AMUNDSEN GULF, N.W.T. -- Arctic scientists are a lot like jazz musicians ¬ -- if they don't know how to improvise, they're doomed.
Working in a remote location where weather is unpredictable and replacement parts are impossible to procure, the 27 academics aboard the Canadian Coast Guard research vessel Amundsen must be patient, creative and above all, maintain a healthy sense of humour.
Helmuth Thomas measures concentrations of carbon dioxide in sea water.
Take the case of Environment Canada research scientist Ralf Staebler, who studies ozone in the lower Arctic atmosphere.
Two weeks ago, the Toronto meteorologist boarded the Amundsen in the hopes of placing a mobile array of atmosphere-monitoring equipment on a wooden sled dubbed Ooti, for "out on the ice."
He brought devices to measure ozone, mercury and carbon dioxide in the air and also toted backup components in case any of the gizmos failed.
He brought a GPS antenna to keep track of the sled, a wireless ethernet transmitter to stay communicated and insulation to prevent the whole works from freezing up.
Staebler brought everything but a backup central processing unit -- which was apparently damaged when an overzealous airline security screener decided to open up the odd-looking computer and poke around.
Meteorologist Ralf Staebler, by his ‘Ooti,’ studies ozone in the lower Arctic atmosphere. He had to improvise for a central processing unit.
Twelve mildly frustrating days later, Staebler has Ooti ready to roll... er, slide out on the Arctic ice, after managing to repair every aspect of the CPU except its ability to transmit video.
"When you first start getting into field work, this sort of thing can get you down," says the 42-year-old meteorologist. "You just have to accept the fact things happen, cut your losses and go out and do what you can."
Isolated by geography and tested by climate, the researchers on board the Amundsen really do have to go with the Arctic floe.
On Tuesday, the oceanographers on board could not lower probes from the belly of the icebreaker because of a broken beam that normally serves to prevent undersea currents from carrying away expensive scientific equipment.
The ship is also without a functioning band saw to slice up ice samples and is down to one ice-coring tube after one of the $8,000 devices was dropped off the edge of a floe during a minor mishap.
But even more frustratingly, the ship's entire late-winter agenda has been messed up because the Amundsen Gulf, its chosen area of the Arctic, is not freezing up the way it normally does.
For two weeks, chief scientist Gary Stern and Capt. St ©phane Julien have been looking for a patch of immovable ice located over deep water so they can park the boat for a couple of weeks but still conduct some worthwhile science.
But the ice bridge that normally forms between Banks Island and the Northwest Territories' mainland has not materialized this year, making the gulf resemble what Stern calls a "bathtub full of bits of broken styrofoam" -- a lot of ice floes blowing around in the wind.
Plan B, in this instance, will be to park the boat closer to coastal ice, though the relatively shallow waters will not be as interesting to oceanographers.
But there are researchers on board happy to have the ship stop in any location. That's because even normal conditions aboard the icebreaker can be challenging when you're trying to collect and analyze data.
When the ship is plowing through ice and every surface vibrates like a gong, Dalhousie University professor Helmuth Thomas finds his $80,000 array of carbon dioxide-measuring equipment doesn't function properly.
The marine biogeochemist's simple solution turned out to be a Canadian classic: duct tape, which is now a standard component on a device known as a coulometer.
WoRandall King in a cramped laboratory near the back of the icebreaker, Thomas measures carbon-dioxide concentrations in seawater every day, for 12 to 15 hours.
The long shifts are compulsory because it takes four hours just to warm up one of his machines, which then must remain operating. The resulting drudgery is probably the biggest challenge inherent in Arctic field work -- even more so than the broken components, unforeseen glitches and wacky weather.
"Discipline is one of the hardest parts of being on the ship. From time to time you have to fight with yourself, because sometimes you just want to go into your bed," says Frederic Brabant, a sea-ice researcher from Belgium. "In this situation, you are your own worst enemy."
The trick, say the researchers, is to not think too hard about the work you're doing and simply immerse yourself in a routine.
Or as Thomas says: "You simply do it."
bartley.kives@freepress.mb.ca
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