The Penguins Delved too Greedily and Too Deep

Do you know what the penguins awoke in the darkness? Shadow and flame….yes, shadow and flame. The final day of our extraordinary journey would not to be a disappointment. The sky was dark and foreboding as we entered the mouth of the cove. Neptune’s Bellows, a narrow passage lined with toothy rock walls, towered over us. The clouds hung low, obscuring the jagged, shadowy peaks. The water was glass. It was eerily silent. We passed through the maw of this formidable place into a massive, sea-filled caldera formed by an ancient volcano. Welcome to Deception Island.

Active thermal vents released boiling water into the caldera, causing steam to rise lazily over the black shores of Whaler’s Cove. No irony here. The rust-eaten remains of massive boiling tanks and dilapidated barracks line the coast, where whalers once boiled carcasses for valuable oil. Seals were clubbed. Penguins, already dressed in their tuxedo-like feathers, were presumably forced to serve cocktails. Weathered bones protruded from the ashy sand like ivory fingers from long deceased giants. A pair of small, decaying wooden boats, abandoned long ago, appeared ghostly in the mist.  A handful of chinstrap penguins and crab-eater seals appeared then vanished in the rolling fog. Stephen King would love this place, if he lived to tell the tale.

All in all it seemed like a great place to go swimming. I stripped down to my skivvies, adjusted my knit cap, then dashed headlong into the icy waters. After a few long steps the ground went out from under me and I was up to my neck. At that point it took all of about five seconds for my extremities to go completely numb. I slogged back to the shore, more secure in my manhood than ever, despite the fact that my nipples could now cut through glass. Forget shrinkage, this was more like inversion.  All of you wusses who think you belong to one of several purported “polar” clubs can suck it.

Our final stop, Hanna Point, could not have been better. It was like being in a zoo without the cages. Craggy rocks and grass filled slopes housed hundreds of mud-stained penguins, elephant seals and giant seabirds. Juveniles waddled around sheepishly, curiously approaching then squawking away. Last but definitely not least, we had the pleasure of watching a leopard seal dine on an extremely unhappy penguin. I was surprised to see white wine chosen for the meal.

I could not conceive of a better way to close the door on this fantastic world. Sure, we still had a few more days of crossing the Drake, then a flight to Argentina, Peru, and New York, but that part is all a blur. The final tally was something to behold. Fur seals, elephant seals, crab-eater seals, leopard seals, skuas, petrols, gulls, albatross, gentoo penguins, macaroni penguins, chinstrap penguins, minke whales, humpback whales, fin whales, old people by the dozens, and pair of extremely rare asian travels. What else can I possibly say? Wow.

Weather or Not, Here We Come!

The weather in Antarctica is not what you would call “pleasant”. To some, it may not even qualify as dreadful. Barely any sun sneaks through the overcast skies, and what little does somehow seems disingenuous, often glimpsed flirting with a far-off mountain or dancing with distant horizons. The winds can become awfully disagreeable, whipping the sea into stiff peaks, and if the stories are true, occasionally hurling seabirds violently into the hull of passing ships. One can argue that it adds just the right amount of atmosphere to the expedition. It is Antarctica, after all.

Truth be told, it is not really as bad you might think. Despite mountains full of purported evidence, Antarctica rarely sees fresh snow. Though it seems hard to believe, the continent sports a desert climate with very little precipitation. Yet the snow and ice is literally hundreds of feet thick. How can this be? It turns out that snow has been accumulating at a rate of only a few hundred millimeters per year. It is just that it never melts. In other words, exactly the opposite of what happened to Michael Jackson’s face over the course of his career.

Strangely, it is not all that cold. Despite our long-johns, turtlenecks, fleece sweaters, down parkas, wool caps, ski gloves, scarves and thermal crotch warmers, the temperature was generally in the mid-thirties during the day. That’s right, you had worse weather back home.While it’s true that the center of the continent can see extremely severe weather, the shoreline is actually quite nice.

There was only one day when the weather prevented us from following our itinerary. The wind picked up, the seas became rough, lunch became tenuous, and we could not risk embarking on the small Zodiacs that ferried us from our vessel to shore. But backup plans are de rigueur on these voyages, and we instead navigated into a protective cove to explore an old British base called Port Lockroy, now a museum, which is currently manned by three attractive, young women. According to the brochure “Port Lockroy is one of Antarctica’s most historic locations and a highlight of any voyage to the frozen continent”. Presumably this is due to the fact that Antarctica is generally uninhabited, and, hey, three attractive young women living alone on an Antarctic island.

The base was originally built during WWII to spy on the Germans, but was abandoned when the British realized that even the German’s weren’t stupid enough to send their boats through the Drake Passage. The base has been fully restored and now houses a small museum, as well as a gift shop. Because, really, who can stomach an entire trip to the most remote place on earth without getting in a little shopping? The women run the shop, post mail, study the local penguin population, and, I imagine, have topless snowball fights with each other when no one else is around.

It was a great stop, and an interesting slice of history. And anyone can volunteer for the summer shift. Four months of island living, and all the penguins you can eat. It turns out that not too many men sign up. Seems like a missed opportunity to me. Maybe I'll volunteer next year.

Crappy Feet

The beloved documentary March of the Penguins, a film that effortlessly argues how living life as an Emperor Penguin would completely suck, spurred a massive revival of interest in our flightless friends. The public was soon flooded with a variety of me-too movies, saccharine TV specials and kindly magazine spreads, all of which successfully tugged at our heartstrings. Yet none of these sympathetic portrayals prepared me for the fact that penguins burst guano from their ass like a power sprayer and generally smell like the inside of a Turkish prison.

To be fair, they are still fantastically cute. Sentiment ranged from the standard "Aww..." to the slightly more expressive "Awwww…GOD what is it doing to my shoes?!" For a visual, just imagine what would happen if you stomped on one end of a Twinkie. Luckily we were well equipped to deal with the absurd amount of guano we encountered. Our knee-high rubber boots were all but impervious, though they had to be scrubbed clean with a toilet brush before heading back to the boat.

During the course of our trip, we were fortunate enough to observe a variety of species in nearly every stage of development. Massive colonies of gentoo penguins waddled comically across stone and snow, ascending unbelievably steep inclines without pause. Chinstrap penguins proudly preened their brilliant white chest feathers, in sharp contrast to their dark and striking foreheads. A handful of macaroni penguins, so named for their streaks of bleached blond head feathers, posed artfully for the cameras. Heh…blondes.

“Penguin Highways”, narrow snow paths tramped down by heavy foot traffic, crisscrossed the landscape as penguins shuffled to and fro. This time of year brings adorable chicks, inquisitive juveniles and jittery first-time parents. The new parents were easy to spot, their nervous stomachs constantly regurgitating straight into the mouths of their children. Gross. And I thought going to bed without supper was bad. Juveniles flopped around in the mud, their fluffy down giving way the waterproof feathering that would allow them to survive the cold and freezing seas. Chicks stuffed themselves underfoot, gaining protection from predators and the elements. Vicious brown birds known as skuas probed for a weakness in mom's defense, hoping to snag a fly-through snack. 

It was all quite amazing. Walking amongst these gentle, majestic creatures one can easily get lost their....ughhh, not again. Get the hose. 

You Ain't Seen Nothin' Like the Mighty Fin

Antarctica. The first order of business for any intrepid Antarctic explorer should be to get to know ones shipmates. You spend a great deal of time in close quarters with these people, and without gaining intimate knowledge of their diet and lifestyle, it can become incredibly difficult to choose exactly who to eat when the ship runs aground and food supplies start dwindling. Yes, the obese may store a wealth of calorie rich blubber, but think twice before dismissing the septuagenerian crowd. Their sad, wrinkly faces and pockets full of ribbon candy only serve to distract from the fact that they are little more than wobbly sticks of human beef jerky.

My personal menu selection was cut short as our boat came in sight of the South Shetland islands. I am not sure what I had expected, but it wasn't this. The entirety of the landmass was covered, edge to edge, with tremulous peaks. Dark volcanic daggers sheathed in thick crusts of shimmering snow seemed to erupt straight from the sea floor, slicing through the azure sky to bleed wispy clouds from thin air. Blustery winds tore across the deck of the ship where we stood, blindly searching for a weakness in my parka. My brazenly uncovered face burned with an icy sting, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. It was a jaw-dropping sight.

Between the ship and the shore a narrow jet-spray shot vertically into the air before catching the wind and exploding into a cloudy mist that descended like a miniature rainstorm. It was followed by another, then another. Methinks there be whales here.

The arched back and distinctive dorsal fins of the ingloriously named Fin Whale soon breached the surface. As the captain navigated in for a closer look, the fountains of Bellagio had begun. Blow holes erupted both port and starboard, sending plumes 30 feet in the air. No less than eight to ten whales straddled our vessel, pursuing an unknown agenda. Massive black torsos split the surface one after another in graceful arcs, as if orbiting an unseen planet. With a final reveal of their lone shark-like fin, the whales quickly vanished beneath the waves. Our encore lasts a full 45 minutes, which I presume is the time it took for them to securely attach the tracking beacon to our vessel.

The day drew to a close, as even the best of days must. After a mere two days at sea we had finally reached the Antarctic peninsula, and our real journey had only just begun. Now how's that for a cliche' ending?

Uncharted III : Drake's Passage

The Drake Passage is the only unbroken stretch of ocean in the world. With no continental obstacles in its path, the several hundred nautical miles making up the gap between Argentina and Antarctica are the roughest, swelliest, frothiest seas around. If swallowing boats were a competitive sport, the Drake would dominate the league, likely forcing a collective bargaining agreement that would end up sending our best oceans to the wealthiest continents. And trust me, nobody wants to see the Drake Passage take on the Ural Sea. Where is the sport in that?

The word "seaworthy" sounds suspiciously like a plea to Poseidon if I ever heard one but we were assured of our vessel's status as such, despite its recent misadventures.  Most of you have likely heard of the Clellia II, though you might not realize it. It was only a month ago that the now infamous vessel was front page news, victim of a vicious storm that hit the Drake with little warning. Pounded by 30-foot seas, the window of the captain's bridge was smashed, knocking out their communications and forcing the crew to sit in the eye of the storm for two days. Most terrifying of all, they were disastrously flooded by a phalanx of international reporters once reaching port.

To be fair, they aren't very subtle when it comes to expectations. There were several signs that our voyage might not be a smooth one, first and foremost being the strategic placement of barf bags along most of the ship's interior railings. The second clue would be the necessity of interior railings. Third would be the directive to make our cabins "Drake Proof" prior to departure. All personal items were to be secured, valuables stowed, and it was suggested that we consider sleeping on the floor to avoid rolling out of bed during large swells. This proved unnecessary though, since the beds had convenient straps to keep you comfortably immobile throughout the duration of the trip.

It would take us a minimum of two days to cross this oft violent stretch of water, and at least another three to unclench our bowels. I generally think of myself as having a solid pair of sea legs, having spent a good deal of my youth aboard my parents boat, but I would be lying if I didn't claim a modest amount of anxiety. We departed in the early evening, as scheduled. For the first few hours we drifted peacefully through the Beagle Channel. Terns and gulls soared gracefully past the bow, swooping starboard and port, shepherding us far beyond the harbor and into the open sea. The waves began to pick up almost immediately. Fifteen foot swells rocked the boat, sending passengers, myself included, from wall to wall. After a few hours I found the rhythm almost soothing. One more day until landfall. Rock-a-bye Baby, indeed.

It's the End of the World and We Know It

Ushuaia, Argentina. As much as it pains me, I would be remiss not to mention that I am part of a tour group during this adventure. It turns out that hitchhiking to Antarctica is a little more difficult then sticking out your thumb and hopping the next tug out of the harbor.  Apparently not even the mighty albatross, with its enormous nine-foot wingspan and uncanny ability to remain alight in hurricane force gales, can bear the weight of a single man from Denver. Let me tell you what a disappointing experiment THAT was--though probably more so for the albatross.

I was willing to do whatever it took to reach this frozen Valhalla, this land of icy milk and solid honey. And if that meant getting on a boat with a bunch of geezers with their socks pulled up to their hearing aids, so be it. The sad part is how many of them are blissfully enjoying retirement, completely unaware that their children have paid the staff handsomely to drift them out to sea on an ice flow. Did I mention that I am here with my father? He was issued his official bifocals a few years back but he still has some spring left in his step.

Before embarking on our journey we had the pleasure of spending a day in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Spread across the banks of the Beagle Channel, Ushuaia is also home to the world's southernmost restaurant, the southernmost lighthouse, the southernmost golf course, and the single most inanely repetitive marketing slogan on Earth. The city itself is nothing to crow about, but the scenery is epic. Ushuaia is graced with a rare natural beauty. Rugged snow-capped peaks give way to a brilliant green tree line, where a natural bowl cups the city gently in its hands, right at the edge of the brilliant blue shoreline. Insert any of your preferred adjectives here.

On the edge of the city lies Tierra del Fuego National Park, which is Spanish for "Fire Crotch", I think. We spent the better part of the day wandering the boggy shores amidst lichen coiffed trees, trying to keep our minds off the journey ahead. Cuddly bunnies ran to and fro, while sly red foxes nipped at their hairy little heels. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that they ended up being lunch.

They day wore on and the sun began to set. We boarded our vessel, the Clellia II, and prepared our cabin for the voyage through the Drake Passage. Dramamine pills were swallowed. It was time we bid the City at the End of the World a fond adieu.