Deception Island, South Shetland Islands
Antarctica is a place that leaves many of its visitors awe-struck and hard-challenged to adequately describe the overloaded amount of visual stimulus. To someone who has never seen a photo nor traveled to the “White Continent”, an initial preconception might be summed up to just a lot of ice, rocks and penguins. But to the few who are privileged enough to witness it firsthand, the incredible amount of visual diversity is almost overwhelming, and far more than just a lot of ice, rocks and penguins. However, as rich as the pallet can be for the eyes, it can just as equally saturate our auditory senses, especially for those who choose to listen.
Upon arriving at Baily Head on the outer rim of Deception Island, the dominant sound was that of and endless amount of dying swells sifting through the coarse granules of a seemingly endless black-sand beach. The sounds on the beach alone were hypnotic and could easily have trapped anyone for hours. But there was much more to hear. Our next scene finds us sitting on the rim of the caldera, eyes closed and just listening. Having recently climbed to this particular elevation, a faint heartbeat could still be heard within the inner ear. Then one breath, two breaths, followed by a slow and steady rhythm of breathing. Once settled, the real symphony began. In reality, we were sitting on the edge of a natural auditorium. The performers were over 100,000 pairs of chinstrap penguins, filling the walls in, above, and all around us. With eyes shut, the orchestra was almost deafening. Yet after only a few moments of careful listening, it became some of the best ear candy that nature had to offer.
Next, we found ourselves at Neptune’s Window overlooking Whaler’s Bay. Once again, eyes closed and sitting on a rock, a frigid yet gentle breeze rushed across our fleece covered ears. The dominant sound here was that of the cape petrels calling out to each other and the wind, perched carefully in their nests, littered across the cliff faces. The distinct chirp of some Antarctic terns would occasionally be integrated with the capes, marking their small part in this overture.
We finished our day in Whaler’s Bay and filled the air ourselves with a multitude of auditory inflections. A variety of yelps and screams emanated from those who chose to brave the frigid wind against bare skin and witness firsthand what geothermal water in Antarctica feels like. And the rest of the hoots, hollers and cheers of encouragement came from those of us who were brave enough not to.
Antarctica is a place that leaves many of its visitors awe-struck and hard-challenged to adequately describe the overloaded amount of visual stimulus. To someone who has never seen a photo nor traveled to the “White Continent”, an initial preconception might be summed up to just a lot of ice, rocks and penguins. But to the few who are privileged enough to witness it firsthand, the incredible amount of visual diversity is almost overwhelming, and far more than just a lot of ice, rocks and penguins. However, as rich as the pallet can be for the eyes, it can just as equally saturate our auditory senses, especially for those who choose to listen.
Upon arriving at Baily Head on the outer rim of Deception Island, the dominant sound was that of and endless amount of dying swells sifting through the coarse granules of a seemingly endless black-sand beach. The sounds on the beach alone were hypnotic and could easily have trapped anyone for hours. But there was much more to hear. Our next scene finds us sitting on the rim of the caldera, eyes closed and just listening. Having recently climbed to this particular elevation, a faint heartbeat could still be heard within the inner ear. Then one breath, two breaths, followed by a slow and steady rhythm of breathing. Once settled, the real symphony began. In reality, we were sitting on the edge of a natural auditorium. The performers were over 100,000 pairs of chinstrap penguins, filling the walls in, above, and all around us. With eyes shut, the orchestra was almost deafening. Yet after only a few moments of careful listening, it became some of the best ear candy that nature had to offer.
Next, we found ourselves at Neptune’s Window overlooking Whaler’s Bay. Once again, eyes closed and sitting on a rock, a frigid yet gentle breeze rushed across our fleece covered ears. The dominant sound here was that of the cape petrels calling out to each other and the wind, perched carefully in their nests, littered across the cliff faces. The distinct chirp of some Antarctic terns would occasionally be integrated with the capes, marking their small part in this overture.
We finished our day in Whaler’s Bay and filled the air ourselves with a multitude of auditory inflections. A variety of yelps and screams emanated from those who chose to brave the frigid wind against bare skin and witness firsthand what geothermal water in Antarctica feels like. And the rest of the hoots, hollers and cheers of encouragement came from those of us who were brave enough not to.
