Good fortune has favoured the search for snappy,
unconventional travel sketches. W. Lacey Amy has written "St. John's: the
Impossible Possible," "Quidi Vidi: Newfoundland's Show Fishing
Village," "The Livoyeres: Labrador's Permanent People". These stories to appear later in our
blog/drf
The Icebergs of
Labrador
By W. Lacey Amy photos by the author/drf
From The
Canadian Magazine, 1912, April.
This blog post is dedicated to Richard Brown,
author of The Voyage of the Iceberg
and a scientist at Bedford Institute of Oceanography, who died in 2010.
This
story appeared the same month that the Titanic sank!/drf
Naturally we, the ten travellers on the
Solway, starting on
its thousand-mile run down the coast of Labrador, were watching eagerly for the
first sign of icebergs. And when, after rounding Cape St. Francis, one of us
caught a gleam of white on the far coast of gigantic Conception Bay he made no
delay in informing the remaining nine of his find.
The captain was
sitting with us in the stern, trying to answer a few of the questions hurled at
him by ten passengers who had heard only of Labrador as a place for exploration
or Dr. Grenfell’s administrations; and when the white spot in the distance was
pointed out to him his face suddenly became serious.
“Huh!” was all
he said at the moment, and that made it all the more serious.
Most of us knew
that an iceberg was not a picnic ground, but we had no idea it was so serious
as that.
“We’ll have to
keep a good way outside of that fellow,” he added, when the silence had become
hysterical among the women.
It certainly was
disappointing that a tiny spot of white ice six or seven miles distant should
be considered such a terrible thing. Personally, I had expected to see towering
pinnacles of gleaming white, and this non-scenic thing was not worth mentioning.
In fact, I remembered having seen a picture or two of icebergs off St. John’s,
Newfoundland, and this did not seem to fit in with them. I looked again at the
captain—I had known him merely long enough to be suspicious—but his eyes were
as serious as his tone. Fortunately, the mail-clerk was within sight, and
around his mouth I recognised the flickerings of an embryo smile. And just then
the smile passed broadly into the captain’s face.
“Yes, that’s an
iceberg, all right,” he laughed, “a cupful. It’s what we call a growler. About
two days from now I’ll be able to show you a real iceberg.”
And he did. We
were content to wait, since there was scenery enough along the east coast of
Newfoundland to make winter decoration unnecessary. But all the way down to the
Straits of Belle Isle growlers showed up here and there, and occasionally
farther out at the sea the sun would flash from a real iceberg that had lost
much of its size on its travels southward.
In the straits
themselves, where the trans-Atlantic passenger on the St. Lawrence route
frequently comes within sight of small bergs, there was no trace of ice, except
close in on the shore, where stranded chunks were slowly melting in the sun.
But once we had passed the Isle, that for which we had been eagerly looking
forward began to till the ocean spaces with a persistence that was almost
unnecessary for the gratification of our expectations. Stranded off the north
side of the island were no fewer than seven of varying sizes, all of them
giants to us at that time, but mere refrigerator pieces to our later
experiences. All that afternoon, a Sunday, our course was governed to some
extent by the icebergs around us, the captain running the steamer as near as he
dared, or swerving a little to keep a respectful distance.
Just before
sundown, as we were looking forward to our first stop on the coast of Labrador,
a long, low, peculiarly straight-topped iceberg that had been within sight for
hours was approached closely enough to give us some idea of the size to which
these floating menaces attain north of the track of navigation. It was
remarkably like in shape to the chunk the iceman leaves at the door for you or
the sun, but instead of twenty pounds in size this piece was something like
three-quarters of a mile long, a third of that in width, and it towered
straight up sixty feet. So far as we could see it was level on top, and the
only reliefs to the upright sides were the grooves and grottoes of light shadow
where a piece had broken off and left a dent in the surface. All season this
berg had remained stranded in the same spot, rapidly diminishing in size by
pieces that covered the water for a mile around. In June it had been more than
two miles long by a halfmile wide—ice enough in sight in one cake to supply
Canada for a few summers.
What its real
size must have been could be judged roughly from the accepted theory that but
one-eighth of an iceberg appears above the water, and from the fact that it was
stranded in the ocean a couple of miles from the shore, where the depth had
never been fathomed. In its regular course the steamer ran more than a mile
inside, but for the benefit of my camera the captain veered towards it as far
as he considered safe. On our return trip, more than a week later, we could see
through the moonlight that it had broken into three huge bergs, all still
stranded.
Frequently the
harbour near which it lay—Battle Harbour—has been closed for weeks at a time by
icebergs which come up from the north and run aground on the ocean bottom. And
the dozens of little bights and tickles along the Labrador coast are constantly
menaced by a similar disregard for the rules of navigation. At one calling
place we found that a growler had wandered in during the night and the
fishermen were then working to release a fishing schooner that was within when
the chilly visitor arrived. By good luck it had stranded to one side of the
channel, and they had hopes of being able to work their way out. The one relief
in an event of this kind is that the iceberg that can approach a harbour so
closely before stranding is of such comparatively small size that the sun will
complete its destruction before many weeks.
There is nothing
in man’s world so imposing or so grand as an iceberg, and the Almighty has yet
to create that which gives a more overpowering sense of relentless power, of
greatness, and of brilliance and grandeur. I saw icebergs—hundreds of them—under
all conditions—in the bright sun and under the dark clouds of a threatening
storm, in the moon’s cold rays and dimly through the shadow of night—but every
one of them, from the small growler of mimic shape to the flashing towers of
the huge berg floating undisturbedly to its southern death, roused first of all
an awe that did not lessen one degree with the growing appreciation of the
beauty of the thing. Always before one is the thought that seven or eight times
as much as that which is in sight lies beneath the blue-green water, extending
down and down to unknown depths and out and out until the captains of the
steamers breath freely only when they are miles away. Miles inside of where
some of them strike the bottom the largest vessels afloat could pass at full
speed without a thought of shoals. In the wildest seas and strongest winds they
sail undisturbed on their course; there could be no sea-sickness on an iceberg
for its roots are fathoms below the wave disturbance.
The largest
steamship would smash itself to pieces in a collision as surely as if it struck
the rocky shore, and the iceberg might sail on and on without a tremor. But,
again, that huge cliff of seemingly solid ice might be as delicately balanced
to unusual disturbance as a watch spring. The whistle of a steamer sometimes
breaks off chunks of ice that would bury the vessel without a falter. Sometimes
a boat is forced to take the chance of a passage between a berg and an island.
At such times the captain may be aware of the condition of the ice and rush
through at full speed. And the motion of the propellor through the water will
tear apart pieces that may rattle down on the boat as it passes, but the large
breaks will come more slowly, and by that time the passage is made. It is
dangerous work and seldom demanded.
In the bright
sunlight there is a colour-play about an iceberg that defies description and
the camera. The chunk of ice to which we are accustomed is lifeless, or at best
a blue-white; but around an iceberg gleaming in the sun is an aureola of green
and blue and white, gold and silver, light and shadow. Streaks of all these run
up and down and across, according to the slant of the sun and the hardness of
the layer in view. In the direct sunlight the glare is unbearable, but down
below may be a depth of shadow that makes it hard to believe in its natural
colour. And every tone and colour is as cold as steel. Under the brilliant moon
that lights Labrador the iceberg gleams and glitters, magnificent, but
fearsome. A dark night is the terror of navigation, and the captain who would
move in the open ocean off the coast of Labrador at such a time is inviting
destruction.
The shapes
assumed by the icebergs form as interesting a study as the colours. Very seldom
do they take on the regular form of the one near Battle Harbour; that was
something of a freak in icebergdom. Sometimes they project from the water in
one broad angle, and occasionally their tops are quite rounded; but for the
most part they rise in peaks and corners, irregular and jagged. Many resemble
nothing more than steepled churches, while the whole animal kingdom can be made
out of others. One big fellow we passed was like a lion. Its rounded head rose
eighty or ninety feet from the water. Underneath a part of it a channel had
been worn through large enough for a steamer; it appeared to be standing on the
water. At one point another had stranded close against the shore cliffs,
throwing up a peak that towered far above the lofty rocks of the coast. It
looked like some animal looking over into the interior.
The rivers that
rush down from many of them make a very pretty sight. Up there, it is thought
the sun melts the ice into a lake, and as this eats its way to the edge it
falls over into the ocean in a cascade that varies from a rainbow spray to a
small river, breaking in abruptly on the green and blue of the coloured sides.
But the grandest
sight of all is the iceberg breaking and turning as the balance is disturbed.
Sometimes a mighty piece will break away, and the berg will lose its balance.
As it sinks to the opposite side a piece there will become detached, and the
berg will swing back. This may continue until there are a half-dozen bergs
where there had been but one. Frequently the falling away of a pieee will turn
the entire berg over. With its balance gone, that which was above water will
sink and be replaced by that which was scores of feet below. At such times
there is danger to the boat that is within sight, for apart from the rising of
the ice that has been beneath the water perhaps hundreds of feet distant, there
is a wave sent up that would swamp a liner if it were too close.
It is told that
on a steamer running down the coast of Newfoundland a party of American
tourists importuned so hard of the captain to run close to an iceberg that he
consented. against his better judgment. When not far away the revolving of the
propellors, or fate, broke the berg into several pieces. Instantly the part
below the water commenced to rise, and from unseen depths it gradually raised
the steamer. One of the tourists turned to the captain with the query:
“What will we do
now, captain?”
“Get down on
your knees and say your prayers,” was the answer.
But the wave
that had been raised by the falling pieces swept down on the boat and slid it
into the water, thereby saving the vessel and all aboard.
I was fortunate
enough to witness the falling to pieces of one of the largest of the bergs we
had seen on our trip. On the way down the coast we had passed a monster in the
night, but returning the captain warned me to be on deck in a few minutes as we
were approaching a part of the coast where a great iceberg had been stranded
all summer. With camera prepared, I was standing on the bridge anxious to see
this berg, which even the captain considered worth special attention. Far in front
it towered, white against the dark cliffs, tall and stately, poking up a
pinnacle higher than the tallest cliff. We had approached to within a mile of
it when suddenly the top appeared to shift. I thought it was something wrong
with my eyes, until a new peak came into view, and then I held my breath while
the captain and I looked on in silence. With apparent slowness the entire top
slid down and disappeared into the water in a mighty commotion. A wave splashed
above the highest peak, sixty feet or more, and with its fall the berg split
into many pieces. For a few seconds there was nothing above the water but the
tumbling waves. Then gradually a new shape rose and poked its head out for
thirty feet, and seconds afterwards the parts that had broken off reappeared on
the surface, after a downward flight into unfathomed waters. When we reached
the remnants there were four or five bergs, and all around the water was white
with broken fragments that rubbed and grated against the steamer’s side as we
passed slowly through. I had seen that which few travellers, even to Labrador,
are favoured with.
The mail steamer
of the Reid-Newfoundland Company has never met with an accident from an
iceberg; one learns to trust Captain Parsons with the utmost faith. There is no
fear that he will take chances. For forty-five years he has sailed the coast of
Labrador, thirty of them in charge of the mail boat. But in his sailor days he
had his experiences. At one time the boat on which he served crashed into an
iceberg and crushed in its bows above water. At another time he was thrown from
his bunk by the boat glancing from one of the dangers on a moonlight night.
Fishing schooners, during the spring trip to Labrador, not infrequently are
lost, and sorrowing friends know that somewhere at the bottom of the ocean lies
a crushed boat that had no chance with the relentless iceberg.
In the spring
these bergs sometimes reach as far south as St. John’s, Newfoundland, in
enormous size, and at times the narrow entrance to that harbour has been
blocked for weeks. Not long ago two small boys had rowed out in a boat to see a
berg at close range. The berg selected that time to break in two. The wave sent
up by the splash and the rolling over of the berg rushed into the harbour and
broke many boats from their moorings. After the commotion had subsided a search
was made for the boys, but without result. Next day a fisherman outside the
Narrows heard voices calling and located them far up the side of Signal Point,
the cliff guarding the entrance to the harbour. It was necessary to lower a man
from the top of the cliff by a rope, and there he found boys and boat resting
on a ledge far above the water, having been miraculously thrown there by the
tremendous wave. It is part of the story that their mothers did not thrash them
for running away.
The icebergs
make up, perhaps, the most interesting sight of the Labrador trip. They are
unfriendly, to be sure, but their magnificence of colour and size and shape,
their stately, unyielding journey southward, gradually breaking up in the sun’s
rays and strewing the sea for miles around with growlers and fragments, are
much too worthy of sight to allow one to yield to whatever dangers they may
threaten. A field of icebergs in the daylight brings little peril to the Labrador
tourist in midsummer, and the play of sun and shadow on pinnacle and hollow is
something unimitated and unequalled by any other sight in the world.
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