A Day in Antarctica
We speak to climate change scientist and activist Ella Gilbert about her experience of living in isolation in Antarctica.
Steve Waters’ double-bill of plays, The Contingency Play, charts the story of climate change scientists fighting for change in the UK. Our postponed production was due to be staged this summer, with the cast set to start rehearsals in March.
Before the temporary closure of the theatre, Resident Assistant Director Sara Aniqah Malik had begun researching the themes of the production. As part of this research process, she spoke to scientist and activist Ella Gilbert to get insight into the life of a glaciologist. As well as informing the world of the play, Sara and Ella’s conversation also speaks to the current situation, as Ella explains in this blog post exploring what it means to fight for climate justice and the experience of living in solitude at the South Pole.
‘I’m Ella, an activist and Antarctic climate scientist. As an activist, I’ve campaigned against the fossil fuel and aviation industries, and my academic work attempts to decipher the main causes of melting on floating ice shelves. It’s taken me to Rothera, the British Antarctic Survey’s main research station, where I spent six weeks in 2017 taking airborne atmospheric measurements. We’re witnessing climate change first-hand in the polar regions, and my fieldwork there has strengthened my resolve that scientists should speak out to catalyse climate action, and that activists and scientists can learn from each other.
To celebrate the Donmar’s production of The Contingency Plan by Steve Waters, I am delighted to share my thoughts and personal experiences battling climate change and doing research in Antarctica. Here’s what a day in Antarctica looks like:
It always starts the same way: up at 7, shower and dress as quickly as possible. It gets hot in all those layers, so you have to act fast. Heading out from the accommodation block, add another 5 minutes to pull your boots, jacket and sunglasses on. Then, a short, snowy trudge to breakfast and another 5 minutes to take everything off again.
Grab a coffee and make some toast or help yourself to porridge, then head up to the 8 am weather briefing. There, the on-station weather forecaster summarises the expected weather conditions for the day. The pilots, station management and project scientists squeeze onto three sofas in a tiny rec room to decide whether it is safe to fly, at what time, and where.
If the weather’s good enough, it’s back downstairs to make sandwiches for the flight, pack a bag with supplies for an unscheduled emergency landing (extra warm layers, water, snacks), and then to the office to make a flight plan. There, you decide what you want to achieve: do you want to profile the depth of the atmosphere by flying up and down in a zigzag, or perhaps fly very low over the sea ice edge?
Then, it’s down to the aircraft hangar to wrestle yourself into your flight suit, a lurid, water-tight, orange rubber monstrosity. Hope you’ve been to the toilet and didn’t drink too much coffee at breakfast, because once it’s on, there’s no getting out until you land again. After takeoff, it’s all hands on deck — the lead mission is scientist in charge, taking notes from the co-pilot seat and recording anything significant in the flight log. You’re in the back, operating instruments, opening and closing valves and checking the data looks alright.
Back at base, the data must be downloaded, processed, and the aircraft reset ready for the next flight. The real work begins once you’re back in the UK, though. Back home, we plot graphs, maps and charts, and try to understand what the raw numbers mean. All of this can take months or years to put together into meaningful outputs like talks, posters or scientific papers.
Working in Antarctica is amazing, but it can be tough. Firstly, you’re isolated and have to do everything for yourselves. There’s no fresh fruit or veg, so everything you eat must be frozen or dried. When ‘freshies’ occasionally land with new staff, they get pounced on. Working outdoors in the cold is physically exhausting and everything takes longer in Antarctica. We’ve even got a name for it: “Antarctic time”. It’s the extra five minutes for every time you leave or enter a building to take off all your outer layers: sunglasses, hat, gloves, boots, salopettes… and then put them back on again; or to do anything outdoors with two pairs of gloves on. Have you ever tried to use a laptop or turn a screw wearing oven gloves? Let me tell you, it’s a challenge. The weather can also change very, very fast. One minute it’s brilliant sunshine, the next you’re battling through a blizzard to get back to base. If you’re in the air, the aircraft is VERY cramped. The cabin is full of scientific equipment, which you can see in the photo below, and an extra long-range fuel tank, so you can’t stand up. Plus it’s hot, sweaty and extremely noisy.
The challenges aren’t just physical though. You’re completely stuck and being cut off from the world makes you feel powerless if things go wrong at home. It’s hard not to think about how far away you are from everyone you love. However, despite the isolation, you’re constantly surrounded by colleagues and have little time to yourself. It’s a strange combination, and the circumstances bring out the best and worst in people. You have to learn to get along with whoever you’ve been thrown together with. Lastly, when I was there in Antarctic summer, we had 24-hour daylight. It really gets to you after a while. I remember being very grateful for dark, wet, stormy British nights when I got home in January.
Overwhelmingly, being in Antarctica is phenomenal. I’ve so many great memories, but going to Larsen C really stands out. My PhD involved modelling the causes of atmospheric melting on the Larsen C ice shelf, and I spent so many hours looking at it on a map or computer screen, that to actually touch down and put my feet on it… it was special. It was a surreal experience. White as far as the eye could see, with stringy little clouds that looked like silly string in the sky, and the only sign of human life the plane, my three colleagues, and the instruments we had come to service, only visible as flags fluttering in the wind. The colours look extra vivid in that light because there’s such high contrast — the plane was violently red against that blinding white snow. It’s seared into my memory. Before we left, I filled my water bottle with snow to bring home with me, which now sits on my desk in a jar (although it’s water now of course) as a reminder of the bigger picture. It got me through some of the harder moments of writing up my PhD, and is a constant reminder of what we’re fighting for.’
