The Sun has been absent since I’ve arrived here in Longyearbyen. The islands are deep inside the Arctic Circle; the line of latitude north of which it is possible to have 24 hour nights in winter. But Spring is fast approaching.
When a ray of sunlight was spotted hitting the mountain tops on the other side of the fjord, it was decided that a group of us would aim to get as much elevation as possible over the weekend, and try to catch some elusive light. Temperatures would remain well below -20°C over the two days, so warm clothes and moving fast would be essential.
Saturday morning saw us hiking up to Sverdruphamaren; an elevated plateau to the west of Longyearbyen. There is a real sense of wilderness here, and the view is an expanse of white peaks, sea ice, and reindeer. The sun however, remained just below the higher mountains to the south.
Setting out from Longyearbyen on Saturday morning
Ice mascara
The Svalbard Cold Feet Dance
Some opted just to get their feet off the ground altogether.
Chasing the sun across Svalbard’s wilderness
Returning back across the plateau after a cold but beautiful day
On Sunday morning, we aimed higher, and set out for Trollsteinen; the peak behind which the Sun had hidden from us the previous day. With temperatures at sea level forecast to be around -30°C, we knew we were in for a cold summit. Our route would bring us south of Longyearbyen, up the glacier of Larsbreen, before ascending onto the main ridge of the mountain. The winds were calm, and the skies were perfectly clear, promising excellent views, and potentially some vitamin D.
Heading south, with Longyearbyen in the distance
Lone hiker on Larsbreen
Beginning to ascend towards the ridge
The Sun! The end of polar night, as viewed from the main ridge of Trollsteinen
The Sun is literally days away from reappearing here in the valley, and the community of Longyearbyen will mark its return this weekend with a festival in its honour. It’s certainly something worth celebrating, but I’ll still be happy to experience a few more Svalbard nights.
The Earth has approximately 170,000 glaciers, located in a range of environments from Alaska to Argentina, Nepal to New Zealand. Almost all of them are shrinking.
The measure of the growth or shrinkage of a glacier is known as its mass balance, and this was the area of focus during my first week here in Svalbard. As part of the glaciology program I’m involved in, we traveled to one of the local glaciers to examine the layers of snow on its surface, and to hopefully explore some of its inner workings. Named (somewhat ironically) after a local coal mining manager in the early 1900’s, Scott Turnerbreen is located in a valley to the south east of Longyearbyen.
En route to the Scott Turnerbreen glacier
Glaciers are formed where snow is able to build up over time, and gradually get squeezed or compressed into ice by the weight of the snow on top. The growth of a glacier is essentially a balance between how much goes in i.e. snow, and how much goes out i.e. melting. If more snow and ice is added to a glacier than is melted, the glacier grows; if more ice melts than is replaced by snow, the glacier shrinks. Think of it as a bank account; lodge more money than you withdraw, and your account grows, and vice versa. Warmer climate conditions have increased melt rates on glaciers, removing ice faster than it can be replaced by snowfall.
Digging a snowpit to examine the layers of snow
Measuring the density of the snowpack
We built the deluxe snowpit model, including a lunch seat.
On Scott Turnerbreen, we carried out a number of surveys of the snowpack. Firstly, we used snow probes (basically long tubular measuring sticks) to determine the depth and pattern of snow accumulation over the surface. We then dug a series of snowpits to examine the thickness and density of layers in the snow, and to look for evidence of a recent ‘warm’ weather spell. That was, of course, until getting completely distracted by a passing group of dog sleds. When in the Arctic.
Approaching dog teams
Our attention then turned from the surface of the glacier to deeper into its core. In order to gain access to the inner glacier, we descended down through a presently dry meltwater channel. Like a scene from a Jules Verne novel, we traveled through a subsurface tunnel of ice with incredible formations and patterns. This was a brief visit, but I’m hoping to return to these passages while I’m here, and spend a little time to get some images that do them justice.
Tunnel to the inside of a glacier
Traveling through a meltwater channel inside the glacier
Crevasses or cracks on the glacier surface can collect dust or sediment. The dark coloured bands in this image may represent old crevasses which have closed and been buried deeper into the glacier, leaving behind a layer of dust in the ice.
In the heart of a glacier
Up next: Exploring the surrounding mountains in the search for sun.
It’s a matter of latitude. 78° 13′ N; approximately twelve degrees, or 1,334 kilometers north of the Arctic circle. This is the realm of twenty four hour nights and days, of the Aurora Borealis, of polar bears, of windswept landscapes of snow, sea ice, mountains, and glaciers. It’s a part of the world I’ve wanted to experience since I was a kid, and it’s the place I’m going to for the next six weeks.
My destination is Svalbard; an archipelago of islands in the Arctic Ocean. I’m taking part in a glaciology program run by the University Centre in Svalbard (UNIS), which is located in the regional capital of Longyearbyen. Sixty percent of Svalbard’s surface is covered by glaciers, making it an ideal location to study their processes.
The first leg of my journey takes me from Vancouver to Oslo, where I have an overnight stay before my flight to Longyearbyen. The stopover gives me a chance to join up with a friend who is also taking part in the glaciology program. I met the aptly named Aurora last summer in Alaska (see North to Alaska), and catching up over some much need food that night, we’re both equally excited about the trip ahead. The next morning, we soak up the last sunrise we’ll see for a few weeks, and board our flight to the Arctic.
Touchdown at Longyearbyen Airport, Svalbard.
Arriving in Longyearbyen just after 1pm, the usual bustle for hand luggage when the plane stops takes on a more practical air. Down jackets, balaclavas, and mittens are being pulled on before the exit door is opened. Stepping out into the blue semi-darkness, we are greeted by a biting wind that draws streams of fine snow across the tarmac. It’s already below -20°C, and I couldn’t be happier.
The following are just some initial shots from my first few days here, including some from the training we underwent. As always, images can be clicked on to view in full size. More updates coming soon.
Protect our glaciers. Rifle handling is an important component of the safety training at UNIS, but is very rarely drawn upon. Temperatures on this evening were around -25°C, adding the additional challenges to target practice of bulky gloves and shivering.
Waiting at the gate at Anchorage Airport, my phone beeps to life. I had spent the last two weeks in Alaska, without phone or internet coverage, and was looking forward to having a little time off back in Vancouver before the end of the summer. My phone disagrees.
A few short days later, I’m sitting behind the wheel of a pick up truck on the road to Golden, and Nordic glacier (see Notes from Nordic). 740km of driving solo in one afternoon was certainly a first for me. This isn’t surprising when you consider that I come from a country that can be crossed three and a half times in that distance. It is quite a road though; the landscape constantly evolving between mountains, forests, and arid plains. Back at the airport, I had received a backlog of emails advising me that a research team from the University of Northern British Columbia (UNBC) were planning to travel to Nordic earlier than expected. Before leaving for Alaska, the plan had been to return to the glacier in mid September in order to dismantle and collect my equipment. Now, if I wanted to get back to my station this season, I needed to be on the helicopter flight tomorrow morning.
I made it into Golden after dark, with the silent flashes of distant thunderstorms hinting at what the weather would have in store for us. Once again, I was being hosted by Tannis and Steve (of Sorcerer Lodge), and was grateful for a place to sleep that night. A short drive to the helicopter early the next morning, and we were on our way back into the mountains. We were a group of five; Rob Vogt and Ben Pelto from UNBC, Bob Sawyer, Steve, and myself.
Click on images to enlarge. Due to a technical issue, the images in the first half of this article (from Nordic) were not taken with my usual camera, and are of a lower quality.Autumn had arrived in the mountains, and we experienced some significant snow showers.
The last I had seen of my station had been in early July as we were flying out after installing the equipment. Thoughts of failed power systems, wiring mistakes, and crevasses opening underneath had been frequently on my mind in the intervening period. They were certainly on my mind that morning as Steve and I hiked up to the glacier. Ascending a ridge of ice, I could see emerging above me the rotating propeller of the wind sensor on the top of the station. So, it was still standing at least. As we approached closer, I could hear the low hum of one of the sensors, meaning power was still being supplied. So far so good. A quick check of the data logger (device for storing the measurements from the sensors) showed no obvious gaps in the data. More serious investigation would be left for the lab back in Vancouver, but I was delighted with that much.
When designing each aspect of the station (see The Project), the fact that the glacier surface would be constantly melting and changing was always kept in mind. Seeing the change in reality, however, after such a short period of time was still a shock. Equipment that I had installed while crouched on my knees was now towering above me, stranded high on 4 meter poles that had been fully submerged in the ice 48 days previously.
An example of the changes observed on the surface. The above image shows the camera mount on the day it was installed (July 11th). The mounting poles were drilled 4 meters into the ice. The image below shows the camera mount on returning to the glacier on August 28th. (This image is taken from a different angle and from further away).
It took a day and a half to dismantle the station, and to pack everything up for transport out by helicopter. It would have taken significantly longer without Steve’s assistance throughout. With the last minute nature of this trip, I had thought that I would be tackling the station on my own, and I would probably be still up there trying to extract frozen pipes had that been the case.
Preparing the sling load for transporting the equipment out by helicopter.
I had been really curious (and nervous) to see how the camera had performed over the summer (see A Camera for all Seasons). For one reason, it would be a really useful source of information when it came to examining the data. Also, as I had built it, I would have no one to blame but myself if it hadn’t worked. Opening the case back in the lodge that night, the camera passed the first test; it switched on. Quickly checking through the pictures, the most recent image had been taken just a few minutes earlier as I was taking off my boots. Overall, the camera performed well, with just one day where it failed to shoot (looking into that). I’ve stitched the images together into the short timelapse video below, to give an idea of the changes taking place.
The camera box, just prior to me opening it to see if it had worked.
(Best viewed in full screen and HD)
On the third day, I joined Rob, Bob, and Ben (seriously), and assisted with their work on the glacier. In order to monitor the loss or gain of ice over the glacier surface (known as it’s mass balance), a common method is to drill a series of stakes along the central line of the glacier (usually every 100 meters of elevation). These ‘ablation’ stakes are inserted deep into the snow or ice, with just their tops emerging. The stakes are visited at the same time the following year, and the change in the level of the glacier surface relative to the stake is measured. We spent most of the day installing stakes, and also a sensor in one of the streams emerging from the base of the glacier, to monitor temperature changes of the melt water.
Rob, using an ice auger to drill a hole for an ablation stake. Depending on elevation and the expected amount of melt, holes were drilled between 3 and 7 meters deep.
A temperature sensor was installed in this melt water stream, emerging from the base of the glacier.
All about the angles. This huge crevasse and snow bridge were only visible when we came around the far side. During the winter, it is concealed by snow.
I had agreed to stay on after the work on Nordic, and to assist Ben and Bob with an ablation stake campaign on Conrad Glacier. I was also interested in assessing Conrad (also in the Selkirk mountains) as a potential location for installing a station next summer. Between flying down from Nordic and setting out for Conrad, we had a couple of enforced rest days. Low cloud meant that visibility was too poor for the helicopter, so we hung out in Golden, and Steve took us around some of the local mountain bike trails.
Rain delayed. Waiting at the airport for a break in the weather. Cloud in the valleys was preventing us from taking a helicopter to Conrad glacier.
A window of clear skies two days later gave us a few hours to fly to Conrad, and set up camp. The following are some images from our time there, and of the work we were involved in.
Conrad glacier, as seen from our camp. Although heavily crevassed along its margins, once this section was navigated, the main truck was relatively solid.
Preparing dinner as the sun sets.
Home in the mountains.
Morning reflection.
Ben, preparing the GPS locator, which would facilitate the airborne LiDAR scanner in producing a digital map of the glacier.
Gaining access onto the glacier.
Navigating bands of lateral crevasses.
Drilling boreholes into the ice, with depths of up to 6 meters, for installation of ablation stakes. On Conrad, we installed stakes every 100 meters or so of elevation.
Ice falls of a tributary glacier.
The skull of a mountain goat at the base of Conrad glacier.
Returning back after a day on the ice, we found one of the tents flipped by the wind, and only moments away from being blown off the cliff on to the glacier below.
Come to carry us home. Bob signaling the location of the landing spot to the approaching pilot.
Boots off the ground
I really enjoyed my time on Conrad. With my own project wrapped up on Nordic, I was better able to connect with the landscapes around me. This was wilderness; rock, ice, water, and weather, with little to distract from it. With night temperatures below zero, and winds that spoke of snow, it was clear that the summer was ending, and it was a beautiful location to bid it farewell for this year. The last day was an epic. We rose at 6 to piercing blue skies, and spent the morning installing the remaining stakes higher up on the glacier. We returned to break up camp, and were picked up by helicopter at 3. It was 5:30 before I was pulling out of Golden, with the drive back to Vancouver ahead of me. Arriving at the University shortly after 3am, I unloaded the equipment as quickly as possible, and was thankful that my running in and out of the building with expensive equipment did not alert the suspicions of security.
Night shift. The truck, finally unloaded, after an epic day.
The main purpose of the field work was to obtain data. So in some ways, the work is really only beginning, and will continue throughout the winter, in the office and the lab. This summer’s campaign was just the first of several before the research questions of my PhD can, hopefully, be answered. However, a PhD can be filled with lots of missteps and wrong turns, so it’s important to recognise and appreciate when things go well. A solid first step. One down.
At the beginning of August, I was fortunate enough to take part in the International Glaciology Summer School, in beautiful Alaska. The school is run every two years, directed by Regine Hock of the University of Alaska Fairbanks, and brings together students and instructors from all over the world. Based in the Wrangell mountains, in the old mining village of McCarthy, the school provides an opportunity to learn from experts in a range of fields within glaciology, and perhaps more importantly, provides a platform to engage with and get to know others embarking on research in the science. The 10 days of the course were some of the most enjoyable of my academic career, and I left inspired by the enthusiasm and curiosity of my peers.
Below are images from some of the activities that took place outside of the classroom (click on images to enlarge).
Hitting the road from Fairbanks to McCarthy, and aiming for the mountains.
The drive to McCarthy took 11 hours, but it was broken up with regular stops.
The Trans-Alaska pipeline crosses the entire state, north to south, from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, stretching over 1,200km.
Not a popular decision. In reality, the salmon at this point have traveled so far inland from the sea (to reach spawning grounds) that they have lost much of their mass, and are not suitable for consumption.
Hanging out under bridges.
Home for the next 10 days
Moonrise
McCarthy’s old hardware store, now operated as the Wrangle Mountain Center, was our base for the summer school.
Tools of the trade. An unconventional poster session.
Friday night softball in McCarthy.
Passing Kennicott mill, where ore from the surrounding copper mines was processed in the early 1900s.
Mike in action. The expanse of what looks like gravel in the background is actually the lower reaches of the Kennicott glacier; the ridges are composed predominately of ice, coated with a thin layer of debris. The material comes from the lateral moraines of numerous tributary glaciers that have merged with the main trunk of the Kennicott, higher up the valley.
Footprint of a moulin. Debris carried downwards by water is deposited at the bottom of the moulin. When the overlying snow and ice melts (and the moulin collapses), the ice covered by this material melts slower than the surrounding exposed ice, resulting in these ridges.
Glaciologists in their natural environment.
Lunch time
Holding court
Descending into a temporarily empty lake basin. This lake, along the margin of the Root glacier, can fill or drain in a day; the water flowing through subglacial channels.
What lies beneath a glacier?
The blue room. I spent longer crouched in a subglacial river than is probably recommended, but it was a hard place to leave.
Having seen all there is to see on the surface of a glacier, Colin decides to check out a moulin (not really; don’t do this).
Outlets were a commodity when power was available.
A group of us took advantage of the landing strip in McCarthy, and arranged a flight over the surrounding glaciers and mountains.
The debris covered terminus of the Kennicott glacier. The village of Kennicott can be seen along the right margin.
Further up the Kennicott, medial moraines are visible as dark bands on the surface, and are formed by the merging of several tributary glaciers (and their lateral moraines).
Medial moraines and incredibly blue melt water pools.
The winter snowpack was still hiding crevasses. Where it had melted, large swaths of cracked and yawning ice had been exposed, hinting at what may lie beneath the snow cover.
One day earlier, July 8th, Valentina Radic and I had left Vancouver, aiming for the town of Golden, near British Columbia’s eastern border. Our route brought us on a nine hour drive, passing from the Coastal Mountains, through the vast Interior Plateau, and into the Selkirk range near the edge of the Rockies.
Golden was to be the staging point for this summer’s field campaign. The plan was to install a weather and glacier monitoring station on Nordic Glacier. The station was to observe the melt rate of the surface of the glacier, and to record any meteorological varibles that may affect melting (see The Project).
Nordic was selected as its meltwater drains into the Columbia river. This is the largest river in the the Pacific Northwest, and the forth largest in the United States. It stretches for 2,000km, through BC and seven US states, with a drainage basin the size of France. Its waters are used for irrigation and hydroelectric power production, with 14 dams on the main stem, and more on its tributaries. I had encountered the Columbia before, but much further downstream in the state of Washington, while rock climbing (see Vantage Point).
On arriving in Golden, we drove straight to the home of our hosts for the night, Tannis and Steve. When initially planning this trip, we had intended to camp once we got into the mountains, but Tannis and Steve kindly offered us the use of their backcounty ski lodge (Sorcerer Lodge) which is located in the same valley as Nordic. Operating in the area for over twenty years, they have seen firsthand the changes undergone by the glacier. It was inspiring to see the interest and enthusiasm (and knowledge) that they showed for the project, and was a reminder that this research wasn’t just an academic exercise. Joining us in Golden were Brian Menounus and Federico Ponce, two researchers from the University of Northern British Columbia. With our team of four assembled, we stocked up on some soon to be burned calories (with excellent burgers in Golden), and bedded down for an early departure.
Line of action. Morning of departure for the mountains, with Steve (pictured) assisting with the logistics of the helicopter transport. (Click on images to expand)
Loading the helicopter.
Ascending the valley towards the mountains.
Our flight to the glacier the following morning went smoothly, with Steve lending us his experience with helicopter transports. Valentina and I went in on the first run to scan for a suitable site for the station, and to get dropped off on the glacier with the main equipment for the station. Brian and Federico were to travel in on the second run to bring equipment to the lodge.
After several months of looking at Nordic in photographs and maps, seeing it grow larger through the window of the helicopter, I felt excited and nervous. As we drew closer however, I was concerned to see the extent of the snow cover in the area we had been planning to deploy. Working on a ‘dry’ section of a glacier (where there is no snow) has the major advantage of being able to see the location of the crevasses. Not only is this much safer, it allows you to move and work more efficiently, as precautions such as being roped together are not necessary. We had hoped that the winter snow pack would have melted from our site by the time we arrived, but it appeared that, for this season, we were a little early.
Initial fly over of the glacier to select a suitable site. It became apparent at this point that there was still significant snow cover.
We landed on the glacier, and unloaded our equipment with the engines still running. As soon as we were clear of the downwash from the departing helicopter, we roped up and started surveying the area for the flattest spot for our station, probing the snow as we moved to check for crevasses. After the helicopter returned to deposit the larger pieces of equipment, we flew down as far as the lodge to meet with Brian and Federico. With conditions the way they were, we decided we would hike up to the glacier together, and find the safest route to the site.
Traversing the moraine at the beginning of the hike to the glacier. Smoke from forest fires further down the valley can be seen hanging in the background.
Nordic Glacier. After descending the moraine, our route crossed the river, and followed the base of the mountain on the left side of the image as far as the patch of rust coloured rock to the left of the upper lake. This marks the beginning of the ‘Wedding Band’, which we ascended up to the left to gain access on to the glacier.
Each day, our hike to the glacier would begin with crossing the lateral moraine that separated the lodge from the main valley. From there, we would descend and traverse the valley to the other side, crossing the river to do so. The river crossing was a glacier monitoring exercise in itself. As the river’s source is the melt water draining from the glacier, there was a distinct daily pattern in the strength and level of the flow. In the morning, when there had been little melting during the colder night temperatures, the water level would be well below my knee. Returning in the evening, after a day of warm temperatures and sunshine, the flow would be much stronger, pulling at already tired legs. As you’d imagine, the water was pretty cold, and it was incredible to feel how quickly your heat could be drained away.
Approaching the crossing. The river is fed directly by melt water from the glacier, meaning its temperature is very cold, and its flow varies greatly with the time of day.
Rock Ptarmigan. I came across quite a few of these, usually only noticing them when I was within a couple of meters, and they would burst from behind a rock , freaking me and themselves out.
The Wedding Band.
Ascending alongside the glacier, significant crevasses were visible in the ice where the snow cover had melted.
Setting out on the glacier towards the site where we had deposited our equipment by helicopter.
Probing for crevasses on the snow covered sections of the glacier (Photo by Valentina Radic).
Installing the station came together relatively quickly. Although the glacier is a very different working environment to the lab or test field, I really felt the benefit of all the trial runs and lab assemblies. The station was constructed, wired, and operating after one, albeit long day, and it was fantastic to have the additional manpower of Brian and Federico, who obliged me with some serious ice drilling. A second day was spent testing to see how the data and power system was performing, and also securing the various components of the station in preparation for two months on the side of a mountain.
A combination of steam drilling (above) and augering (below) was used to bore holes into the ice for mounting some of the sensors.
Mounting and wiring the sensors on the main ‘quadpod’ (Photo by Federico Ponce).
The completed station, looking northwest. The solar panel can be seen in the left background, which recharges the batteries housed in the yellow case. The rain gauge and the snow/ice level monitor mast is behind the main station. The blue tarp contains the tools and equipment used for the installation, and will be left secured on the glacier until the station is dismantled.
A camera for monitoring the glacier and the station over the season (see A Camera For all Seasons) was installed to the south, with its view similar to the previous image.
The weather during our field work was relatively warm and sunny, and we would notice a significant difference in the surface of the glacier between ascending in the morning and descending in the evening. Crevasses and meltwater streams were appearing as the summer melt season kicked in.
Mohammed Ali once said, ‘it isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it’s the pebble in your shoe.’ In this case, it was the mosquito inside your mosquito net. We carried out our field work during the buggiest few days of a particularly buggy season, and these mosquitoes couldn’t believe their luck when they saw us coming. I’ve spent time in the Amazon jungle, and this was comparable. Once on the ice however, the buzzing clouds would disappear, and we could work in peace.
My buzzing hat. The locals were out in force to welcome us (Photo by Federico Ponce).
Each evening, with duties on the glacier finished, we would begin our return hike back to the lodge. Despite being tired, this was always my favourite part of the day. No longer focusing on tasks that needed to be done, I could better appreciate the surroundings, particularly in the hour around sunset when everything would be painted gold and blue. To work in such an environment is a privilege, and time needed to be taken to set aside concerns and stresses, and simply take note of where we were.
Sunset on Nordic mountain.
Emerging stars.
On the morning of departure, we flew over the glacier to get our last view of the station for the next two months. I will return at the beginning of September to see how well it survived, to dismantle and transport it back to Vancouver, and to start working on what its data can tell us.
The station through a telephoto lens, as seen from the lodge on the morning of departure.Flying over the moraine.Station from above as we flew out.
Passing through the Selkirk range (images above and below) on the flight back to golden.
Returning to base.
We tackled the drive back to Vancouver on the day we flew down, utilising several food/coffee/ice cream stops to keep sleep and the 35°C of the Interior Plateau at bay. Arriving back to the city, I was tired but content that the work had gone well, and looking forward to taking it easy for a few days before preparing for my next trip (Alaska). Calling into the lab to drop off a couple of items before going home, I was greeted by a delivery of 4 large boxes; the starting components for next year’s stations. It was time to get some sleep.
The beginnings of next year’s field campaign.
Up Next: I’ve just returned from a glaciology summer school in Alaska; photo-journal coming in the next couple of days.
