onto the always-steamy galley), low light, great distances, ship motion, focusing while wearing mittens (not to mention shooting while wearing mittens), snowfall, rain, bow spray, and wind along with a host of computer program and storage space issues left me reeling with the feeling that many of my photos would be utter failures. There were no second chances; ships keep moving and the sun never really rises.
What I didn’t expect was some of these problems contributing to more interesting photos. The pixilation caused by low light, a zoom lens, and a high ISO creates the illusion of watercolor in some. Others appear as line drawings, pastels, or Suminogashi prints. The photos have more texture and less detail. Sharp edges give way to soft brushstrokes and smudged impressions.
My analytical, sharp-edged mind concedes; maybe the challenges added up to brilliant success in an unexpected form.
The billion-piece puzzle of pixilated tallus slopes on Hellvetiafellet and the waning moon above Longyearbyen.
Isfjorden takes on the color of a glacier while the mountains hide against the sky and peak out from behind the clouds – paper marbling at its finest.
A curious seal peers through a Monet-style painting.
The jagged beach on Gåsøyane looks across to watercolor-softened mountains.
The pastel view from Gåsøyane.
Antigua at anchor in the Impressionist Billefjorden.
Another Monet, return from Svenskehuset, across the tundra, mud mountain, and rogue waves.
There are places in the world
Part 26, last days of Cooper
Cooper Island lies 24 miles east of the town of Utqiagvik, formerly called Barrow.
28 Aug
I buried myself in books the last few days. The wind has been fierce, increasing through the day yesterday and last night. It was difficult to measure and weigh chicks today for the strength of the wind. A number tried to escape, half taking flight in the wind and hiding in other sites until I retrieved them. I expect a few will go tonight despite the wind – it didn’t seem that a single adult was in the colony today. I didn’t see any during my checks and not any through the day. The wind hasn’t let up at all.
George is in Barrow. The batteries are all dead, and I’ve had trouble with the radio because of it. There was enough power this morning for about two minutes of radio time. For whatever reason, all four batteries seem to have met their demise. One is continuously hooked to the charger; the others are drained, but that seems odd. In any case, I’ve reconnected them to charge, and if they hold enough from today’s minuscule amount of sun, I may be able to talk with them tomorrow.
George will be, water-dependent, taking a bunch of kids to Crescent Island and Plover Point tomorrow and, in theory, coming out here on Wednesday. Dave can’t boat in this weather; if it holds, I may be here a while. I was a fool to think otherwise.
I’ve been holding myself to five days. In my mind, I still have five days, will continue to have five more days on the island until I actually set foot in Barrow again. It might save me. I’ve done almost nothing but the brief nest checks and read for four or five days. I finished Stones from the River today and dove straight into Love in the Time of Cholera. It is too cold and the wind too fierce for anything else; I am tired and happy to sit. I long for a hot a shower and a sauna. Relief from being cold all the time would be welcome.
I bathed my feet this afternoon and discovered two substantial bruises on my toe – the big broken one. I have no clue how I got bruises on my toe. It bothered me for several days, but it never occurred to me that I bruised it. My feet are tender and were so cold this afternoon that they were painful. My toes are also rotting in the way of feet without warm, dry socks and regular washing. As my feet perspire in my boots, my socks and then the liners get damp, so my feet are perpetually wet and cold. I take the liners out every chance and all night but they never really dry. Alas. Five more days.
I find it hard to believe that there are places in the world, this very minute, that are enjoying warm, lush, green August, its humidity, and sun. I long to be barefoot in the sand or on grass or anywhere my feet can be free and warm…
29 Aug
The infernal, intolerable, eternal wind. As I suspected, the few days of calm last week have been utterly routed and supplanted by wind and the uncertainty of departure. I fantasized about the search and rescue helicopter coming to save me again. Dave said the winds were 30 mph and would increase to 40. The batteries are still not charging, so there was little conversation today. The afternoon was sunny and with no clouds, so perhaps the battery will charge enough for a real bit of talk tomorrow. My return ticket to Fairbanks is for tomorrow morning.
There were hundreds of glaucous gulls today, a few terns and red phalaropes all fighting and feeding in the wind. The wind was nasty, and I hope it dies down tomorrow. In one way, there’s no obligation to do anything but nest checks and then eat and read. On the other hand, being out is so unbearable it’s not worth the reading and eating. I suspect it will be days before a boat can get out here and I’m not likely to be going back on it given George’s desire to debrief.
I’ve almost finished Love in the Time of Cholera, though I only started it yesterday. There’s not much else to do really. The wind seems to have picked up again, and I’ve given in to the fact of its existence. I hold on to my five days.
1 Sept
By radio call on 30 August, the wind had sufficiently died, though it kept me awake most of the night by smacking me in the head with the tent pole. The fog was thick but the air was clearing and George and Dave were talking about a trip out. At 1315 Dave told me the boat was gassed and ready to go. Within 15 minutes, the fog cleared, the sky was blue, the sun strong, and the wind at my back. Wow.
I hauled all the stuff to the sardine box and sat to wait. I was not expecting the water to be so calm and so boatable that quickly after so much wind. It didn’t seem possible that I would be Barrow-bound like that, but there I was all packed up and waiting for the final trip. It was good to see those two – goofy as they are.
I helped George move his stuff to camp and we grabbed and took whatever else he wouldn’t need. I figured the birds were going fast and he wouldn’t need to stay for very long – (as it turned out 15 fledged the next day and another five after that so by today there were only a couple left). Dave and I made a slow trip in, leading another boat that was low on fuel. The wind was behind us, the sun warm and I was happy.
Yesterday was spent in a frenetic race to pack and go. I sent three boxes of books and two boxes with vertebrae. I went off to the recreation center and took a SAUNA. It was great. I scrubbed and scraped and scratched all sorts of layers of grub off me and tried to soak out all the sand and grit and dirt and cold.
This morning, I wandered down to see Dave and say goodbye – it was his birthday. We radioed George, who was in his usual radio form.
Then, into the air. I could see Cooper Island after takeoff – it was clear, the whole outline, south spit and all of the lakes/ponds along the south shore. My last look.