Spring Moon of the Southern Cross
In the Amalia Fjord, headed for the Amalia Glacier. We’re now sailing roughly east on the 50th latitude, 50 minutes. We’ve come back into the fjords from our necessary journey out to sea to sail round a large peninsula. On either side of the ship bread loaf shaped mounds of hard rock rise from the fjord, some with small trees and shrubs, others bare. Behind them taller peaks rise, snow dotting them from time to time.
This huge ship feels a bit closed in here, as if it would not do well if frightened with too little room to move.
Clouds brush the tops of both bread loaves and mountains, a scene that could contain a troll or two, perhaps Odin and Thor and not look unusual.
The ship, at 18 knots on the open sea, has slowed down here and we slide past the rocky inlets and their guardians at a stately pace, almost funereal, as if a burning Viking ship might precede us.
The sun and sand crowd will find nothing to like in this part of the world, but two constitutionally introverted northern Europeans (I’m half-German, the Celtic roots only a quarter.) find this vista calming, familiar and conducive to creativity.
I’ve seen glaciers from afar, stuck in the high valleys of the Rockies, but I’ve never seen one as close as I imagine we will get in twenty minutes.
Passengers have a variety of cold weather gear ranging from down coats to shorts and a wind breaker. I bought, as I had planned, an alpaca sweater in Ecuador. It zips and has a register of llamas topped by stylized golden stars with red and yellow wool at the top register and the bottom. As you might expect, it does not stop the wind, but it does make warm with a zip up hoody over it.
This portion of the trip has switched the nature of our journey, putting the emphasis on the natural world and on a particular part of it unfamiliar to both Kate and me.
