Field Lessons and Glory Land

Snow falling on buoys

Field Lessons

Leaving Nuuk, I brought a temperature control box back up to the van after making a few repairs. It was a gorgeous morning. Light snow was falling and the temperature was just cold enough to draw goosebumps. In the van, I warmed my hands over the heat pouring out of our vacuum pumps like a fireplace. We'd soon be back out in the open ocean, away from all the coastal sources of pollution and sampling natural gases from the sea surface. I brought all the instrument up to sampling mode and soon we'd be back up and running.

Ruth hauling in the CTD rosette that's just
returned from the bottom of the ocean

I checked all my connections and flipped the switch on the box I'd just installed. Suddenly sparks started pouring out of a power supply. Panicked, I quickly unplugged it and stopped the sparking. I cursed under my breath and scowled at the box. After quadruple checking all the connections and seeing nothing out of place, I hesitantly plugged the box back in, just hoping for divine intervention. It started up perfectly.

Bewildered, I sat wondering what had just happened. A good ten minutes passed before I realized snow flakes had melted on the box and caused a short circuit. After a few minutes in the warm van, the small drops evaporated luckily avoiding damaging my power supply permanently. I rolled my eyes and sighed a sigh of relief.

It was a classic example of the unique perils of field work. When else do you ever concern yourself with snow in your equipment? I was grateful for the reminder and also, to skitter out unscathed. During this Lee cruise leg (before HiWinGs) my primary goal was to learn from as many of these small mistakes as possible --without totally breaking everything. Under that view, I was way ahead of schedule. It'd only taken me two hours to get the first lesson under my belt.

We'd spend the next three weeks crossing the Davis Straight between Greenland and Northern Canada. Craig Lee and his team were studying ocean currents in this area. To do this, they'd drop a large water sampling device (a CTD rosette) into the ocean at various points. Each time they cast the CTD, they'd take dozens of water samples all the way from the surface to the ocean floor. They'd slowly make a path across the Straight (aka a transect).

UW crew hauling in a buoy (in the water on the left).
Textbook.

Their team would also scoot around the Straight replacing moorings (anchored buoys). Each of these buoys contain small rugged and low power instruments which had been taking data without any human intervention since they were deployed 2 years previously. Old ones were being picked up and new ones were being put in their place.

This was classic physical oceanography being performed by a experienced team of scientists. I was excited to be able to observe it first hand, and potentially take interesting air samples as we moved between each CTD sampling mark or buoy location.

Glory Land

By the end of the week, we'd made it across Davis Straight. Though I am an early bird by nature, something about sleeping on a ship had turned me back into a 15 year old and I didn't stumble up to lab until 10 AM. Byron, who's been leading cruises since the early 90's and well used to sleeping in sync with the motions of the ocean had been up since 4 AM. He encouraged me to take a peek out the window.

I wasn't expecting much. All week the skies had been overcast and grey.  I was also feeling pretty down. The internet connection was poor and I hadn't spoken to any close friends or family for nearly three weeks. I barely rose from my chair to look out window.

Wow.

My jaw dropped. Land. Not just small dirt mounds with their chins above water. Hulking, rusty snow-capped ridge lines filled my window. They looked mythical in the weak light of the high latitudes and their feet covered with misty sea spray.

At a distance, Baffin Island seemed like a wild glory land. Alaska without the mosquitoes. Patagonia that you can drive through. Down below the cliffs, I saw a gigantic ice shelf that was probably the size of a modest housing development.

My first sea ice sighting!

Checking the ship's weather system, I noticed that we were also in 40 knot winds (about 45 mph). This was exciting for our measurement of gas flux across the sea surface. High winds means the ocean gets better ventilated. As a bonus, the seas stayed relatively calm despite how strong the winds were because we were so close to shore. Without long stretches of ocean surface to glide over (known as fetch), even very strong winds won't have enough room to get large waves going.

Desperate for some sunshine, I bundled up and cautiously made my way outside. As soon as I stepped out into the headwind, I felt as though someone had shoved me backwards. I leaned forward grabbing on to railings and handle bars to find the best views. I snapped a few photos and felt my gums freeze over as I smiled into the wind. I felt the joy of witnessing rare terrain rise in me.

40 knots, young seas

Seeing the shore, I was reminded that the sea was not a friend but a begrudging host. Even if this particular land was just as unforgiving as the bergy waters surrounding the ship, it was familiar. It was dry. It's surface didn't change hourly with wind or weather. It ached me and thrilled me to see it.

Seeing Baffin Island filled my tank for the weeks ahead at sea. I was ready for more walking at angles and eating off moving plates because I might see something else beautiful and measure something unknown.