Unquiet Ice

Robin E. Bell

Abundant liquid water newly discovered underneath the world's great ice sheets could intensify the destabilizing effects of global warming on the sheets. Then, even without melting, the sheets may slide into the sea and raise sea level catastrophically.

As our P-3 flying research laboratory skimmed above the icy surface of the Weddell Sea, I was glued to the floor. Lying flat on my stomach, I peered through the hatch on the bottom of the plane as seals, penguins and icebergs zoomed in and out of view. From 500 feet up everything appeared in miniature except the giant ice shelves—seemingly endless expanses of ice, as thick as the length of several football fields, that float in the Southern Ocean, fringing the ice sheets that virtually cover the Antarctic landmass. In the mid-1980s all our flights were survey flights: we had 12 hours in the air once we left our base in southern Chile, so we had plenty of time to chat with the pilots about making a forced landing on the ice shelves. It was no idle chatter. More than once we had lost one of our four engines, and in 1987 a giant crack became persistently visible along the edge of the Larsen B ice shelf, off the Antarctic Peninsula—making it abundantly clear that an emergency landing would be no gentle touchdown.

The crack also made us wonder: Could the ocean underlying these massive pieces of ice be warming enough to make them break up, even though they had been stable for more than 10,000 years?

Almost a decade later my colleague Ted Scambos of the National Snow and Ice Data Center in Boulder, Colo., began to notice a change in weather-satellite images of the same ice shelves that I had seen from the P-3. Dark spots, like freckles, began to appear on the monotonously white ice. Subsequent color images showed the dark spots to be areas of brilliant dark blue. Global climate change was warming the Antarctic Peninsula more rapidly than any other place on earth, and parts of the Larsen B ice surface were becoming blue ponds of meltwater. The late glaciologist Gordon de Q. Robin and Johannes Weertman, a glaciologist at Northwestern University, had suggested several decades earlier that surface water could crack open an ice shelf. Scambos realized that the ponding water might do just that, chiseling its way through the ice shelf to the ocean waters below it, making the entire shelf break up. Still, nothing happened.

Nothing, that is, until early in the Antarctic summer of 2001-2002. In November 2001 Scambos got a message he remembers vividly from Pedro Skvarca, a glaciologist based at the Argentine Antarctic Institute in Buenos Aires who was trying to conduct fieldwork on Larsen B. Water was everywhere. Deep cracks were forming. Skvarca was finding it impossible to work, impossible to move. Then, in late February 2002, the ponds began disappearing, draining - the water was indeed chiseling its way through the ice shelf. By mid-March remarkable satellite images showed that some 1,300 square miles of Larsen B, a slab bigger than the state of Rhode Island, had fragmented. Nothing remained of it except an armada of ice chunks, ranging from the size of Manhattan to the size of a microwave oven. Our emergency landing site, stable for thousands of years, was gone.

Suddenly the possibility that global warming might cause rapid change in the icy polar world was real. The following August, as if to underscore that possibility, the extent of sea ice on the other side of the globe reached a historic low, and summer melt on the surface of the Greenland ice sheet exceeded anything previously observed. The Greenland meltwaters, too, gushed into cracks and open holes in the ice known as moulins - and then, presumably, plunged to the base of the ice sheet, carrying the summer heat with them. There, instead of mixing with seawater, as it did in the breakup of Larsen B, the water probably mixed with mud, forming a slurry that was smoothing the way across the bedrock - "greasing," or lubricating, the boundary between ice and rock. But by whatever mechanism, the giant Greenland ice sheet was accelerating across its rocky moorings and toward the sea.

More recently, as a part of the investigations of the ongoing International Polar Year (IPY), my colleagues and I have been tracing the outlines of a watery "plumbing" system at the base of the great Antarctic ice sheets as well. Although much of the liquid water greasing the skids of the Antarctic sheets probably does not arrive from the surface, it has the same lubricating effect. And there, too, some of the ice sheets are responding with accelerated slippage and breakup.

Why are those processes so troubling and so vital to understand? A third of the world's population lives within about 300 feet above sea level, and most of the planet's largest cities are situated near the ocean. For every 150 cubic miles of ice that are transferred from land to the sea, the global sea level rises by about a 16th of an inch. That may not sound like a lot, but consider the volume of ice now locked up in the planet's three greatest ice sheets. If the West Antarctic ice sheet were to disappear, sea level would rise almost 19 feet; the ice in the Greenland ice sheet could add 24 feet to that; and the East Antarctic ice sheet could add yet another 170 feet to the level of the world's oceans: more than 213 feet in all. (For a comparison, the Statue of Liberty, from the top of the base to the top of the torch, is about 150 feet tall.) Liquid water plays a crucial and, until quite recently, underappreciated role in the internal movements and seaward flow of ice sheets. Determining how liquid water forms, where it occurs and how climate change can intensify its effects on the world's polar ice are paramount in predicting—and preparing for—the consequences of global warming on sea level.