29 Jan 2020

Duke of York Island

The one constant of this adventure aboard the Spirit of Enderby: each day is different. At breakfast we learned that landing at Cape Adare a second time had been thwarted. On our way south the tide and ice conspired against us; it seems our passage north has had no better luck. New plans are laid, and we steam two hours up Robertson Bay, to arrive at Duke of York's Island. We anchor within a bowl formed of alternate high peaks and glaciers flashing blue and flowing down into the water. And here the first cut is made. Our team is disunited; becomes two when faced with choice of high or low. The highlanders are to ascend, climb ice and shale cliffs to gain the ridgeline that runs razor like above us. The lowlanders will take to zodiac and cruise gently, sedately past the glaciers.

Adélie's honk gently on a mirror smooth fiord as boats are launched and loaded. The climbers depart first and go to land. A baker's dozen we are, Nathan and his 12 apostles. Life jackets discarded we start our climb, first ice and then steep mix of rock and shale. Ridge gained some 500 feet later; we are rewarded with views across the bay. Down onto glacier and ice fields; to half thawed aquamarine lakes; and the specks of bright colours of our better halves in black zodiacs far below. Adrenalin and endorphins our natural reward on safe descent. We all enjoy a well-earned pizza for lunch.

After lunch Nathan rings a bell signalling the call for those brave enough to dare the Polar Plunge. Again, we see a dozen rise to the challenge set. Mostly a different dozen this time, with just four from our team of fifty in both elites. Our glorious leader is strangely absent this time; removed from his expected place our front. Each hero descends the ladder; pauses; leaps; and whilst in mid-air strikes pose for photographer bobbing in safety boat alongside. Cheers from the assembled audience are drowned by gasps and curses from hero, exits and ascends ladder with alacrity.

Our plungers remerge, now warm and dry, into an afternoon of sun. It gleams down across the Admiralty mountains sending beams of prismed light in shafts across a still and silent sea. Excitement ebbs and most retire to sleep; a faithful few stand to on the bridge with Russians whiling away a quiet watch. An hour on, as we approach the head of sound, the Cape coming into sight, those watching are rewarded. A blow, then two, then three, then many, and black gracious torpedoes cutting through the water, a mile off bow. We decided later that the "many" term for minke should be a "Magic", for this is what they were. We saw 20 minke, line abreast, feeding, blowing in the sun. Then, just by bow, pausing, rolling, lunging and half breaching. Jet black of back, the white beneath, loud low spray of breath as they surfaced.

This display saw our team reunified, together back as one. Packed into bow and bridge, now chattering, now silent; we lose ourselves in spectacle not seen by any whale watcher here, nor even by young Nathan these 20 years. Like flyby organised for royalty our whales came back again. And after that we too turned and followed them back up the sound, retracing miles just gained. It was an hour of joy, this land sharing of its best.

We returned to Cape Adare, an hour late or more. We found our landing blocked by ice, a mile less than at breakfast, but still blocking a zodiacs progress to the shore. But chatter didn't pause, and spirits didn't drop, and we drank beer at the bow in the sun as we picked our way through the pack and started the long journey north away from ice and towards the next adventure.

Image from file © A.Breniere, Heritage Expeditions