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Science on Ice

A far-flung network of teachers and students helps a university researcher track lake ice and climatic change throughout Alaska.

By Rhonda Barton

FAIRBANKS, Alaska—Tim Buckley totes a shotgun when he takes his ninth-grade general science students out to do fieldwork once a week in Barrow, Alaska. "I'd be a damn fool not to take a gun with me and parents would be upset," says Buckley. After all, his students are engaged in measuring lake ice and snow at Imikpuk Lake, a mere 100 meters from the Arctic Ocean and from polar bear habitat.

To the southwest, Todd Hindman's middle school students are also observing and collecting data on snow and ice. They climb aboard their snowmachines for the half-mile ride to their study site: an old gold mining dredge pond near the original claim that started Nome's gold rush back in 1899.

Far to the southeast, Marc Swanson's sixth-graders are participating in the same research project at Seward's Bear Lake. But their data look different. It turns out that Seward's milder maritime climate produces lake ice that's almost as thick as Nome's, but it grows upward instead of downward. That's because of "overflow," standing water on top of the ice that eventually freezes.

All three teachers are part of the widely scattered Alaska Lake Ice and Snow Observatory Network or ALISON. They're using their own backyard as a laboratory for rigorous scientific exploration that holds important clues to the variability of Alaska's lake ice and winter climate. From Barrow, Nome, and Seward to Poker Flat, Denali, and Shageluk, students are mastering scientific procedures and instruments to determine how much heat flows out of the state's lakes through the blanket of snow and ice. Best of all, the information they're gathering is part of a genuine research project—funded by the National Science Foundation, the International Arctic Research Center, and the University of Alaska—that could help predict the effects of future climatic change.

Polar Explorers

At the hub of ALISON is Martin Jeffries, research professor of geophysics at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. Though Jeffries grew up in Northern England, he's spent most of his professional life in close encounters with glaciers, ice shelves, icebergs, and sea ice. A map of Antarctica looms above the desk in his orderly office on the UAF campus, while skinny snow probes lean like pickup sticks against the wall.

In October, just as Alaska starts to freeze up, Jeffries begins his travels to the 14 schools that comprise the ALISON network. He helps each teacher set up an observatory at a nearby lake or pond: A 100-meter line of wooden stakes, spaced every five meters, marks the sampling and measuring transect for the rest of the winter. In the months to come, teachers will visit the sites—sometimes weekly—with their students, measuring the depth of the snow, the snow density, the temperature at the bottom and top of the snow cover, and the ice thickness.

Jeffries reaches around and grabs one of the probes, demonstrating. "We have a snow probe with a metric tape on the outside—it's 1.2 meters—that gets pushed into the snow to the ice surface so you can read the snow depth," he explains. "On the bottom, in a metal tip, there's a thernistor—basically an electronic thermometer—that allows you to measure the temperature down there."

Using samples and data collected at 21 points along the transect, students calculate the temperature gradient, or the rate of change in temperature, as well as the thermal conductivity of the snow. Multiplying the two numbers gives you the conductive heat flow: the amount of heat that comes out of the ice and snow and escapes into the atmosphere. The information, meticulously entered into spreadsheets, is sent to Jeffries at the Geophysical Institute. It's checked and posted online (at www.gi.alaska.edu/alison) so all the sites can compare results.

Jeffries stresses that ALISON partners are contributing to a lake ice database that has long-term value—especially at a time when the consequences of environmental change are being observed throughout Alaska and the Arctic. "We didn't create a set of measurements just because it was something (students and teachers) could do. They really are scientifically useful," he emphasizes. "Lake ice has tended to be kind of an orphan in terms of scientific interest and support. We've set out to try to change that."

The data document how lake ice thickness is changing now; they also help researchers test computer models to predict what might happen in the future. Already the students' measurements are challenging some assumptions. So far, says Jeffries, he's seeing less variability in ice thickness around the state than he anticipated.

Building On

"It was a surprise for me and Martin how different our data were than expected," says Marc Swanson, who recently retired from Seward Elementary but remains active in the project. "We got meter-thick ice, despite Seward's warmer climate. When our kids realized they were competing with Nome and Barrow, they said, 'This is cool: We've got good ice!'"

Swanson wasn't content to stay within the original confines of the ALISON project. Together with Cheryl Abbott of Wasilla High School, he created an activities book that translates the central concepts of ALISON into a classroom laboratory setting. Ten activities, all linked to National Science Education Standards, explore topics from thermal resistance to latent heat, the insulating properties of various materials, and the speed of heat transfer.

In their book, Abbott and Swanson note, "ALISON allows students of all ages to better understand the concept of heat flow. Students already come into the classroom with a pretty good understanding of heat. They know if they touch something hot they'll get burned. If they touch their tongue on a metal gate post on a 'balmy' winter day in Fairbanks, they'll become quite attached to their project. They already have an intuitive understanding, and interest, in conductive heat flow." "It is our job, as teachers, to tap into the students' interest, preexisting knowledge, and misconceptions to create a unit of study that builds on practical knowledge and moves toward conceptual and scientific understanding."

In the Far, Far North

Tim Buckley has seen how ALISON engages students who otherwise might not be turned on to science. The dozen freshmen in his general science class are enrolled in basic math and identified as at risk of not passing the state's high school qualifying exam. "Rather than putting them in physical science where algebra is required—and setting them up for failure—we use general science to patch holes. It covers everything," he says.

Buckley uses ALISON as the class's annual project for the school's science fair. "The whole class collects data and keeps track throughout the year, checking Jeffries' Web site every week to see how we're doing relative to other sites," he reports. It soon becomes obvious that Barrow's rate of ice thickness is greater than everybody else's.

Just how cold does it get at the Arctic Circle? Buckley dryly notes, "Let's say if it's 20 below and not windy, it's a pretty darn nice day. We'll go out even when it's 30 below." Using grant money, Buckley purchased 18 insulated Refrigerwear suits and surplus military "bunny boots" to protect his students in the field.

Back at Barrow High, the class loads the data into computers, creates graphs, and comes up with hypotheses. Buckley says his students—70 percent of whom are Alaska Native—already can make fine distinctions in snow and ice. He tells how an Inupiat elder visited the classroom and was able to name 12 different types of ice in a single core that students had drilled. But through ALISON, their understanding expands. "My goal is to have the kids learn how to use the scientific method to solve a problem. They get a good feel for that, and the fact that it's okay to go off in one direction and then backtrack and go off in another."

Hands-on Discovery

At Anvil City Science Academy, a charter middle school in Nome, Todd Hindman views ALISON as a great way to get parents involved. Dads who usually don't volunteer in the classroom are willing to help out, ferrying kids to the site by snowmachine or sled.

This year, Hindman is using a nearby pond to teach his fifth- through eighth-graders about the properties of water. He relates the heat of the water to how the pond freezes over and how it melts.

"Many of my kids may not understand all of the science they're doing," Hindman remarks, "but that's fine with me. What I think is important is giving the kids the opportunity to get outside the classroom and collect meaningful data that they can easily see is being used by a science researcher, who obviously enjoys the work he's doing and working with them. It's been a great experience for the kids, myself, and Martin as well."

A Helping Hand

ALISON teachers agree that one of the main reasons the project works so well is Jeffries' "inquisitive nature" and his strong desire to help K­12 teachers bring polar science into the classroom. Besides visiting the sites and personally engaging in scientific inquiry with network partners, Jeffries gathers the teachers together at the end of the school year for a five-day workshop in Fairbanks. Attending these sessions and sharing data throughout the school year forges a professional learning community and helps reduce the isolation that educators in remote areas can sometimes feel.

"The teachers really seem to appreciate they're working with a university scientist," says Jeffries. "Some of the feedback we're getting [shows] it's certainly helping them with their science and their confidence. The fact that someone is providing them with activities and materials and encouragement seems to make a difference."

When you're checking your back for polar bears, braving temperatures that dip well below freezing, and maneuvering around snow drifts, it also makes a difference to know you're pursuing an important scientific mission. Students can warm themselves with the realization that they're helping to fill in important gaps in our understanding of the rapidly changing Arctic environment.