At the Bottom of the Earth (and Loving it)
Antarctica Palisadian Post Write-Up
December 21, 2019
As our ship the National Geographic Explorer came within range of Antarctica, a sensational gust of frigid air swept across the deck of the ship, sending ill-equipped passengers below decks to retrieve their winter parkas. For the last two days, 150 passengers and I had waited for our first glimpse of land as we traversed the Drake Passage, a 500-mile expanse of turbulent ocean that separates the tip of South America from the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula. Some passengers even made wagers as to the exact hour and minute we would first see the Frozen Continent.
As we were all newcomers to this part of the globe, our conceptions of Antarctica were largely the same, shaped by depictions of the continent in story and film. I imagined a sprawling, tabular block of ice and snow, floating precariously at the bottom of the world. But as Jonathan Zaccaria, our French expedition leader, came onto the ship PA system to announce our arrival, the landscape that lay before us was unlike anything I could have imagined. Towering mountains more than 3,000 feet tall shrouded in a cloud layer cascaded down into rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. The snow was omnipresent, presenting itself to us in a variety of forms. It floated serenely on the water, ranging in size from true “icebergs” (ice formations more than fifteen feet above water) to “bergy bits” (chunks of ice between three to fifteen feet above water) to diminutive “growlers” (less than three feet above water). It draped the mountains and cliffs, creating a beautiful black-and-white, almost checkered backdrop for each scene in front of us. But what most caught the eye were the ice cliffs that sat frozen between the mountains and the ocean below. Taller than a 10-story building in some places, these creations seemed to threaten us with their jagged faces, twisted by years of punishment from the wind and ocean. Large chunks of ice routinely broke off and plunged into the water as eager tourists snapped their first photographs of Antarctica with iPhones, digital cameras, and professional lenses.
Although Jonathan and the researchers on our voyage guaranteed we would see a variety of fauna, none of us were prepared for the abundance of creatures we observed as our ship pushed further down the Antarctic Peninsula. Life in Antarctica begins in the ocean, where microscopic phytoplankton are the single energy source for krill, on which all other species directly or indirectly depend. Although the Antarctic food web is relatively small compared to other ecosystems, we were almost constantly being summoned to the observation deck to discover sharp-toothed Leopard seals resting on a floating patch of sea ice, or to track down a graceful Antarctic tern, petrel or skua with our cameras and binoculars as they soared effortlessly above our heads, wings perfectly adapted to conserve energy while riding the wind currents. On rare occasions during our voyage, we witnessed Fin whales lifting their tails out of the water just before diving, a phenomenon known as “fluking.” But throughout our journey, no creatures delighted passengers more, nor were more abundant, than the penguins. We watched enthusiastic performances from several different species. Chinstrap penguins waddling up and down “penguin highways” craned their necks to get a glimpse of our hiking procession at Portal Point, perplexed by these mysterious visitors in bright orange winter parkas. A few days later, Gentu penguins eyed us carefully as we approached their nests, cameras at the ready in case one stood up long enough to snap a picture of their newborn chicks. A colony of more than 300,000 Adélie penguins barely seemed to register our arrival as male penguins, like good geologists, surreptitiously pilfered rocks from one another, their flippers raised awkwardly as they scurried about.
The relative comfort we enjoyed throughout our journey often made it feel like a vacation just like any other. Our ship was essentially a floating hotel, with luxurious cabins, three gourmet meals a day in the restaurant, a lounge with an open bar, a spa and sauna, and a small library with large bay windows. However, while hiking one day along Snowhill Ridge, I was reminded of how isolated we truly were on this voyage. After summiting a 2,000-foot peak, I gazed down at our ship, dwarfed by the mountains on all sides of the bay in which it was anchored. We were more than three days travel from any grocery store, emergency medical service, or other semblance of civilization.
More than three days travel from any grocery store, gas station, or emergency medical services.