Tag Archives: Photography

Seasons of Ice: Part 1 Spring

As Irish skiers go, I’m pretty average, which is to say, I’m a bad skier. I can survival ski down most things, but the grace and elegance that the residents of my current home display on the slopes still eludes me. The benefits of learning to ski before developing risk awareness is all too apparent.

This was on mind when talking over the phone with Ben Pelto (University of Northern British Columbia). Those of you who have read other posts on this blog will know that Ben and I regularly work together during our summer fieldwork campaigns on the glaciers of BC (see On Conrad Glacier: Part 1 and Part 2). It was January, and we were discussing plans for a spring trip to the mountains, specifically Conrad Glacier, to observe how the winter had treated the glacier, and to scout out locations for the coming summer’s deployment of my weather stations. We were also planning to perform scans of the glacier using a ground penetrating radar (GPR), which would provide us with information on how thick the ice is, and the general shape of the underlying bed. This would all require some serious skiing.

Three months later, I am on a familiar road. With skis and camping gear in the back, I’m winding my way along the 750 odd kilometers from Vancouver to Golden, in eastern BC. Tonight, I’m meeting Ben and his sister, Jill, before an early morning helicopter flight to the ice.

 

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Stopping off at Roger’s Pass, en route to Golden.

 

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Morning of departure at the Alpine Heli base, with Jill and Ben.

 

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Happy for our mechanical problems to happen on the ground.

 

After a brief delay to fix a clogged spark plug, we were in the skies above the Purcell Mountains, in good flying weather. It was my first time taking this journey in what were essentially winter conditions, and I was glued to the window as we maneuvered between the snow-covered peaks. We landed on the west flank of Conrad Glacier at 2,300m. Our campsite overlooked the jagged crevasses of the icefall that lay above our summer field sites. We dug out level platforms in the snow for our tents, and built up walls on the upper side to keep out the cold, downhill ‘katabatic’ winds that can develop on glaciers at night. In the front vestibules, we dug out lower platforms for storing gear, and putting on our boots in the mornings. Finally, we dug out a table and benches, and pitched a tarp over it to serve as our kitchen.

 

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Home.

 

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Our mess tent. The option to get out of the elements for awhile to cook and eat can make all the difference.

 

One of the main goals for this trip was to get an idea of how much snow the glacier had received over the winter, and how much water this snow will produce if it melts in the  summer. To this end, we needed to take regular measurements across the glacier of the depth of this season’s snow, and its density. After setting camp on the first day, we skied down to the terminus of the glacier, and took a series of these measurements as we moved back up the slope. The weather was mild, and we were surprised to find a well developed melt water stream this early in the season, carving a channel into the surface snow. In the weeks preceding our trip, we had been keeping an eye on data from snow sensors located on mountains in this region. The early onset of spring was resulting in some significant snow melt, and the question on our minds was whether 2016 would prove to be as detrimental to the glaciers in this region as the record losses of 2015.

Late in the afternoon, with the weather beginning to turn, we pushed back to the shelter of our camp. After a warm meal, we watched the skies clear and felt the temperatures drop as the indigo twilight turned into a star filled mountain night.

 

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Ben and Jill, ascending past an icefall on the glacier.

 

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Ben, probing the snow depth to determine how much the glacier had received over the winter.

 

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A well developed melt stream (supraglacial channel) was a surprise find this early in the year.

 

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Returning to camp just as the weather began to close in.

 

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Nights fall on our Conrad spring camp.

 

Day two saw the beginning of our radar campaign. Our objective was to ascend to the upper plateau of Conrad, taking measurements along the way. The GPR system consists of a transmitter, and a receiver, each mounted on skis, with antenna extending out in between. The transmitter sends out a pulse of energy that passes down through the ice, and reflects off the bedrock underneath. The reflected energy is detected by the receiver, and the time taken by the pulse to travel to the bed and back tells us how thick the ice is. That’s the theory. The practical involves hauling this system over large swaths of the glacier, up steep slopes and icefalls, and around crevasses, trying to keep the system in line as much as possible. The relatively mild temperatures and strong sunshine made the hauling difficult, with the sleds prone to digging into the soft snow and tipping over. Despite this, we managed to cover significant ground with the radar, completing day trips of over 20km in some cases. Descending with the GPR was always an interesting experience, generally completed at the end of the day when we were returning to camp with already tired legs. We needed to act as brakes to stop the system from torpedoing down the mountain, requiring us to snowplow in our skis for kilometers downhill at a time, quad muscles screaming.

 

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Ascending Conrad towards the upper icefall, with the GPR in tow.

 

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Myself and Ben hauling the GPR across the stunning upper plateau of Conrad (Pic: Jill Pelto).

 

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Shared slopes. We came across these wolverine tracks in the snow at 2,900m.

 

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Cloud streams across the faces of the surrounding peaks.

 

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Probing the snow depth as we moved up the glacier (Pic: Ben Pelto).

 

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Completing a GPR survey on the glacier close to camp.

 

Our days on the glacier continued with combined snow depth/density measurements and GPR surveys. Working on the upper plateau of Conrad, the expanse of mountainous terrain around us was astounding. On every degree of the compass, snow covered peaks jostled for space on the horizon, like some jagged, storm blown ocean. A thought that keeps returning to me when working in these places, is what a privilege it is to be afforded such isolation and space in what is an increasingly crowded world. No traffic, sirens, voices, bleeping phones, or engines (apart from the occasional helicopter). To have access to the culture and community that living in a society provides is a great thing, but I am grateful for these opportunities to exist in solitude with nothing but survival and science to drive us on.

On one of our last days on the upper section of the glacier, we continued to record snow depth values to well over 3,000m elevation, and decided to push on  to climb the summit of Mount Conrad; the peak which had loomed over us as we worked. We ascended on skies to within 50m or so of the 3,290 summit, before shedding our gear and scrambling the rock and snow of the final section. We climbed in beautiful weather (as had been the case for most of the trip; very unusual for Conrad), and our view from the summit was unimpeded in all directions. Turning from the summit, my thoughts were now fully occupied by the ski descent necessary to get off the mountain. The conversation I had had with Ben in January regarding my ski experience was echoing in my head as I clipped into my skis, and double checked my bindings. This was steep for me, but hesitating or leaning back would be the wrong option. I watched Ben and Jill drop in, took a solid breath, and followed.

 

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Ben, checking some gear, on the ascent of Mount Conrad.

 

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On the summit, looking south into Bugaboo Provincial Park; a climbing mecca I had visited a year previously.

 

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My view from the top, prior to our ski descent.

 

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On a very fun section of the descent back to camp. The beautifully symmetrical ski tracks are not mine (Pic: Ben Pelto).

 

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Below the tumbled walls of one of the icefalls we passed through on the return to camp.

 

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Light from a low sun highlights the textures of the glacier.

 

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Back at camp after another rewarding day.

 

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Ski boots that aren’t your own can be unforgiving on long touring days, but it was little to complain about.

 

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Looking north down the valley as the day ends.

 

Our spring visit to Conrad had been very successful, with a wealth of snow and ice thickness data recorded over much of the glacier. Throughout our travels , I had been scouting for potential sites for installing the weather stations in the summer; just two short months away. One would be deployed in a similar location to last year; lower on the glacier in the ablation zone (the area on a glacier where more ice/snow is lost than gained from year to year). The other would be a more ambitious venture. The upper plateau at 3,000m would provide a unique and intriguing location to gain information on the glacier’s weather and melt relationships. It would also present a much harsher environment to operate in. Would we get a decent enough weather window to allow us to install the equipment (several days work), and if so, could the system withstand a season in tough and, as of yet, untested conditions? We would find out soon enough.

 

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The moon sets behind Conrad as another day begins.

 

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‘What are men to rocks and mountains’? Ascending a western branch of the glacier.

 

Up Next: Part 2 Summer

Faith and Fire: Ethiopia’s Meskel Festival

Today, I was invited to a celebration of the Ethiopian Orthodox festival of Meskel, with members of the Ethiopian ex-pat community here in Vancouver. Click on images to view in full resolution.

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Viewing the past through the eyes of the future; a young boy records the festivities on his tablet.

 

 

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A burning beat. According to the beliefs of Ethiopian Orthodox Christians, the bonfire represents the fire lit by Queen Helena in the 4th century; the smoke from which she followed to find the burial place of the cross used to crucify Jesus.

 

 

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On Conrad Glacier: Part 1

High on a mountain glacier, sheltering from a thunderstorm. With hail and wind buffeting the blue plastic tarp I’m clutching on to, and lightning cracking above, I realise that the boxes I’m sitting on contain several large high capacity batteries. My science teachers would be proud.

Four months earlier, I had returned to Vancouver from Svalbard, and an arctic winter that I will never forget. Touching down in YVR airport though, my mind was already on the list of ideas and tasks that would need to be tackled before fieldwork in July. My field campaign on Nordic Glacier last summer (see Notes from Nordic and Return to the Field) had been successful, but this season would present a whole host of new challenges. New glacier, new sensors, new objectives.

The overall goal of my project remains the same; to measure the weather conditions over a glacier surface, and to better understand how these conditions affect melt rates. One of the main differences for this year was that two stations would be installed on the glacier rather than one. The idea behind this is to see how weather and energy patterns vary across different points on the surface of the glacier, and how this in turn affects melting. This would mean a doubling of the number of sensors that would need to be prepared and tested.

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Test set up of the two stations for the 2015 field campaign, on the grounds of the University of British Columbia (UBC).

 

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Feeling like a roadie: some of the gear that makes up one station.

 

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One of the (mostly) complete stations, in testing at UBC.

 

One of the more challenging aspects of last year’s campaign was ensuring the station remained powered throughout the summer. The nature of mountain weather means that persistent cloud can prevent a solar power system from providing enough energy to the sensors. In addition to doubling the number of stations this year, each station was fitted with a new, power hungry system for measuring turbulent air flow (an important mechanism for transferring heat between the atmosphere and glacier). The upshot is that a total of 12 large boat batteries and 4 solar panels are required this time in the hope of keeping everything beeping and recording over the season.

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Each station was fitted with two 140W solar panels.

 

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Modifying the Pelican cases. Each of these cases will house 3 large batteries for powering the stations.

 

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Packing up in the lab, on the night before departure.

 

This year’s destination is Conrad Glacier, in  the Purcell Mountains of British Columbia. I had visited Conrad at the end of last season to scout it out as a potential research site. Aside from its scientific merits, it is a beautiful part of the world; flanked by snow covered peaks, with forested valleys below and miles without engines. Named after Conrad Kain, a pioneering Austrian mountaineer who unlocked several first ascents  in this area, the glacier is one of many in this region at risk of total disappearance.  A recent study has forecast a 70% loss of BC’s glaciers this century, with almost total deglaciation in this region. Apart from global consequences to sea level rise, the loss of a glacier is the loss of a large water reservoir, putting pressure on ecosystems and communities (who use the water for drinking, irrigation, and hydro-power) during dry periods like we’ve had here this summer.

Being just a short journey south from last year’s glacier (Nordic), we would again base ourselves in the town of Golden prior to our flight into the mountains. After spending a day on the always spectacular drive from Vancouver to Golden, Valentina and I met up with Ben, a glaciologist from the University of Northern British Columbia (UNBC) who would be joining us. Over some excellent burgers, we also had the chance to catch up with Tannis and Steve, friends of ours who run a ski lodge in the area, and have been consistently helpful. The plan for the next day was to drive to a staging area in the foothills to the south of Golden, and get all our gear into the mountains in as few chopper loads as possible (with thanks as always to Steve for his expertise on this).

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A van-load of science: hitting the road for Golden, BC.

 

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At the staging site, waiting for the helicopter to take us to the glacier, with Steve, Ben, and Valentina.

 

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Still waiting

 

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Summer snow storm, clearing over Conrad Glacier

 

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Directing in the first sling load for station 1 (photo credit: Ben Pelto)

 

Three helicopter flights (and some delays) later, all crew and equipment were accounted for on Conrad. Our campsite was just off the ice itself, on a rocky outcrop overlooking the glacier. The first evening was a battle against the weather to get tents set up in between heavy showers and gusty winds. Dinner was a simple affair, with everyone retiring to their sleeping bags early; sleep coming to the sound of fluttering tent fabric.

After breakfast the next morning, we set about finding the best route from camp on to the glacier; navigating the broken and crevassed ice along the glacier margin. Two locations had been selected for station 1 and 2 not far from camp. Each station would take about two days to install, with some additional time to prepare and secure everything for a season in the mountains.

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Camp, overlooking the glacier on the western nunatak (rock outcrop).

 

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Setting a safety rope for one of the sketchier sections of our route (photo credit: Ben Pelto).

 

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Ben and Valentina drilling holes

 

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The bones of a station.

 

 

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Working my way through the sensors and wiring (photo credit: Ben Pelto).

 

The weather had a constant presence throughout the week, with wind, thunder and snow storms slowing the work somewhat, and making cooking a frigid task at the end of the day. Despite what felt like a cold spell to us, it was clear as soon as we saw the glacier that it was experiencing a warm season. In combination with low snowfall during the winter, warm temperatures had resulted in significant melt across the surface by the time we had arrived. Although close to what would normally be the beginning of the melt season, this year’s snow had already completely melted up to the high regions of the glacier.

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Ben, getting a drink from one of the many melt water streams on the glacier

 

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Wiring the radiometer, which measures the incoming radiation energy from the sun and sky, and the outgoing radiation from the glacier surface.

 

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Setting up the power system for one of the stations.

 

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The brains of the operation. Wiring up the datalogger, which is programmed to store all the data from the station, and to tell the sensors when to take measurements.

 

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Sheltering from another hail storm

 

With the stations coming together, Ben and I ventured higher up the glacier, and spent an afternoon installing ablation stakes. These stakes, installed along the length of the glacier, provided a record of how many meters of ice are lost or gained at the surface each year, and give an indication of the health or mass balance of the glacier (see Svalbard Part 2: Balancing Act). During the week on Conrad, Ben was also involved in carrying out a kinematic survey; using detailed GPS measurements to create a map of the glacier.

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Ben, navigating a crevasse field.

 

Due to weather delays, the final tasks for installing the stations were completed in the last few hours of the trip. With the helicopter due to pick us up that afternoon, I got moving early on the last day,  and headed on to the ice before dawn to shore up the last few pieces of equipment from the elements, and to make sure all the systems were behaving. In the end, two full weather stations were installed, along with a time lapse camera to monitor conditions over the season.

 

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A completed station (solar panels out of shot). This was the lower of the two stations, at around 2,130 meters elevation.

 

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Time lapse camera, for observing the weather conditions on the glacier, and for keeping track of changes to the surface and the stations themselves.

 

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Loading the helicopter for the journey back to civilisation, and a warm shower.

 

It remains to be seen how the the glacier will respond to this year’s melt season, and on a personal level, how all the equipment will perform. A good or bad field campaign will have a major impact on the timeline for my studies and on the goals I hope to achieve.  As our chopper lifted off from our disassembled camp and sped down the valley, I took one last glimpse at the stations and the glacier itself, before my eyes turned to home and my mind to the plan for the next trip.

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The sun dipping below the peaks on the western margin of Conrad Glacier.

 

A Note of Thanks: Just prior to leaving for field work, I received word that I was being awarded the Chih-Chuang and Yien-Ying Wang Hsieh Memorial Scholarship for research in Atmospheric Science. A sincere thank you to the Hsieh family. I was honoured to received it.

 

UP NEXT: The return to Conrad, and what we found.

Svalbard Part 6: Stories in the Ice

“There is no such thing as ‘just’ ice.” Not to a glaciologist anyway.

Professor Doug Benn is recounting to us his reply to a reviewer who questioned his use of the term ‘refrozen water ice’. While this may sound superfluous, the many variations in density, temperature, content, layering, and colour of glacier ice can tell us a lot about its history, and potentially, about it’s future.

 

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Prepping the Ground penetrating radar (GPR) on Longyearbreen. GPR is used in glaciology to look at the thickness and structure of a glacier. The GPR is towed across the surface, emitting pulses of energy which pass through the ice. These pulses bounce of the rock underneath the glacier, and are reflected back to the GPR, like an echo when you shout in a valley. The time it takes for this echo to travel back to the GPR tells us how far it has travelled, and hence, how thick the ice is. GPR can also be used to see if there are regions in the glacier that are ‘warm’ i.e. at its melting point, by reflecting off liquid water. The presence of these warm sections in a glacier can tell us about the glacier’s present and past; how it moves, how it used to move, and how its behaviour has changed with time.

 

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Examining the internal layering and structure of the ice on Larsbreen.

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The network of tunnels visible here are formed by the movement of air bubbles in between ice crystals as freezing takes place.

 

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A ship frozen in the sea ice, on the way to Tunabreen

 

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Arriving at the calving front of Tunabreen. Calving is the processes by which chunks of ice break off at the end or ‘terminus’ of a glacier, forming icebergs. We were there during winter, when the sea was frozen. The sea ice acts as a temporary barrier to the glacier, slowing its forward movement, and preventing calving.

 

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Tunabreen is a surge type glacier, meaning that its rate of flow or speed is not constant. Instead, the glacier may move very slowly or remain still for several years, before going through a period of faster flow, known as a surge.

 

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A glacier prayer

 

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Departing Tunabreen

 

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Surge front of Paulabreen

 

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The dark banding visible at the front of Paulabreen is evidence of its surging past. When the glacier was flowing more rapidly, large crevasses (cracks) opened up at the surface and spread downwards. Debris and dust fell into these cracks, and when the crevasses closed again as the glacier flow changed, dark vertical bands of debris mark their former location.

 

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Better to light a candle: an arctic storm led to a power cut on the night before the final exam, leading to some creative lighting.

 

 

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Morning view after an overnight snow storm

 

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One last venture into the mountains before leaving the Arctic.

 

 

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Summit ridge of Trollsteinen

 

 

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Parting gift from Svalbard: dancing aurora on the flight south to Oslo

 

 

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Glaciology PhDs: amazing experiences, zero glamour. Overnighting at Oslo Airport.

 

 

 

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Flying over the enormous glaciers on the west coast of Greenland on my way back to Vancouver, and getting re-inspired for the next adventure.

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Svalbard Part 5: The beauty of the North

Some shots from a landscape that I hope we can continue to be inspired by. Click on the images to see them in high resolution. They still won’t do the place justice, but it’s a start.

 

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Triple point

 

 

 

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Frozen air

 

 

 

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Polar bear tracks

 

 

 

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Svalbard Part 4: To the icy core

A glacier is more than an ice cube. Rather than being solid, uniform blocks, glaciers can have incredible variations throughout in terms of structure, temperature, and movement. The surface and the base of a glacier can communicate with each other, and the language of this communication is water.

When ice and snow on the surface of a glacier melts, it can produce a lot of water. Streams of this meltwater flow over the surface of a glacier during the warmer months of the year. These streams can cut or ‘erode’ into the glacier, creating paths or channels which the water flows through. Over time, these channels can cut deeper and deeper into the glacier, their roofs closing over to create tunnels through the ice which can bring the meltwater from the surface all the way down to the bottom of the glacier. This is important because increasing the amount of water underneath a glacier can encourage it to slide faster.

During the cold winter months, melt channels are generally dry. We had explored one of these channels previously on Scott Turnerbreen (see Svalbard Part 2: Balancing Act), and decided that some more time under the ice was needed. There had been reports of an excellent ice cave on Larsbreen, a glacier within an hour’s hike of Longyearbyen. So one Tuesday evening, with duties at UNIS finished for the day, Tom, Ellie, Jelte, and myself met on the outskirts of the village, and began the trek to the glacier. Our plan was to explore the cave for a few hours, and then being a bunch of idiots, to stay overnight inside the ice.

(A note on the images: the caves in the glacier were entirely dark, with our headlamps being the only source of light. Therefore, for me, much of the photography was experimental; playing around with shutter speeds, iso settings, and flashes, while avoiding damaging my camera too much when climbing and crawling. As always, click on images to see them in full resolution)

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Nighttime in the mountains above Longyearbyen.

 

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At the cave entrance, on Larsbreen.

 

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The walls of the channel were lined with a huge variety of beautiful and delicate ice structures.

 

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Glaciologist: defrosting.

 

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By the light of the moon, we found the entrance to the cave; first squeezing into a tunnel down through the overlying snow to get into the glacier itself. The passage through the ice twisted, widened, and narrowed, like a desert rock canyon; in sections coated in fragile crystal structures, then changing  to smooth, swirled patterned walls like polished marble. We followed the channel as far as we could go, descending through a series of levels and passages until we were forced to stop at a major drop; the location of what would have been a waterfall during the melt season. We picked a spot where we could roll out our bags for a few hours, and returned to the surface for some frigid air before sleep. On the way to the surface, I had a ‘how did I get here’ moment; crawling out of a glacier through a snow tunnel in the middle of the night, with a rifle on my back to watch out for polar bears, and being greeted by the northern lights.

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Our home for the night: a cosy ice chamber inside the glacier.

 

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Student accommodation in the Arctic can be grim

 

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My choice of sleeping spot, or as it became know as, the ‘MRI machine’.

 

Our night in the glacier was a memorable experience, but it felt like the caves had a lot more to show us had we been willing to push a little further. A few days later, we returned to Larsbreen.  Armed with ice climbing gear, Tom, Andi, and myself  would attempt to work our way down some of the larger drops that had stalled us on the previous visit, and see how deep we could get.

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Descent was carried out through the use of ladders, fixed ropes, and rappels for the longer drops.

 

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Climbing up

 

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Climbing down

 

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Climbing my way up through an ice chimney.

 

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Tom, about to drop over the edge of the first rappel section, which was extremely narrow.

 

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Close to the base of the glacier, looking upwards through the section we had just rappelled down. The dark bands in the ice are layers of debris and sediment (rock and soil) that has been picked up by the glacier as it moved along the valley floor.

 

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Getting narrow…

 

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Narrower…

 

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Wide. We reached the base of the glacier to find a cathedral of ice.

 

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Crawling through an R channel (a tunnel cut into the bottom of the ice by a stream running along the bed), with the entire glacier above our heads.

 

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(photo: Andi Alex)

 

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End of the line. The channel eventually became too narrow for us to proceed further.

 

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Belaying Tom up the last pitch of ice climbing (photo: Andi Alex).

 

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Back on the surface, and being watched by a distant reindeer (photo: Andi Alex).

 

We found the bed of the glacier, and it was an awe inspiring experience to have this entire mass of ice lying above us. My thanks to my like-minded companions on both trips for their company; the highlight of being in such incredible places is to share it with great people.

Svalbard Part 3: In search of Sun

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.

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Setting out from Longyearbyen on Saturday morning

 

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Ice mascara

 

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The Svalbard Cold Feet Dance

 

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Some opted just to get their feet off the ground altogether.

 

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Chasing the sun across Svalbard’s wilderness

 

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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.

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Heading south, with Longyearbyen in the distance

 

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Lone hiker on Larsbreen

 

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Beginning to ascend towards the ridge

 

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The Sun! The end of polar night, as viewed from the main ridge of Trollsteinen

 

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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.

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The Aurora over Longyearbyen