The Dry Valleys

Thus far I’ve managed to evade discussing much of my work other than a brief, poorly written post awhile back with paragraphs stitched together from broken sentences. I received a few messages from people still confused with what I do, and after 2 months I’m proud to say that I now understand at most 20% of the science behind my ‘job’. How about another science lecture?

Stream Flow. The biggest consumption of our time is spent measuring the amount of water flowing from the glaciers to the lakes. Unlike temperate glaciers, the hydrology (water system) of polar glaciers are such that they are frozen most of the way through, while in temperate glaciers there is an internal system of flowing water. This means that most of the water flowing from a polar glacier comes from the exposed surface of the glacier that is melted by the constant 24-hour sun. This surface water then flows down the side of the glacier (sometimes as dramatic waterfalls) and collects into streams that flow downhill into the lakes of the valley. A separate research group is constantly measuring the mass of these glaciers, and another group is measuring the size of the lakes. The data that we collect can tell you how much of the glacial melt is actually reaching the lake and contributing to the lake’s rise and fall.

As good-looking as a bass fisher

Another way of measuring flow: Acoustic Doppler Velocimeter. Photo Credit: Seth Davidson

To measure stream flow we get dressed up in incredibly sexy hip waders (as worn by such athletic models as sports fishermen) and we hold something called a pygmy meter in the flow. A pygmy meter looks like a small spinning weather vane with cups. It makes a clicking sound with every full rotation. We count the number of clicks per minute or so, and this tells us the velocity of the water. We then measure the width and depth of our stream section to give us total area. Multiply area and velocity and viola! stream discharge. If you graduated 5th grade then you’re completely capable of the calculations we do.

Shiny

(If you’re currently losing interest with the dry science talk, I can truly promise that it will not get any more interesting. YouTube is just a click away.)

Stream Chemistry. Whenever we visit one of our sites we always collect a water sample for analysis. What we’re looking for are things like nutrients, cations (potassium, sodium, etc), anions (nitrates, sulfates, etc), pH, oxygen content, etc. Sound dull? Check this: the chemistry of streams just a mile apart can be completely different despite coming off the same glacier. What’s more is that a transition in glacier stream chemistry can be detected as we look at streams closer to the ocean vs streams closer inland. For instance: Streams more inland are much higher in nitrates because these chemicals collect from the atmosphere on the polar plateau and gradually move towards the exposed part of the glacier where our streams are. In contrast, streams closer to the sea have higher sulfate levels because the ocean air contributes different chemicals to those glaciers.

Our ultra high-tech lab for filtering water samples

What’s also cool is how the life in a stream can affect the chemistry. Some of our sites have thick algae and moss mats – truly the only visible permanent life in the valleys. This black, orange, or green gunk consumes what limited resources are in the water, so we find very little nitrates in the streams with large algal mats.

Different kinds of algae within our streams. Photo credit: Seth Davidson

Surveying. We have 17 sites in the valleys that have year-round computer monitoring of water height, temperature, conductivity, loneliness, etc. Way back in time (1993 I think) when these sites were installed the original researchers established elevations of the equipment and the stream. Every year during the beginning (November) and end (January) of the season we survey the elevation of our sites. We do this because elevations can change for a number of reasons: ground thaw during November, crazy massive flooding during the summer’s peak, or ground freezing during January/February.

Every guy measures at least once. Photo Credit: Seth Davidson

When we put flow, chemistry, and surveying all together we end up with a fairly good picture of the dynamics of glacial streams. While many of our sites are pretty same-same, certain questions begin to pop up. Why does one stream have huge algal mats while only a half-mile from another that has none? Why does our Blood Falls stream site still flow at -6C water temp, smell like the ocean, and look like carbonated soda? What the hell am I exactly doing here? Many things will remain a mystery, but the exciting parts about science are the cool new doors that one discovery will open up.

For those of you that made it through this I applaude you heartily. I myself fell asleep twice while writing. It’s amazing how comfortable a -40C sleeping bag is with a pack of Chips Ahoy within arm’s reach. Tomorrow is another day of big science. I’m excited.

Hard at work. Photo Credit: Seth Davidson

The dynamic movements of ice on the continent create staggeringly gorgeous formations. While I am currently surrounded by glaciers and frozen lakes, I was able to catch a glimpse of a different kind of ice sculpture earlier this season.

Around the coast of Antarctica there are many areas where the permanent ice shelves of the continent meet the winter sea ice of the ocean. Pressure ridges form during the repeated heating and cooling of the surface of the ice. The meeting of the ice shelves and the sea ice is the perfect breeding ground for these jagged ridges.

I took a walk to an undisclosed location. Without breaking any rules whatsoever, I was lucky enough to snap a few photos of my short jaunt.

When ice meets ice

Like mountains

Blues and whites

Sharp

March of the penguins

Our internet (and communication in general) has been out for the last week, preventing me from updating as frequently. Sadly it looks like we will continue to have trouble with it until the end of the season, but I will be doing my best to post again soon this weekend. It’s tricky.

We had an arrival of 6 guests at our 3 person camp for this last week, making the total population of our little commune nine. For the last three days snow has fallen over the valleys and on McMurdo Station: 11-hour flights from Christchurch have boomeranged, helicopters have been stranded at field camps for two days in a row, and communication lines have failed daily. This week has been utter chaos.

But it has been incredibly enjoyable. With the arrival of visiting scientists we’ve had a fresh change of faces and new conversation, accompanied by the overwhelming sense of sitting in a burning building while being unable to escape. It’s a bit like having Thanksgiving dinner with your entire extended family.

Upon entering our camp and seeing me for the first time since September, one of our visitors said “Holy hell, you look like a pirate.” As I blushed from what I will interpret as a compliment, I soon realized he could have equivalently meant “Holy hell, what a train wreck”.

It’s officially been two months since I entered the field. I’ve travelled a bit in the last two years and my current tent will be the most consistent place I’ve lived in during this period. My sleeping bag is as comfortable as any mattress, I put on the same set of clothes for two weeks without thinking twice, and I don’t feel as much discomfort working in the cold. But I’ve also become accustomed to things I wish I hadn’t. The glaciers I wake up to in the morning have become as regular as a cityscape and the 24-hour sun feels natural and as if nothing’s amiss. After only two months it’s difficult to keep fresh eyes for a place that I feel quite at home in. But while I have become spoiled in beautiful scenery, it has allowed me to put down my camera for once and I’m able to enjoy a hot coffee while I sit outside and watch the ice melt.

With two months finished I sit here thinking that the time is passing too quickly. I have only a month left and nights are spent plotting ways to return for another season. It will be hard to leave.

Night 1: Shaven, clean, apprehensive

Month 1: Dirty, dark, oily.

Month 2: Bearded, scruffy, disheveled

Last week we had the chance to visit one of our more remote and less visited sites: Garwood Valley. Located 30 minutes fly time south of Taylor Valley, it’s significantly smaller and quite distinct from the place we live. To get to Garwood we fly over the Kukri Hills that form the southern border of Taylor Valley and descend upon the massive Ferrar Glacier.

Kukri Hills

The Dry Valleys are located next to the immensely long Trans-Antarctic Mountain Range that divides the entire continent into West and East Antarctica. The East Antarctic Ice Sheet is the world’s largest piece of ice, and the Trans Antarctic Range prevents this sheet from moving into the valleys for the most part, keeping the Dry Valleys dry. The Ferrar Glacier is actually a lobe of the East Antarctic Ice Sheet protruding through the Royal Society Mountains (what we call this part of the Trans-Antarctic Range). The glacier is so large that rivers and lakes exist on its surface and are easily seen from a helicopter.

The Mighty Ferrar

I know, terrible quality.

After descending a mountain range not named on my map, we landed at Lake Colleen in Garwood Valley. The only place of residence is a small, uninhabited field camp run by the Kiwis by the side of the lake.

Lake Colleen and the 14,000ft Royal Societies

Garwood is a seldom visited valley and has remained in pristine condition due to the relative lack of science that occurs there. Our team has historically sampled this site only once a year, so it was a privilege grab a flight out that day. My teammate and I were dropped off at the upper end of the valley; our plan was to hike around the terminus of Garwood Glacier and follow the river down the entire length of the valley to the ocean. As the helo took off it was an incredible feeling to be alone, able to walk through an area that few will get to see.

The ‘river’ that we followed was relatively powerful compared to the small streams that we’ve been gauging this season. Garwood Stream is the most unique feature of this valley – it goes subterranean. Twice. It winds along on top of the ground for several miles but as it approaches Garwood glacier it cuts into the side of it and disappears underneath. The stream flows through the bottom of the glacier. As we walked near the edge of the ice, we could hear the raging water echoing from within the glacier. It sounded like a massive cavern was being carved into the ice. The stream emerged at the other end of the glacier’s terminus for a brief 300 hundred meters before vanishing again, this time into a large dune of dirt.

A river runs through it.

I’ve been told that a few years back a massive landslide covered the stream. Eventually, the water eroded the bottom layer of soil and created a tunnel underneath. One of our sample sites is where the stream reemerged as a thick brown gush of water.

Our 5-hour hike was extraordinarily pleasant. The only bit of drama occurred when we were walking along the loose boulders of the glacier’s moraine (a moraine is a buildup of dirt and rocks that the glacier deposits in front of it as it recedes. Glaciers act like large conveyor belts.) I stepped on top of what looked like a solidly placed rock, but the soil underneath shifted and the boulder rolled. I fell onto a soft, pointed rock, breaking my fall with my ribs. After a few minutes of massaging a bruised chest but an even more wounded ego we continued on.

As our time in Garwood was coming to a close we came across a relatively rare sight in the Dry Valleys – a mummified penguin. Penguins are actually much more likely to enter the valleys than seals. However, their skin is much softer than seals so when they die their bodies are picked apart by skuas and are much more susceptible to weathering. So while it’s not uncommon to find penguin skeletons, it much less likely to come across a penguin with mummified strips of flesh. What a treat.

Tastes like turkey jerky

Christmas was different.

On the Tuesday prior we had a surprise visit by Santa’s Sleigh from McMurdo station. On that bright and early morning a large helicopter landed and unloaded 8 elves and a wonderfully sarcastic pilot carrying a 20 pound gift box for the camp. We ravenously tore into the box and to our shock and awe it was filled with fresh vegetables, fruits, and cheeses. It was the most excited I’ve ever been about a gift I could eat.

15 scientists from throughout the Dry Valleys converged at the Lake Hoare camp for the holiday weekend. It was like getting the whole family together. And it all started rather benign. Christmas Eve was dedicated solely to the creation of highly disfigured cookies and the most immaculately intricate gingerbread house ever made in a field camp (this statement has not been scientifically validated). Over the course of 6 hours we had made the dough from scratch, used stencils to carve out slots for windows, and crushed different colored cough drops into powder to form the stain glass windows. Once baked, our creation was lit up by candles from the inside.

Could have used a bit of landscaping

Christmas day was an adventure. After being forced under penalty of death to either paint or eat the remaining cookies we geared up for the first annual Dirty Little Hoare Regatta. After sterilizing the construction materials we built the world’s sorriest excuse for a Navy out of bottles and duct tape and prepared them for launch on the small pond next to Lake Hoare. In a testament to my time growing up on the water mine sank immediately. The dragon won.

The competitors.

The winner.

Christmas dinner was an extravagant affair by all standards. After everyone had showered and put on a fresh set of clothes we gathered around the table for an incredibly civilized meal. We put up thick black canvas curtains to block the light out for a candlelit (neon?) dinner. It was the first ‘dark’ I’ve seen in over two months. It was wonderful. After good conversation and even better food it was time to steal presents in the form of a White Elephant gift exchange. Then a round of Greenland coffees were served. That’s when things got weird.

Civility. What a welcome change.

Chairs were cleared out of the way and we all lined up around the table. What happened next was a feat of physical strength and dexterity I never thought possible: the Table Traverse. The goal of it is to climb around the table (under and over) without ever touching the ground. Beginners can traverse the width, experts traverse the length. Then we tried to traverse a folding chair. It didn’t work.

The events that followed can not be explained in full detail. Here is the edited synopsis:

There were wigs and tight pants.

There was a dance party.

I hadn’t thought too much of Christmas other than that it was a very enjoyable few days. It was only the next afternoon that I had time to reflect on what a strange experience it all was. I’m unable to fully articulate the oddity of it, so I leave you with my favorite quote from the afternoon:

“When I came to he was holding a wet towel to my head and my pants were at my knees. But at least the wound was bandaged.”

Merry Christmas!