By Christian Hagenlocher

There’s an invisible pull that draws us to wild places. This raw element of adventure tugs on us from within, begging to be experienced. It demands physical and mental toughness to carry us somewhere so remote that cell phones lose service. Freed from distraction, our instincts take over and we are compelled to intentionally weave our way into the food web searching for patterns in places of unpredictability. Many of us will spend the year dreaming about these places; others will prepare to make these dreams a reality. 

For a lucky few, these wild places are easier to reach than for the rest of us. Remote stretches of the Rockies, vast prairies, and seemingly impenetrable forests protect wilderness, and those willing to pay the admission fee of planning, preparation, and sweat equity reap the rewards. For those who dream about Alaska or Africa, we save hard-earned money, and figure out a way to make a trip of a lifetime happen sometime down the road. We know from others’ stories and experiences that it will be worth it.

AntarcticaThere are some places so remote that fewer than 1% of people on Earth will visit. The wild, frozen remote landscape teeming with wildlife that captured my imagination was the continent of Antarctica. The frozen continent is the coldest, driest, and windiest place on Earth. Unlike the Arctic, which is an ocean surrounded by land, Antarctica is a continent surrounded by ocean. The southern ocean is a formidable barrier surrounding Antarctica, making it one of the last explored frontiers of our planet, finally charted by daring expeditions in the 19th century.

Modern-day technology has made Antarctica much more accessible to researchers and tourists, who can fly or sail to parts of the continent from multiple southern ports around the world. Most of Antarctica’s tourists visit by cruise ship, crossing the Drake Passage and poking around the Antarctic Peninsula without even getting off the ship (that never sounded like fun to me).

My first expedition to Antarctica was when I was nine years old, when I checked out a book about penguins from my local library. After that, I knew I had to go experience it for myself someday. Armed with a camera, I planned to photograph penguins, whales, and pelagic birds. Since Coca-cola commercials and zoos are the only place where penguins and polar bears actually cohabitate, I would have to plan a trip to the Arctic next to pursue polar bears (Arktos in Greek means ‘bear’, so Antarctica literally means ‘no bears’).

Planning and Preparation

Planning a trip like this was similar to planning a destination hunt. This was my “bucket-list” trip. The preparation began years before, starting with saving money, sacrificing small vacations to build up for a big one. A grant through my workplace helped make up the difference, and move the timeline up. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Much of the gear I already owned, layering systems, optics, and camera equipment tested on hunts helped perfect my kit for the trip.

 

"With long wings slicing through the air, the bird looked nearly the size of a small plane. With a wingspan of more than 100 inches, the Wandering Albatross is the world’s largest flying bird– weighing in at more than 20 pounds."

 

I spent hours online searching and scouting for an affordable expedition that was different. My desire was to be off the ship as often as possible, kayaking alongside humpback whales, swimming with penguins, and sleeping on the snowy shores of islands underneath the night sky. This meant taking a smaller vessel, capable of getting into small ice-covered bays and places larger cruise ships couldn’t find. At last, the solution presented itself. Several computer clicks, a zoom call and a wire transfer later, I cashed in on some air miles and I was going to Antarctica.

My journey began mid-December in the bustling cruise port town of Ushuaia, Argentina. While the snow plows have already made their first rounds at home, it was the height of the austral summer in Argentina. Over the next week as we sailed further south towards the south pole, the days grew longer and the sun never dipped below the horizon all night, bathing the icy world in beautiful light, ripe for exploration.

Crossing the Drake PassageThe only certainty of an Antarctic voyage is the unpredictability of getting there. The 500 mile stretch of open ocean where the Atlantic, Pacific, and Southern Ocean all meet is known as the Drake Passage. Some call this the birthplace of the winds, as the seas crescendo from 1-10 meters faster than seasoned mariners expect. By boat, the crossing is normally a two day journey if all goes well. Veterans of this tumultuous crossing will ask if you experienced the “Drake Lake” or the “Drake Shake”. On this trip I would experience both extremes, but departing Ushuaia and sailing out of the Beagle Channel on our way south the glassy expanse of the ocean was fortuitously calm.

Seawatching

The next morning’s sunrise mirrored the sunset of the evening prior, with the sun rebounding off the watery horizon like a glowing ball from Atari. Binoculars in hand, I leaned against the bow of our ship, on watch for the first seabirds and whales of the journey. Over the next 40 hours this became my post, taking breaks only to eat and sleep.

Hours of standing on deck scanning the horizons for life gave me ample time to mull over the wealth of information shared by our onboard biologists the day before as we sailed through the Beagle Channel. The nightly program consisted of geologists, climate scientists, marine biologists, and seasoned polar explorers, full of incredible stories of their decades of traveling to the white continent. My trepidation surrounding our crossing had vanished with the low-hanging clouds, replaced with blue skies and calm seas. The “Drake Lake” made seawatching conditions less than ideal, as low wind meant many of the seabirds of the open ocean would be sitting on the water. However, as the day wore on we encountered some wind, blowing up a sublime bird with long pointed wings: my first albatross. 

The Albatross

With long wings slicing through the air, the bird looked nearly the size of a small plane. With a wingspan of more than 100 inches, the Wandering Albatross is the world’s largest flying bird– weighing in at more than 20 pounds. With what little wind there was, the bird gracefully soared over crests of waves, and disappeared into the trough, before emerging at the next moment to climb high and wheel around and do it all again. He settled behind the boat in the churning wake, spotting something appetizing. The albatross stayed on the water, riding the foamy whitewash all the way to the horizon behind us.During the crossing many other avian species appeared and flew alongside the bow of the boat. Fulmars arced on long wings in dazzling displays of aerial mastery, tiny storm-petrels danced in the foaming wake behind the ship, and multiple species of albatross seemed to materialize out of the waves, flying by at eye-level along the bow and eventually wheeling around to play in the currents behind the stern, or dropping into the wake to emerge with some plankton or fish stunned by the propeller. Many of these seabirds fly low over the water, relying on their sense of smell to navigate and find food.

While we were escorted out of Ushuaia by half a dozen whales in the Beagle Channel, seeing whales close to the boat was surprisingly common during our crossing. I spotted fin whales, minke, and orcas, the latter slowed our forward progress as we scoped to determine the exact “type” of orcas. The southern ocean still holds many biological secrets, including possible new species that have yet to be studied and understood by science.

The snowy white islands on the horizon slowly rose from the ocean, growing into jagged peaks as we sailed closer to the Antarctic Peninsula. The sharp white peaks rose taller and taller as we slowed down and entered into the bays, leaving the open ocean behind. Soon we were surrounded by a glacial landscape reminiscent of Alaska. In all directions, groups of porpoising penguins surfaced, and distant plumes of spray marked surfacing whales gathering lungfuls of cold fresh air. We had arrived.Penguin Landing

Our first landing was at Port Lockroy, a British base built in 1944, establishing a year-round presence in Antarctica. For over a century scientists, sailors, explorers, and whalers have called this harbor home. Today, it houses the world’s southernmost working post office, and the WWII-era wooden buildings hold a museum and living quarters for the station’s staff as they run the post office, host visitors, conduct research, and maintain the base.Antarctica isn’t really as cold as you’d think. During the summer months nearly 24 hours of daylight gently thaw the harsh landscape into pools of fresh clear water, draining off ice sheets in picturesque waterfalls and washing over the stony beaches, exposing messy piles of whale bones from bygone eras when whale oil lit the way for ships.

Everyone disembarked our ship to explore Port Lockroy; some mailed letters home or shopped in the gift shop, others walked through the museum learning about the history. Despite the temporary influx of visitors, the penguins still outnumbered people 20 to 1. Across the ice-covered landscape, brown cracks stretched across the snow like a broken windshield of an old car. Along these brown corridors in nearly every direction Gentoo penguins dutifully marched between nest sites and the ocean, passing each other clumsily as they remained on mission. Penguins inbound from the pebble-rich shoreline carried rocks back to their mate. These rocks were piled on top of the snow, forming a platform that would soon host one or two round, white eggs. Many penguins were already tenderly incubating their eggs, surrounded by large piles of snow and a traffic jam of marching penguins and camera-toting tourists. 

To the penguins, the red parka plumaged humans were worthy of their slightest attention. We were no different than the canvas-colored Snowy Sheathbills, scavenging snacks dropped by the penguins or the Great Skuas, large iron-hearted birds with a niche of eating anything alive or dead they could kill, capture, or steal. The penguins marched on, impelled by a biological drive to nest during the summer sunlight. 

Kayaking

The next day the crew performed a skillful unloading of two dozen kayaks from the top deck down into the water below, like a choreographed dance. Once dropped, the kayaks quickly drifted away, where they were chased down and rounded up by a crew in an inflatable zodiac, like a cowboy herding his colorful herd of plastic boats.

After the boats were secured, we were shuttled out to the flotilla and transferred to our kayaks. During our crossing of the Drake, the group of paddlers had been fitted to our boats and discussed at length the safety briefing. Antarctica brought new and exciting challenges to sea kayaking, including rolling icebergs and shifting sheets of ice, yet the rewards were pods of porpoising penguins and humpback whales feeding as close as they wanted.

 

"We circumnavigated an entire island, gazed at seals lazing on the sea ice, peeped at penguins at all stages of their nesting cycle, and watched skuas pirate eggs from underneath protective adults. It was all part of a natural food web, and I felt extremely lucky to have a front-row seat to the spectacle."

 

While others explored the bays by motorized inflatable boats, our group of kayakers silently slipped into the smaller spots where whales rested. Their deep exhales sent water into the air which sparkled and fell back down as small shimmering crystals of ice. The sounds of the ice was otherworldly. Everything was in constant silent motion: the clouds, flowing water, the birds overhead, and breaking ice. For how much movement surrounded us, the expanse and scale of being so small in such a large place made the sounds quieter than expected. However, proximity to the ice changed that, and sitting low in a kayak was like floating in a bowl of rice krispies with the snaps, crackles, and pops of the various types of ice melted and mixed in the briny water.

A seasoned paddler, I’ve hunted out of a kayak on both rivers and oceans in my home state of Washington, however changing currents and dodging container ships paled in comparison to the excitement of paddling into the shadow of icebergs the size of a city block, and cresting the waves that followed the calving of ice from glaciers. While our guides ensured we were never in harm’s way, the unexpected always kept our senses sharp, as the sharp crack of ice nearby would galvanize the group into quick sharp strokes to safety.Curious penguins approached my kayak, which was no less yellow than a nearly-ripe banana. They would swim up on their bellies, then dive with a quick flick of their feet, flying beneath the boat as effortlessly as a swallow darts across the sky. The clear ice-cold water allowed me to glance down towards the blue-gray bottom of the bays. Occasionally I’d see the white forehead flash beneath my boat as hordes of Gentoo penguins swam into the deeper channels in search of food.

Never before had kayaking felt more like flying as we glided across the still water.The blue sky reflected off the surface, and islands of ice floated between the sky and the sea like a white asteroid belt. Bat-like storm petrels winged their way over the waves, dodging paddlers as they followed the scent trails along the water’s surface, leading them to the next shrimp or squid they’d pluck from the water.

Within a few short hours, we’d experienced it all, winding our way around smaller islands and listening to the ice crackle. We circumnavigated an entire island, gazed at seals lazing on the sea ice, peeped at penguins at all stages of their nesting cycle, and watched skuas pirate eggs from underneath protective adults. It was all part of a natural food web, and I felt extremely lucky to have a front-row seat to the spectacle.

Sleeping with Seals

Following a delicious Christmas dinner, I bundled up and joined a group of brave passengers in the staging area. Each of us had packed an overnight bag, and with some additional gear provided to us, we set out to camp overnight on the ice.The whirring of the ship’s generators dimmed as we motored away from our floating basecamp, intent on spending the night surrounded by the cracking ice. As the driver cut the engine and we glided silently towards the rocky shore ahead, I noticed I wasn’t the only one shaking–others too were shivering with anticipation. Onshore we were greeted by pioneering expedition staff who during dinner had landed and scoped out the snow and ice conditions, marking the hazards with crossed fluorescent sticks making an ‘X’. They gave us a briefing which addressed the ground rules, which in summary was don’t sleep too close to the seals, or the edge of the ice.

As I climbed over the slump of snow that dangled off the edge of the island onto the rocky beach, I was able to see the large snowfield that made a perfect sleeping spot, already occupied by a pair of Weddell’s seals, splayed on the snow catching some late rays of sun that poked through the clouds. After stomping out a spot in the snow, I laid down my air mattress and gore-tex bivy, topping the pile with my down bag, giving it ample time to loft. While it wasn’t below zero, the night was going to be cold. With no tent or shelter overhead, I was truly sleeping under the stars. The catch – this far south there daylight lasted around the clock. I explored while others unpacked. In the shallow water, tiny krill swarm in circles like half-blown balloons spiraling out of control. These tiny creatures made the base of the Antarctic food chain, and everything from fish to seabirds, seals and whales feast on them during the short summer months. These tiny marine organisms constitute the largest biomass on earth of any multicellular organism, weighing in between 300-500 million metric tons. I scooped half a dozen with a quick splash of my hand, studying them closely in my palm before release.

Gentoo penguins meandered beneath the snow shelves along the water’s edge, scoping out a nesting site. Many penguins we saw were hard-pressed to find a snow-free spot, as climate change has increased the amount of snowfall in many parts of Antarctica, causing winter to linger longer. Many penguins resorted to building their stone mound atop the melting snow, precariously balancing eggs on the top. The uneven melting of snow caused many nests I saw to tilt, spilling the precious contents onto the snow, where the eggs were quickly chilled and abandoned. Entire slabs of ice topped with dozens of nesting penguins calved off into the ocean, taking piles of nesting penguins with it. The egg-loving skuas had a feast, likely the first of many more to come as the snowline receded.

Shifting ice flows marked the passing of time, cracking and popping with explosive percussion. On some bergs rode an occasional seal or cormorant, perched atop the icy peak like a black and white tree topper. I watched the skuas lazily looping overhead, diving down to inspect and test the integrity of the backpacks littering the snowy ledge below. The birds seemed indifferent to the human burritos, wrapped in their sleeping bags. Some skuas even perched on people, who were sleeping soundly and never stirred. Shortly after midnight I pulled the fur ruff of my parka over my face to block out the light and drifted off into a comfortable slumber.

I was startled awake by a deep rumbling high on the cliffs behind me. The snow and ice that hours ago clung to vertical cliff walls now cascaded down, taking with it rocks, snow, and ice chunks. The slide triggered another larger avalanche half way down, and the cathedral of rocky spires only amplified the low roar, the cracks of rocks falling on rocks, followed by a powdery hiss as the slide ran out at the base, hundreds of meters from where we lay. Nearly a minute later, a rush of cold air and a sparkling shower of snow crystals fell from the sky. It was barely light out, as the sun had sunk behind the jagged mountain ridges now cloaked in clouds. I couldn’t help but marvel at the constant motion and power of this place as I tried to fall back asleep. It wasn’t quiet, but I’d already acclimated to the constant churning of ice and snow that seemed to create a lull of white noise in a category all of its own.

Return & the Dreaded Drake Shake

It can be hard to leave such a magical place, but reality has a way of grounding us in the truth that all good things must come to an end. That moment happened when the ship’s captain shared at dinner that the weather conditions hundreds of miles away were quickly deteriorating, and the return trip was already going to be quite rough crossing the Drake Passage. In order to beat the building storm and make our crossing as comfortable as possible, we needed to leave Antarctica earlier on our itinerary. As we pulled up the anchor the crew immediately began loading boats on the top deck, securing furniture in the dining room, and began making preparations for leaving the protected islands for the open ocean.

If I hadn’t woken quickly from my already light sleep, I definitely would have fallen out of bed as the ship listed sharply to the left. The Drake Shake was real. Down the hall, I could hear muffled screams from other cabins, and the crashing of glass and metal falling to the floor. Despite having a stabilization system on our ship, the rocking and riding huge swells challenged even the staunchest stomachs. The ornamental handrails adorning the ship’s hallways now came in handy for walking without falling. Dozens of fellow passengers retreated to their cabin for days, the social aspect of the trip had vanished as quickly as the white continent had the night before. Due to the high winds and waves washing over the decks, I wasn’t allowed out on deck to search for birds, but through the window I spotted hundreds of seabirds riding by on braced wings, perfectly at home in conditions that turned two-legged creatures green.

Hindsight

Several of the stronger stomachs joined me for stormy seawatching through the lounge windows, snacking on fruit and pastries, and playing card games or reading. We occupied ourselves for hours sharing our impressions of each landing site, recalling our shared experience camping under the sun that never set, and reminiscing on humorous encounters with wildlife. We edited photos from our trip, riding the high of all we had experienced. The endless hours gave us time to review the data we had collected, counting individual birds for one project, types of cloud cover for another, and studying photos we took of whale fluke patterns. All this info would be submitted as citizen science data when we returned to internet service. Hundreds of miles behind us, the tranquil snow-covered continent of Antarctica lay, pristine, and ready to welcome her next adventurers.About Christian Hagenlocher:
Christian is a Seattle-based educator, author, photographer, and licensed falconer. His pursuit of wild creatures and remote landscapes has taken him from Alaska to the Antarctic. He's an avid outdoorsman, conservationist, and loves sharing his passion for birds with others, especially his middle school students. His book Falcon Freeway: A Big Year of Birding on a Budget recounts his record-breaking birdwatching journey across the North American continent while living out of his Subaru Outback and chasing a childhood dream. His recent travels have put his Maven optics to the test in the deserts of Egypt and the scrublands of Madagascar, where his binoculars were almost stolen by a curious lemur. Christian can be reached through his website www.thebirdingproject.com or Instagram @go.love.adventure.