Suspending my cynicism the next morning, I watched the 'string' of four kayaks, each some 20 metres apart, drift slowly down the deeply cut channel away from my lens, radar antenna floating on the water behind them. My VHF radio crackled above the Arctic silence as their signal weakened, as they negotiated the meanders and ice banks of the ravine, disappearing downstream out of view. Taking to the air we caught up with them, tracking from 300 metres above, careful to go no lower in case the force of air from the helicopter's rotor would upset their course.
 
The kayaks lent a scale to the landscape, something to grade those cracks and circles; offering a reference point for the magical detail of the blue moonscape below me. On the seat next to me sat two ice-axes, a short coil of rope, a steel pole and ice auger, in my head a detailed rescue plan should our paddlers get into difficulty - this is a multi-skilled expedition and I was asked to stand in as ground support. Later sitting on a bank of ice at the half way point, sharing sandwiches and coffee, watching a smaller ravine carry melt-water into the channel, it became obvious that these guys weren't going to need any help, all experienced kayakers, it was a walk in the park for them. Twenty-five kilometres later I sunk the poles into the ice and threw out a rope as they pulled into the bank with big grins and confident paddle-strokes.
 
Alun cracked a joke that he'd forgotten to switch the machine on, but of course the data was all there, a glimpse of the graph on the screen showing the data reflected off the different densities of ice strata, which creaked deep below our feet. A perfect record of radio waves emitted from one kayak and collected by another and in between the two, the mysteries of the complex construction of Petermann.
 
In walking, running and flying the whole route, in order to put visual narrative to this crazy plan, I realised that they were perhaps not so crazy, and that amongst those six bold paddlers were three scientists who had a passionate reason for doing this; for making an exploration of a different kind, to pull data from this inaccessible place.
 
As I packaged the images to send to the outside world I received a lesson in basic geophysics. Trying to make a caption for the images, I crossed the short distance between the scientist's bench and my small photo work-station in the hold of the Arctic Sunrise. I drew diagrams, I asked stupid questions and slowly an understanding of how the science of this rather unique experiment dawned; science in the school lab was never this interesting, I no longer fear phrases like basal hydrology - I will write my Nature paper! But until then I will leave you with my photo caption, so you can judge whether I have succeeded in distilling the concept.

 
- Nick
 
Photographs: (c) Greenpeace/Nick Cobbing

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