Early in the morning the crew moved the ship to a harbor on the northeast side of Isla London, one of the islands in direct contact with the weather from Antarctica. After two days of glorious weather, Matt was beginning to wonder if the weather I had told him to prepare for was just a myth. He soon found out how true my warnings had been. The morning started out a bit windy and overcast, but without rain. One group set out to with the intention of ascending Horatio Peak, while Blanka and I headed to a rocky outcrop in the opposite direction. As the zodiac neared the shore the wind started to pick up, and soon became a strong steady wind came out of the southwest, gusting so hard at times to literally blow me off my feet. Fortunately, as we worked up the slope the wind was at our backs and helped propel us as we scrambled over the vegetation, walking on top of the canopy of dwarf beeches as on the previous morning.
In short order, though, a heavy, horizontal, rain began. I had become separated from Blanka, all I could do was hope that she was able to find shelter. (I later discovered she had also tried to find me to let me know she was fine). On the side of a ridge I plopped down and sank into the shrubs; I was completely below the surface of the dwarf tree canopy, but could see out. The rain blew in sheets as spray from the sea was whipped up and blown ashore. The water dripping down my face tasted salty. Because of the high winds, it was too dangerous to walk around. For about a half an hour I remained immersed in the shrubs and watched as the rain and wind blasted the island. I was glad I was not up on an exposed ridge like the other group, and hoped they had found shelter. After some time, the winds became less gusty and died down, and the rain softened so that it no longer felt like pellets as it hit my skin.
Our two days in Punta Arenas seemed to drag on after such a great first part of our expedition. However, it did mean we were able to pick up Matt and buy a few things to tweak the moss dryers. On the morning of January 28 we returned to the port to board our trusty ship. Going out onto the dock, the ship, which was sandwiched between a large naval vessel and a massive cruise ship, looked even smaller. A number of the passengers disembarking from the cruise ship stopped and asked what we were doing. As soon as I hear an American accent I tell them “Your tax dollars at work!” and briefly explain the project. I think it is important for them to know that their taxes pay for something more than war.
Shortly after we untied from the dock and headed south, once again motoring through the Straits of Magellan, a pod of at least ten dolphins joined our ship. They criss-crossed in front of our ship for over an hour, seemingly doomed to a collision which never came. The same time the sea was remarkably calm; even in canals where we had previously encountered violent water, the ship hardly rocked. The captain chose to take an inland passage rather than the more commonly used Cockburn Canal. We seemed, time and again, to enter into a dead end sound, only at the last minute to watch it turn into a previously invisible sound. A short time later the passage we had just come from had similarly disappeared. Going down these narrow waterways, as opposed to wide canals, gave us a better view of the incredible forests that march up the shores. Although continuously overcast, the evening light was almost luminescent and navigating through a veritable maze of islands was a special experience. Once again I delighted in Matt’s reaction to the astounding landscapes, as I had with the others in our group the previous week.
Before going to bed I spoke with the captain and explained the area we wished to cover and told him that it was his decision, based on navigability and weather, as to where we started. If we had relatively good weather, we would stop at the westernmost islands south of the Brecknock Peninsula; or if the weather looked bad, we would go to the eastern end of the area where sheltered sounds would allow us to still work. The far western islands have proven tricky in previous trips where it rained hard and incessantly with fog drifting across the area making it unsafe to get far from the ship. These islands have no land between them and Antarctica. However, it is this very climate–as harsh as it may seem when we are out collecting–that may well be encouraging the growth of mosses that we do not otherwise see in our region. During the night, most of us awoke as the ship hit rough waters and was buffeted about as we rounded the Brecknock Peninsula in seas open to Antarctic winds and storms. In the middle of the night, it almost seemed dreamlike.
Garden Member and avid amateur wildlife photographer Patricia Gonzalez sent over this picture of a female Ruddy Duck that she snapped at the Garden this weekend.
Female Ruddy Duck (photo courtesy of Patricia Gonzalez - All Rights Reserved)
It may seem hard to believe, but signs of spring are all around us here at the Garden. The Chinese witch-hazel has unfurled its sunny, yellow streamers, the Magnolia kobus near the Visitor Center is covered in buds, and there’s still a faint glow in the sky when we all head to Botanical Garden station to catch the 6:04 p.m. train back into the city. But, this is not to say that we all couldn’t use another assurance that spring is on its way. And isn’t the promise of being taught how to arrange the most gorgeous, fragrant spring flowers–lilies of the valley, muscari, lilacs–by two of Brooklyn’s most sought-after florists the very thing to raise your spirits?
Arrangement from the class Spring Flowers 101, photo courtesy of the Little Flower School
The first class, Fragrant Flowers, will be held on Wednesday, May 16 from 6-9 p.m in Manhattan at our Midtown Center. The class will focus on the art of layering flowers, not just to form a pleasing arrangement, but also to create an amazing aroma.
On Saturday, June 4, from 10 a.m.-3:30 p.m. join Sarah and Nicolette at the Garden for From Garden to Vase. The class will begin with a curator-led tour of the Garden, and then after a break for lunch students will head inside to make wild, lush arrangements inspired by the Garden and featuring some very special cuttings from the grounds!
From Garden to Vase will be repeated on Sunday, September 11 from 10 a.m. – 3:30 p.m. to take advantage of fall’s beautiful flowers, fruit, and foliage.
We are so excited to have Sarah and Nicolette joining us for these amazing classes at the Garden! Space is limited, so be sure to register for one, two, or all three soon.
January 30, 2011; Unnamed sound on south side of Brecknock Peninsula, NW of Isla Georgiana, 54°36’S, 71°49’W
One group set out to with the intention of ascending Horatio Peak, while Blanka and I headed to a rocky outcrop in the opposite direction. As the zodiac neared the shore the wind started to pick up, and soon became a strong steady wind came out of the southwest, gusting so hard at times to literally blow me off my feet. Fortunately, as we worked up the slope the wind was at our backs and helped propel us as we scrambled over the vegetation, walking on top of the canopy of dwarf beeches as on the previous morning.
In short order, though, a heavy, horizontal, rain began. I had become separated from Blanka, all I could do was hope that she was able to find shelter. (I later discovered she had also tried to find me to let me know she was fine). On the side of a ridge I plopped down and sank into the shrubs; I was completely below the surface of the dwarf tree canopy, but could see out. The rain blew in sheets as spray from the sea was whipped up and blown ashore. The water dripping down my face tasted salty. Because of the high winds, it was too dangerous to walk around. For about a half an hour I remained immersed in the shrubs and watched as the rain and wind blasted the island. I was glad I was not up on an exposed ridge like the other group, and hoped they had found shelter. After some time, the winds became less gusty and died down, and the rain softened so that it no longer felt like pellets as it hit my skin.
