(Jan 31, 2026)
We were asked to uninstall our radar system on January 31 so the helicopter could be used to break down camp and ferry people back to the Araon. That was no problem for us. We’d had six solid days of survey flights, covering many of our highest-priority science objectives. Some might scoff at spending two months at sea for six days of flying, but we were elated. I was ready for a change of pace—and it would be nice to see our long-lost colleagues again.
Let me briefly restate what we’d done over the past week. We strapped three large white cylinders—each roughly the size of a small telephone pole—to a helicopter. That helicopter took off and landed from the deck of a South Korean icebreaker stationed just off the Antarctic coast. It flew more than 3,000 km (about 1,860 freedom miles), effectively X-raying one of the world’s largest glaciers.
We also happened to have two media crews on board – something I was admittedly not excited about as the season approached. Unsurprisingly, our spectacle caught their attention, and, in turn, made me think more carefully about what it means to do science under observation.
One crew is from The New York Times. The other is primarily affiliated with PBS NewsHour and NOVA, though they operate independently and publish across television and social media platforms. Ostensibly, they perform similar roles, and much of what they do overlaps. Both are constantly working to document activities aboard the ship—sometimes to the point where it becomes a little uncomfortable. The helicopter crew discovers new GoPro mounts on the aircraft with impressive regularity. Occasionally you’ll be chatting on deck and notice a discreet camera zip-tied to a railing. The intent is usually benign—iceberg calving, dramatic light—but it contributes to a persistent sense of being watched.
They’ve also jockeyed for helicopter seats alongside everyone else working from the Araon. Each project exudes a sense of dedication and self-importance to their work, which in that sense makes them no different from the rest of us. But helicopters are a finite resource on the Araon, and when media fly, someone else’s work often gets deferred. That tension isn’t really their fault; they’re just doing their jobs.
Despite these similarities, the way each group compiles and presents information is fundamentally different.
Raymond, the New York Times reporter, carries a small notebook and tends to assume the role of fly on the wall when something interesting is happening. Conversations over lunch or dinner drift between work and non-work topics. When he interviews you, the only extra presence is a small recorder. These interviews can take an hour or more and often dive deep into motivations, assumptions, and technical nuance. Raymond writes individual articles that distill many projects aboard the Araon. He wrote about our project’s connection to NASA’s Europa Clipper mission, choosing his words with precision to convey some fairly nerdy science. Personally, I’m uninspired by Europa. I’m far too practical to worry about whether weird microbes could grow in ice fractures a few hundred million miles away. But I was impressed by his attention to detail. After the article ran, Raymond moved on. That’s how his job works.
On the other hand, the PBS crew is feeding television and social media audiences. They are often the iceberg in the room—it’s hard to ignore their presence. They use expensive-looking cameras. An interview involves multiple microphones, lighting considerations, and more than one take of the same scene.
My team shares a conference room with them for much of the day, and they work tirelessly. To them, the Araon is a made-for-TV drama. There’s a clear main plot (the hot-water drill camp), plus a constellation of subplots. Much of what I’ve seen resembles a trailer advertising this week’s antics. They love action shots—especially helicopters (who doesn’t). Short and attention-grabbing is the goal. Details are not. Cliffhangers help.
They also love calling Thwaites the “Doomsday Glacier.” This is a shared pet peeve among many of us. The term sounds dark and ominous, but it’s a little over the top. Thwaites is massive. It is changing rapidly. And the scientific community is working hard to understand its complexity. But “Doomsday” overstates its importance in a way that may ultimately be counterproductive. Naturally, we started using the term satirically—especially when the PBS crew was nearby.
“Hey Jason, how was dinner last night?”
“Doomsday. Fish gut soup.”
I clearly have a stylistic preference for one approach over the other. That said, I have a great deal of respect for the work all of these journalists do. Both groups are careful about factual accuracy and work nearly around the clock. They’re engaging audiences the rest of us simply can’t. I’d be surprised if more than a hundred people read the abstract of my last paper, let alone powered through to the conclusions. By contrast, The New York Times has more than twelve million subscribers, and PBS NewsHour reaches households across the United States.
The same PBS crew I just spent several paragraphs gently roasting is also producing a “virtual field trip” for 150,000 middle- and high-school students. I love the idea—and I’m thrilled to take part in it. I’ve been emailing all my friends with kids, and any overgrown adults, about the event.
I’ve had a six-week opportunity to observe the observers as they document our stories. It has been occasionally frustrating, often illuminating, and mostly humbling. It’s made me think more critically about the media I consume. When do I want detail, and when is a surface-level story enough? How much is simplified, and how much is sensationalized? I don’t think there’s a right answer.
Ultimately, if we believe the work we’re doing matters—and if we want people to care—letting the media take a peek serves a purpose. Their work is an imperfect science, just like ours. The benefits, I hope, outweigh the costs.
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