Ardery Island, 'waterproof' suits, and the birds running everything
The day started, as most Antarctic adventures do, with a briefing and the quiet sense that this might not be as simple as it sounded. Arno, one of the Field Training Officers (FTO), ran us through the plan. We were heading out to Ardery Island to service a set of remote bird cameras. It was explained calmly and confidently, which is usually a sign that conditions may vary.
Stewart and I were up early and into Mustang suits. Bright red, full-body flotation suits designed to keep you alive if things went badly wrong. They looked waterproof. There was nothing to suggest they weren’t waterproof. This assumption did not survive the boat ride.
We loaded into three Zodiac inflatable boats and headed out through O’Brien Bay. The weather started off reasonably well, but as we pushed past Robinson Channel the wind and the waves began to express a different opinion. There’s a reason fewer than half the trips to this island happen. We discovered that reason fairly quickly.
We tucked in behind an island for shelter, checked how people were faring, and called BOM over the radio. Having your own weather forecaster on tap is one of the underrated perks of Antarctica. Thanks, Keris. With cautious optimism we pushed on.
Ardery Island eventually emerged in the distance. Steep, rocky, and rising sharply out of the ocean, it sits a few kilometres west of Robinson Hut. The three boats stayed offshore while Arno, Stewart, and I headed in. At the same time, the drone team began the first full drone survey of the island.
Getting to the cameras involved Arno creating a landing point, cutting steps into ice, settings ropes, clearing access points, and trying not to dwell on how wet we already were. I had forgotten spare dry socks, and with a hike ahead of us, I asked around for some spares. Thankfully, as an excellent FTO, Jess had not. I was exceedingly grateful for that bit of try clothing!
Stewart and I were tasked with servicing four bird cameras. These are custom-modified SLR cameras housed in rugged, weather-sealed enclosures with solar panels. Once a day, a small shutter opens, a photo is taken, and the shutter closes again, quietly building a long-term record of bird numbers and behaviour without disturbing the wildlife.
Once we’d warmed up, we set off across the island. Ardery Island is an ASPA, an Antarctic Specially Protected Area, which means strict limits on movement and numbers. Everything is logged. Nothing is casual. Between the three of us, we carried tools, replacement batteries, fresh SD cards, cleaning gear, and a large thermos of hot water. The hot water turned out to be the only thing capable of shifting salt, ice, and, unsurprisingly, a lot of bird poo.
Each camera followed the same routine. Clean. Inspect. Test. Replace parts. Swap SD cards. Clean again. These cameras survive year-round in sun, wind, salt, and Antarctic winter. The fact they still work at all is impressive.
By the time we finished the fourth camera, the drone team, led by Bec, had successfully mapped the island. The weather, which had been questionable all morning, suddenly became perfect. The trip back was calm, bright, and just long enough to sit quietly and take it all in.
It’s one of those experiences you don’t quite know how to explain. A remote place, a small but meaningful job, and a team you trust completely. I’m very aware of how lucky I am to be here.
For context, I’m Matt, the Information Technology Officer at Casey Station for the summer. According to my passport I’m 50% British and 50% Australian, which conveniently means I can never lose the Ashes. I was born in the Cayman Islands and now work in ICT in Brisbane for a very understanding company that’s allowed me the time to come down here for the summer.
People always ask what I miss most, and of course it’s friends and family, but especially my wonderful wife Emily, who was kind and patient enough to let me disappear to Antarctica for the summer and still be supportive about it. I don’t take that support lightly.
Outside of work I volunteer with Delta Therapy Dogs alongside my Old English Sheepdog, Hendrix, visiting the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital. Dogs have a knack for quietly improving any place they’re in. And while I fully understand why they’re no longer allowed here, I can’t help thinking that if there were one impossible upgrade for Casey Station, it would be a dog or two roaming around, morale officer duties included.
That said, there’s something special about this place exactly as it is. You don’t really want it to change. It works because of what it is and how it works. I feel incredibly fortunate to be here, and even more so to be able to share a bit of it with you.
Matt Watts
