Antarctica

I couldn't sleep. It was 3am on the third night of my Antarctic expedition. I grabbed my jacket and headed outside to the deck of the boat. The sky was pitch black, the wind fierce, the temperature downright mean. I stood there, alone, and stared into nothingness. Just a few hours before, I had seen my first glimpse of Antarctica, and taken my first photograph of the White Continent. I couldn't stop thinking about how amazing it was. That night, as I stared into the void, all I could think - all I wanted to think - was, "Holy crap. Antarctica."

As I mentioned in my previous post, this was a last minute, spur of the moment thing. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that people took trips to Antarctica, but I certainly hadn't planned on it. Then one day a flyer in my hostel screamed out to me. A 50% discount for an Antarctica trip leaving in three days. I actually deliberated for a while whether or not to do it, which is kinda pathetic when you think about it. What possible reason could keep me from going? I signed up first thing in the morning the next day. The timing worked out well, too, because had I signed up one day later, the trip would have been fully booked. The reason: another expedition leaving two days later had been cancelled because that boat, on its return voyage from Antarctica, hit a rock and suffered major damage to the hull. Not exactly the kind of thing you'd want to hear about right before signing up for the same type of trip. I kept my fingers crossed that the same fate would not befall my ship.

What did I expect to see in Antarctica before I left on the trip? Probably the same as anyone would expect to see: something like these pictures. Whiteness everywhere. Snow. Ice. Icebergs. Everything white. Frigid cold. Howling winds. Gray skies, low lying clouds, and occasional rough seas. That's exactly what I got. It wasn't always pretty out, but even when the weather was nasty, it all seemed to fit perfectly. Of course, the pictures do it no justice. You really can't appreciate the whole experience through these crappy photos. Not only am I a terrible photographer, but my camera is ill-equipped to handle Antarctica. (I had severe camera envy during the trip because a lot of people had fancy equipment with footlong lenses and tripods and stuff I had never even seen before.) The thing you have to keep in mind is that it's white, everywhere. Three hundred and sixty degrees. Sometimes the rock shows itself along the coast line, but for the most part, it's snow and ice as far as the eye can see. When the sun is out, sunglasses are a must. The reflection is actually painful. When the skies are gray, it turns into this other-wordly atmosphere. I felt like I landed on another planet where the only things around were snow, ice, and water. And, of course, the pictures can't capture the cold and the wind. The temperature varied from a balmy 34 degrees to negative numbers. Gusts in the 75mph range were not unheard of. Despite the painful weather, though, being outside was a must to really appreciate the spectacle that is Antarctica. Much of the time the boat was travelling through narrow channels and passages along the coastline. The land and ice shoot up almost vertically from the water. Icebergs and glaciers are everywhere. It feels like you're traversing an antarctic version of the Grand Canyon. It's about as amazing as you'd think it would be. I often just stood outside for hours on the deck of the boat watching this foreign world pass right before my eyes.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. How does this whole travel-to-Antarctica thing work? During the summer months from mid-November to mid-March, expedition boats and cruise ships leave almost every day from Argentina. The large cruise ships often spend 30 days travelling around Antarctica. However, the passengers on those ships never set foot on land. That seems incredibly pointless to me. (I think it's some rule enforced by a multi-national treaty that ships with more than 100 passengers can't unload the passngers onto land.) So if you want to actually walk on the continent, you have to do it from a smaller vessel. Like the one I took. That's the M/V Ushuaia. It wasn't a cruise ship at all. "Cruise ship" makes it sound like it was some giant boat like a Royal Carribean behemoth carrying 5,000 overfed people whose daily exercise is limited to walking the buffet line. The Ushuaia was built in 1960 (in Louisiana; go USA!) for scientific expeditions. Just a few years ago it was converted for tourism purposes. From the moment I walked on the ship, it was obvious that there was going to be nothing luxurious about this voyage. No jacuzzi, no movie theater, no gym. The rooms were cramped and the shared bathrooms were a bit smelly. That's my room on the right. It was smaller than the prison cells I once visited at Alcatraz. I got the top bunk, which was about 2 feet from the ceiling. Of course, I was in the cheap section - those who paid more got their own private bathrooms. The food ranged from 'this is pretty damn good' to 'no thanks, I'll pass.' (Leftovers were a common occurence. Yesterday's beef dinner became tomorrow's beef stew.) All meals were eaten in a dining room with open seating. It was a nice way to mix and mingle with new people at every meal. There was a lounge area where most people hung out, talked, read, and drank (there was a bar serving cheap beer and wine), but that was basically it. People were either in their rooms or in the lounge area, or out on the various decks of the ship, weather permitting. All that being said, no one came for luxury and I certainly didn't need it. I think I would have actually felt worse about the trip had I been pampered. The boat just seemed to fit with the whole Antarctica experience: rough and tough.

And what about the people? There were 84 passengers hailing from 17 countries. About 20 were Americans. Virtually everyone spoke English if pressed to do it, but at times the lounge area resembled a U.N. conference - Dutch, German, Hebrew, Russian, Spanish, etc. The median age of the passengers was probably 50. (The average age was probably higher than that, but averages are useless. To wit, the average American has one tit and one ball. What good does that do?) Other than two kids travelling with their families, I counted no more than 12 people under the age of 40, most of whom were solo travellers like myself. I attribute this to two main factors: cost and 'the bucket list.' A good 66% of the travellers were retirees who had always wanted to visit Antarctica before they died. The fact that there were so many older folks was turned out to be a wonderful thing. They all had an appreciation for what they were experiencing far beyond what us younger folks felt. They were there to live out a lifetime dream; we were there because it seemed like a cool thing to do. Talking with the older folk and listening to their stories about wanting to do this trip for years - the planning, the dreaming, the saving - made me appreaciate just how fortunate I was to be there. It heightened my own sense of the grandeur of Antarctica. (It's funny, though, that the prospect of near death is probably the greatest motivator for a lot of people to get out and live life to the fullest. A bit of a sad irony, in a way.) Along with the passengers and the crew were was a team of five expedition leaders. These were all scientists - two biologists, two geologists, and a climatologist. They gave daily lectures to explain what we were seeing and experiencing. They came along with us on every expedition and answered most questions with great aplumb. So I learned some things, too, which is always nice.

So that was the setup. But before we reached Antarctica, we had to cross the dreaded Drake Passage. It's the body of water between Cape Horn and Antarctica, where the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans meet. Some combination of wind, water temperature, salt content, and who-knows-what makes for very rough seas. I'm not talking about 10 foot swells. I'm not talking about 20 foot swells. I'm talking about 30 and 40 foot swells. The kind of swells that make the boat rock n' roll back and forth and side to side so violently that if you dare to stand up, you'll find yourself right back on your ass in less than three seconds. Using the bathroom becomes an extreme sport - I don't think I've ever clung so tightly to to a toilet bowl in my whole life. And all this, for two straight days. You could overdose on dramamine and still get sick. I managed to survive this hellish portion of the trip by not leaving my bed - indeed, not moving - for 36 hours. After not sleeping the entire first night because I was tossed like a rag doll between the wall and metal railing on my bed (note: when you walk into a room and find that your bed has a metal railing to keep you from falling out, you know you're in for it bad), I spent the rest of the day staring nubly at the ceiling. (This is not a picture of the Drake Passage. It's a happy, fun picture. The exact opposite of the Drake Passage. I include it here, just for balance.) At first I ran through my ordinary melange of random thoughts - what do the Lakers have to do to make it to the NBA Finals?; how can I better market my idea for a handless toothbrush (patent pending)?; which Greek/Roman god would I be, and why? Eventually, though, I ran out of things to think about. There was a distinct click in my brain. Everything went dead. It's like my mind was an ATM, saying, "Sorry, your transaction cannot be processed at this time." So I just stared at the ceiling. The first hour I was restless and bored and antsy. Then I fell into a zen/yoga trance - my shakras aligned and my mind was total blackness. For the next six hours, I was a zombie. But, I managed to never vomit. Take that, Drake Passage! When I did come out of hibernation, I awoke to find that at least half of the passengers were still feeling the effects of seasickness. Less than 30 people showed up for dinner on the second night. Those that did looked always had this look like they were about three seconds from vomiting. At least the crew had been nice enough to tape vomit bags on every door, handrail, and chair in the boat. By the end of the trip, most of them had been used at some point or another.

While on the subject of spending lots of time in my room, I should mention my roommate. He was this Russian guy named Alex. I think he was former KGB. As roommates go, he wasn't all that bad. He was clean. He was quiet. He slept a lot and didn't snore. But during the 11 days of the voyage, we probably said no more than 100 words to each other. Our initial meeting was - what's the word? - awkward. It went something like this:

Me: "Hello."
KGB [imagine a totally stereotypical Russian accent]: "Hello."
Me: "Where are you from?"
KGB: "Russia. Moscow. You?"
Me: "The U.S. Los Angeles."
KGB [awkward pause, staring at me. Then...]: "You play chess?"
Me: "A little. Let me know if you want to play some time."
KGB [staring at me just a little too long before answering]: "Ok."

And that was it. After that, we exchanged no more than mere pleasantries the entire trip. I kept having this urge to tell him that the Cold War had ended. That it was ok for us to be friends. But at the same time I was afraid he'd do something sneaky like poison my food using some nifty spy gadget he had tucked away in his belt. The other thing that was weird about him - check that, there were A LOT of weird things about him - but the one thing that really stood out was that he never smiled. Never. As in, not once. One time I happened to be standing near him when he asked a nice older woman to take his picture. He handed over his camera to her, and just as she got into position, she said, quite normally, "Smile." He didn't. So she said it again. "Smile for the picture." He wasn't having any of it. She finally said something like, "Don't you want to smile for the picture?" No he did not. I've never met a more dour human being in my life.

As for the trip itself, we had five and a half days wandering around Antarctica. The days usually followed a regular pattern. Breakfast at 7am. Then we'd gear up to hit the continent around 9am. (Every excursion required taking a zodiac boat from the ship to the land.) We'd be back on the boat for lunch around 1pm. Then we'd gear up again for another excursion at 3pm. That would last for anywhere from two to five hours. Then, dinner. Most of the excursions involved walking around and exploring glaciers and the like. We had a few serious hiking trips, like the one pictured here. Hiking in knee deep snow (on top of 75 feet of compacted ice) is a lot harder than it seems. Chalk that up to ignorance on my part. When the guide said we'd be hiking for three hours, I thought, "Piece of cake." Yeah, not so much. Half the passengers got no more than 20 minutes up the mountain before turning around. I was desperately sucking air by the time I reached the top. Of the 84 people who started the hike, only about 15 made it all the way, including yours truly! Not only was the trail crazy steep in certain parts, but the wind started to really pick up when we got close to the top. Plus, we were walking on a very, very narrow ridgeline, as you can see. Instead of enoying the view, I was focusing on not dying. As a general rule, we were told never to stray from the path created by the guides. Otherwise, we might hit a crevace and plumet to our deaths or accidently walk over a portion of a glacier that might break off an fall into the water. Seemed pretty reasonable to take that advice. But just once, I couldn't resist running away. My friend and I took off for a flat section of a mountain that was white as far as we could see. A few minutes after this picture was taken, we found ourselves thigh deep in fresh snow. Time to go back. Unfortunately, the falling snow was so thick that visibility was reduced to virtually nothing. We couldn't retrace our steps because we couldn't find them. After a brief freak out, we chanced it on a 50-50 guess as to where the coastline was. The prospect of a cold, slow death in Antarctica was not appealing, so we moved fast and hard and, with luck on our side, found our way back to the coast before we became some seal's dinner.

A few times, instead of landing on Antarctica and exporing, we'd stay in the zodiacs to get up close and personal with icebergs and glaciers. We'd see stuff like this:

Some of the smaller icebergs take on really crazy shapes. In one section, called Iceberg Alley, there's tens of thousands of icebergs ranging in size from footballs to houses, and they come in every possible shape imaginable. Also, due to air being compressed and trapped in the ice, they often give off these brilliant blue colors. Iceberg Alley had a very other-worldly quality to it. When we were there, it was cloudy and grey and cold. When the boat driver turned off the engine, it was perfectly quiet expect for the occasional crash of icebergs. It felt like I was in some post-apocalyptic world.

Many of the landings involved watching penguins and seals. Before we got to Antarctica, the guides made it seem like it would be a special treat to see them. Not even close. You literally can't go anywhere in Antarctica without stepping on a penguin or seal. If anyone ever tells you that penguins or seals are endangered, tell them that David Newman says, "Bull. Shit." Sadly, Emporer penguins are not around in the summer. Whatever. I can tell you, though, that after a while, all penguins look alike. I saw so many penguins I never need to see another one for the rest of my life. On one island, called 'Penguin City,' there's about 500,00 penguins. You have to watch every step you take or esle you'll step on one. We were supposed to stay five yards from them at all times, but in many situtations, they'd just walk right up to you. At the time I was there, it was the last weeks of birthing season, so I got to see little chick penguins walking around and getting fed by their parents. Watching penguins regurgitate their food for their children is way more disgusting in person. There's gotta be a better way to feed one's young. And now, for the penguin portion of the trip:

So cute. But here's one thing they don't tell you about penguins. They poop a lot. If you see a penguin, you'll see - and walk in - penguin poo. A giant swath of Antarctica smells like shit. Even on a boat moving at 20 knots, and with winds gusting at 50 mph, you can smell penguin poop way off in the distance. How do you know you're getting close to a penguin colony? Just give yourself a nice deep breath through you nose. It hits you like a Mike Tyson jab. It's this white and red and green mix of nastiness. They don't put that in the brochure.

Seals were also a common sight. Unlike penguins, seals can get a little testy if you get too close. A good 20 yard perimeter is a wise idea. Otherwise - and this happened several times - they'll come chasing after you. I wish I had caught on camera the sight of this one obese Russian guy running for his life as a male fur seal was chasing him down the beach. Those seals are not to be messed with. So, to be fair to the seals, they get some pictures to:

Other animal sightings were less rare, but still spectacular. We spotted a few killer whales, a pod of dolphins, and three humpback whales.

That was pretty cool. The whales actually circled the ship a few times. They didn't do any of those famous jump-out-of-the-water-and-make-a-big-splash manuevers like they do on tv, but it was still cool to see them right beloew the surface of the water.

There were a few times when we encountered 'civilization.' We visited scientific bases run by Ukraine and England. The bases are pretty sparse with no more than 15 people at each location. Right now, the bulk of the research at both places is the effect of the hole in the ozone layer. We were given short tours at each location. The scientists at both bases had wicked senses of humor - I guess that's how you survive living in Antarctica for months at a time. The Ukranian base, called Vernadsky, also has the distinction of maintaining the most southern bar in the world. At a latitude of 65 degrees below the equator, it's the last place on earth you can buy a drink before you reach the south pole. They make their own vodka. It tastes like crap. Yet just about everyone on the tour figured it was worth it buy a shot for three bucks, myself included. Talk about a once in a lifetime experience.

I've run out of words to use. It was amazing. It was more than just another continent to tick off the list or a rare stamp in the passport. (I must concede, though, that I really dig these passport stamps. How often have you seen these before?) It was magical. Everyone on the ship, from the oldest passenger to the youngest, had this constant look of awe in their face. It was clear from the get-go that it was truly something special. For most people on the ship it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip, but I'm not sure I see it that way for myself. Not because I'm young and I have time to make my way back here in the future. I realized that just because something is remote and exotic doesn't mean it can't been appreciated more than once. Antarctica was such a special trip that I think I'd be a damn fool never to go back. It would be a crime to limit myself to only visit to this spectacular place. A crime, people. Like Schwarzenegger said, "I'll be back."

Now, on to Patagonia...

Postscript: At the time of publishing this post, I was in Patagonia. While it is beyond true that Patagonia = splendid natural beauty (with a blog post soon to come), it is also true that Patagonia = terrible internet service. As such, I was not able to upload all the photos I wanted to show you (I took over 800 pictures) as well as some videos. (That also explains why much of the formatting is off on this post. Oh well.) Those will have to wait until I can upload them on Facebook.