Field notes

These shots are from dropping BRUVS in Antarctica, which still feels slightly surreal even after doing it a few times.

BRUVS are pretty simple in concept. It’s a camera mounted on a frame with a small bait source out front. You drop it down, leave it for a set time, and it records whatever comes in. No fishing, no divers, no disturbance. Just a clean, repeatable way to sample what’s actually there. From that footage we pull out species presence, relative abundance, behaviour, and build a picture of the community.

I’ve used the exact same setup in Australia. Warm water, clear visibility, fish coming in almost immediately, usually in numbers. You can almost predict what’s going to show up based on habitat.

Antarctica is the complete opposite. Everything about the process is harder. You’re dealing with freezing water, ice, wind, and gear that doesn’t always want to cooperate. Even just handling ropes with gloves on takes twice as long. Then you drop the system into this cold, dark water and wait, not really knowing what you’re going to get back.

But that’s what makes it interesting. Same method, same standardised approach, but two completely different ecosystems. It’s one of the few ways you can directly compare places like tropical reefs and polar systems using the same lens.

And when you finally pull the BRUVS back up, you get a look at a part of the ocean you’d never otherwise see, especially down here.

This is Nora and I out working in Antarctica, and a big part of what we’re doing here is birding, just in a slightly different way to what most people are used to.

We log everything through eBird. Same app people use in their local parks, but instead of a trail or a backyard feeder, it’s open ocean, ice, and a moving ship or zodiac. Every sighting goes in with time, location, and effort, so it’s not just a list, it becomes usable data.

Birding down here is a mix of patience and quick reactions. You’ll have long stretches of nothing, then suddenly a burst of activity. Petrels cutting low over the water, skuas hanging around looking for an easy meal, the occasional albatross just cruising past like it owns the place.

The challenge is that everything is moving. The birds, the boat, the weather. You’re logging species while getting sprayed by freezing water, trying to keep your phone or notebook functional with gloves on, and making sure you’re still actually identifying things properly.

But that’s what makes it good. Every checklist becomes part of a much bigger picture. Over time, you start to see patterns in where species show up, how they track conditions, and how these systems are structured.

It’s birding, just scaled up to one of the most remote environments on Earth. And somehow, it still comes down to the same thing, paying attention and writing down what you see.

Working in the Arctic feels different to Antarctica straight away. Not just because of the geography, but because people live here. You’re not just passing through a remote system, you’re stepping into someone else’s home.

A lot of the communities we visit are closely tied to the ocean. Fishing, hunting, travel, everything is built around seasonal changes in ice and wildlife. You get a real sense that the environment isn’t something separate, it’s part of daily life in a way that’s hard to fully grasp until you see it.

From a scientific point of view, it adds another layer. You’re still collecting data, running deployments, doing the same kind of work. But you’re also aware that changes in these ecosystems aren’t abstract. They’re visible, immediate, and often already being felt by the people who live there.

What I’ve found interesting is how much local knowledge lines up with what we’re trying to measure. People notice shifts in species, timing, ice conditions, long before it shows up in datasets. It’s a different kind of monitoring, but just as valuable.

It changes how you think about the work a bit. It’s not just about understanding ecosystems in isolation, it’s about understanding them as part of a system that includes people, livelihoods, and culture.

And compared to Antarctica, that human element is what stays with you the most.