Resetting the Wayback Machine to Dateline: August 3, 2023
After three days of admiring Grand Canyon’s North Rim–from Point Sublime…
to Point Imperial…
to Angel’s Window,
Leah and I were already anticipating our next physical and photographic challenge–hiking through the Coyote Buttes North in search of The Wave.
But we were at the mercy of Bureau of Land Management, who awards permits to no more than 64 visitors per day through a complicated online lottery process.
We scored dinner reservations at the Grand Canyon Lodge Dining Room…
during sunset to discuss our future travel plans.
Regrettably, our meal was more consolation than celebration. Despite our application for permits months in advance, and again, the day before our departure, our high hopes were dashed by impossible odds.
Ultimately, we followed our contingency plan, which, like an old friend, was familiar yet still full of surprises. The following day, we drove through Marble Canyon–flanked by Vermillion Cliffs–with a brief stop along Highway 89A to marvel at a Cliff Dwellers Stone House,
a crumbling roadside curiosity that was constructed from rock debris and local timber by Ziegfeld Follies dancer Blanche Russell and her husband Bill, whose car had broken down at this location in 1927.
According to the tale, the beauty of their surroundings was so captivating that they established a homestead on the site during the Great Depression, extending hospitality to Mormon travelers journeying along the adjacent Honeymoon Trail to the temple in St. George, Utah, for the sanctification of their marriages.
Meanwhile, we continued north on a pilgrimage of our own to Page, Arizona for a few days of essential sightseeing.
The following day, we arrived at a strip mall to claim a coveted noon reservation for a guided tour of Upper Antelope Canyon tour with an accredited Navajo tour operator. Having toured Lower Antelope Canyon 6 years ago (see Can’t Elope Canyon), we elected to hike the upper canyon this time around.
Upper Antelope Canyon, often referred to as “The Crack,” features a flat entrance and a level path throughout, offering a seamless stroll with no elevation shifts. This easy access, devoid of any stairs, renders it more welcoming than its counterpart, Lower Antelope Canyon, where stairs and ladders are part of the experience.
In my quest for photographic redemption, I was determined to infuse some mystery into the majesty of these sculpted canyon walls by focusing on the details of the form, while framing an energy of twists, curves and color.
We jostled and bounced across a dusty desert plain from the back of a dusty pickup truck, enduring temperatures of 100°F. The grab bars were so hot, I could only handle them through my hat. After arriving at the canyon’s entrance, our guide offered us a brief geology lecture and valuable photography tips.
Rather than lug around my SLRs, I relied on my Samsung Galaxy 23S Ultra phone for its reputed low-light sensitivity and high-resolution capabilities.
From the onset, our guide pointed out shapes created by negative space, such as the “Lady of the Canyon,” which seemed intriguing to many, but irrelevant to my mission.
Additionally, there was plenty of highlight and shadow play in the formations that was easily personified, such as the “Open-Mouth Man.”
Many photographers were there to capture the “sunbeam effect” that appears from April 1st to September 30th with a helping handful of tossed sand.
There was also equal opportunity to document the canyon wall formations as realistically as possible.
or using the undulating walls as an interesting backdrop.
But I was there to capture the abstract potential!
The canyon’s walls rise up to 660 feet above the streambed, and the trailhead sits at an elevation of 4,377 feet.
Geologists say the walls are shrinking and the elevation is increasing, as sand continues to rise from continuing erosion from wind and water.
The 0.3-mile one-way trail is mostly hard-packed with red sand and silt.
The Navajo Nation calls Upper Antelope Canyon “Tsé’bighanilini,” meaning “the place where water runs through rocks.” I call it amazing!
One hour later, we emerged from “The Crack.”
Antelope Canyon’s allure was so magnetic that I felt myself being drawn into repeating our adventure. However, time would not allow, and no slots were available!
Certainly, its beauty would have revealed itself in a new light, with a new twist!
It was 5 p.m., and the last of us was being checked in at the Aula foyer on Deck 2. As I waited, it gave me an opportunity to photograph the creepy albatross dangling from the ceiling.
Leah and I were among the lucky dozen chosen for Octantis’s last outing—a Special Ops Boat (SOB) trip—prior to our return to Ushuaia.
Our guide was informed by the science support team that recent drone surveillance revealed significant wildlife activity near Jonassen Island. This discovery prompted our pilot to alter our planned route, with the understanding that Octantis would forgive our tardy return in the interest of scientific discovery.
We jetted into open water toward Jonassen Island for 15 minutes or so, until our pilot suddenly killed the throttle. Our guide had spotted a couple of humpbacks in the distance, worthy of a closer look.
Passengers were abuzz with excitement at the possibilities as we maneuvered into position. And then a voice rang out, “Did you see that at 3 o’clock?”
The pilot responded quickly, steering starboard toward the sighting. I spun to orient myself, when it became apparent that we were not alone; there was company on our portside,
and on our starboard side!
We were in the midst of a feeding frenzy.
In fact, we were surrounded by a pod of a dozen humpbacks…
swimming around us and under us!
I didn’t know which way to turn. Whales were breaching…
and diving all around us.
Penguins were unphased by the playful display.
They were content to share the water and krill, filling their bellies without concern,
while humpbacks continued their elaborate feast.
We idled in place for nearly an hour, witnessing the spectacle around us. But a radio transmission from Octantis woke us from our enchanted trance and indicated that we had overstayed our welcome.
We returned to Octantis for dinner plans of our own, and bragging rights to a whale of a tale that was the icing on the wake.
After a week of island-hopping along the Antarctic Peninsula, Leah and I finally set foot on the continent of Antarctica.
And because this was Viking’s sole continental visit, the expedition team was particularly busy transporting the remaining 352 passengers to Brown Bluff while overseeing a range of other outdoor activities throughout the day.
Our group was instructed to report to Deck 2 during a celebratory luncheon on Deck 10 that was briefly interrupted by a cloudburst of sleet and snow. Leah managed to cross the slippery deck with aplomb while balancing her surf and turf, but we had other fish to fry.
Once we were appropriately outfitted, our Zodiac pilot whisked us from our Trepassey Bay anchorage…
avoiding packs of drifting ice while also keeping an eye on an evolving sky,
which transformed a distant glacier into an enchanted wonderland of swirling smoke and mirrors.
And then, as if on cue, the veil magically lifted as we approached the coast, revealing its rich, red brown, tuya characteristics.
We ambled onto shore, across the moraine…
where three impressive, moss-covered boulders at the western edge of the snow slope…
reminded us of Brown Bluff’s subglacial eruption one million years ago.
A majority of the landing groups headed east towards the rookery.
However, it proved quite difficult to maintain a 5-meter distance from the gentoo penguins–perpetually parading along the beach.
So, I ventured westward, over an icy reef, beyond nesting kelp gulls…
where I spotted an opportunistic leopard seal lying in wait…
for unsuspecting dinner guests,
yet every penguin on Brown Bluff had reservations elsewhere.
Had our continental landing marked the end of our dramatic voyage, I would have been wholly satisfied with our Antarctic experience. However, following the decontamination of our outerwear aboard Octantis, Leah and I learned that we would be among the final twelve returning to Brown Bluff via Special Operations Boat.
On our penultimate day at sea, Captain Cardestig skillfully navigated the Viking Octantis around the peninsula’s northeastern tip for an early morning view of Joinville Island’s glacial headlands and ice-capped peaks.
We anchored outside a dense track of pack ice that can make it challenging to approach landfall at Tay Head.
Those fortunate enough to be scheduled for daily excursions experienced a thrill ride from the 10u Zodiacs piloted through floating ice blocks momentarily stranded on rocky shallows.
I, however, was stranded aboard Octantis with my camera at the ready. The closest I could get to the Adélie penguin colony this day managed to swim across my viewfinder as they indulged in a krill feast.
Travel resumed at noon, dodging islands of sea ice across the Antarctic Sound,
when a call came across the P.A. system, “There’s a humpback sighting, portside, and it’s following the ship.”
It was as if the paparazzi had stumbled upon Taylor Swift adrift in the Southern Ocean. Passengers leapt to their feet, fervently capturing the moment (predominantly with cell phones) from every deck, eager to commemorate our initial humpback whale sighting,
albeit from a distance beyond any reasonable recognition or resolution …
Nevertheless, there were cheers all around, as if to encourage an encore performance. And to our surprise, it circled back for a curtain call with crisper results!
Although my pixelated version offered its own reward.
By late afternoon, we arrived at Paulet Island, a round volcanic rock characterized by its prominent cinder cone and almost complete absence of ice due to geothermal activity.
Once again, the requisite transport toys were hauled from the hangar for the fortunate 182 passengers who walked among the tens of thousands of Adélies on the island’s congested shore.
But alas, not with me. I, for my part, was chasing an opportunistic snowy sheathbill that had fled Paulet Island, seeking the solitude of Deck 10.
By 8:00 PM, the majority of passengers were savoring their dinner as Octantis sailed southwest towards Brown Bluff, in anticipation of our singular continental landing—a prospect that held high expectations for everyone and ultimately left no one disappointed!
Leah and I bid adieu to Admiralty Bay, with “John and George” (our yellow submarines) safely stowed in the ship’s hangar. We also wished a speedy recovery to our medevacked shipmate.
Our journey continued past a leopard seal lounging on an ice floe designed for one, but our heading was uncertain.
Viking Octantis was now operating in uncharted, metaphorical waters. With our predetermined itinerary cast into the Bay of Serendipity, we now had a rare opportunity to explore the tip of Antarctica’s peninsula!
The wheelhouse brass decided that Octantis would complete its Antarctic voyage with a continental landing at Brown Bluff.
Additionally, resident scientists–supported by Viking’s mission to collaborate with global research networks–lobbied for an interim landing on Astrolabe Island, where penguin monitors from Oceanites were enthusiastic about counting a colony of chinstrap nests that hadn’t been surveyed since 1987.
Science certainly set the tone for our Antarctic expedition. Passengers were enlightened and enriched with daily lectures and participation opportunities to complement Viking’s pursuit of marine science.
In the name of “Citizen Science,” Leah and I facilitated in collecting phytoplankton, and sampling the water for microplastics,
which was later analyzed in a fully equipped science lab.
Better yet, the entire ship was invited to celebrate the release of a weather balloon…
and monitor the data stream from its high-altitude instruments.
On January 16, we awoke to calm seas and blue skies over Bransfield Strait, with Trinity Peninsula dominating our horizon. The panorama gave the illusion of an expansive sculpture park installation.
Leah and I were scheduled to board a Special Ops Boat (S.O.B.) for a closer look–
that had us oohing and aahing as we darted through one-of-a-kind carvings.
“That one resembles the Statue of Liberty… and there’s an ice cream cone… and that one could be a mushroom…” were common overheard comparisons.
I marveled at the colossal size of these formations shaped by wind and sun and imagined the volume of ice beneath the surface!
Later that day, we swapped our high-speed vessel for an assigned Zodiac…
to ferry us to Astrolabe Island.
Our pilot cruised past Dragons Teeth–a collection of 100m peaks cutting through the gumline of frigid waters.
We zigzagged through towers of blue ice,
until we beached at a guano-stained snowfield ruled by Antarctic fur seals–
inherently cute but unpredictable predators–
while a rookery of chinstrap penguins preferred the protection of High Ground,
where eggs…
and hatchlings were well-protected.
Nevertheless, their paths inevitably intersected en route to the sea.
We closed our day with one last excursion along Hut Cove,
where a thriving colony of gentoo penguins were filling their bellies with krill.
After returning to Octantis, it was announced that the Oceanites team identified an unknown colony of chinstrap penguins on Diaz Rock, using drones equipped with thermal imaging to detect distant splashes of pink poop.
Overall, it was a good day for science, but it was a great day for scenery and seabirds.
I’m not usually nostalgic. However, it’s been 7 years since my last total eclipse, and it’s been 7 years since this blog was created. So, it’s fitting that these two anniversaries should align like heavenly bodies.
Unfortunately, I will not be in the pathway of “No Sun Day on Monday,” but I will virtually celebrate by dusting off the experience that Leah and I memorialized in Corvallis, Oregon.
Happy Eclipse Day, everyone!
Dateline August 21, 2017:
A small corner of the sky captured most of America’s attention and imagination on August 21, 2017. It was the celestial event of the millennia that brought a momentary pause to many people’s lives as they looked up and marveled at the source of our very existence. Leah and I had our own corner of the parking lot at Benton County Fairgrounds in Corvallis, OR.
A party atmosphere surrounded us. Some were expecting a spiritual awakening, and some were interested in the science of the occasion, but for most of us it was a social connection. We sat around with family, friends and strangers, looking goofy in our mylar glasses…
We all held our collective breath at the precise moment the moon cloaked the sun. And then there were cheers, with all of us sharing this moment in time as sun worshippers.
For one brief moment, we were all related. For one instant during totality, we had turned the corner to become the human race.
And just like that it was gone in a flash, and a tear passed the corner of my eye.
Sadly, it’s going to be a very long time until our next solar eclipse, or another shared moment of total community.
An unexpected medical emergency aboard Viking Octantis dramatically changed our travel plans. Rather than repositioning overnight to Damoy Point to explore historic British and Argentine huts, Captain Cardestig rerouted the ship and raced north to King George Island in the South Shetland Islands to facilitate a medical evacuation for a sick passenger.
Consequently, all future excursions were rescheduled to align with our revised four-day itinerary. Although the majority of passengers calmly accepted the changes, I sensed some disappointment, especially among those whose submarine excursion was delayed indefinitely.
Of the 350 passengers aboard Octantis, nearly 75% expressed interest in a submarine dive. And who wouldn’t, given the allure and bragging rights among friends. In fact, several passengers were offered a complimentary submarine ride as a bonus for early booking, amounting to a $499 savings.
But submarining was never intended for everyone. Given the demographics of the passengers (average age of 70 years), there were many aboard Octantis who lacked the general physical characteristics or requirements to take advantage of the opportunity. To determine eligibility–after boarding the Octantis in Ushuaia–we were immediately sorted into two groups: those who would dive and those who would not. Leah was always less than interested. However, as a self-identified adrenaline junkie, my choice was obvious, but I still had to pass the two physical challenges to qualify.
After I was weighed, I was instructed to step onto a chair seat, alternating legs while maintaining my balance. Subsequently, I had to squat between two tables set 18 inches apart and stand. I completed the test with ease, but others found it challenging.
One delicate woman, possibly in her 80s, approached the chair with a cane. The officer was kind but firm; canes were not allowed. With dignified resolve, she handed over her cane, declaring, “I don’t need it. I can walk without it!” I was amused when she bent over, grabbed her right thigh and hoisted her foot onto the seat. She repeated the task with her left leg in the same manner. She was most pleased with herself, as if she had won gold in a power-lifting competition. She tackled the final challenge by sidling between the tables, grabbing the edge for support, and lowering herself into a half-kneeling position. I sensed that her strength was sapped, but she struggled mightily to pull herself upright.
The officer was hardly impressed. “If it was my call, I would disqualify you. However, since you mostly completed the task as asked, I will allow you to pass. However, I recommend that you reconsider your decision.”
During our second day at sea, I sat through a compulsory briefing for prospective submariners in the Aula on Deck 2. Understandably, the memory of Titan’s implosion seven months ago at a depth of 3,500 meters was still fresh in the minds of many of the attendees in the auditorium, not to mention a familiar, frail woman who seated herself beside me. Oh, the irony!
The briefing was indispensable. The crew gave a detailed rundown of essential safety measures which provided the worriers and skeptics with much-needed reassurance. For example, in case of an emergency:
The submarine is stocked with a four-day supply of food, water, and oxygen for the pilot and six passengers.
There is no toilet on board.
Passengers are required to bring a four-day supply of any essential medications, which they will need to administer themselves.
Passengers will be coached to operate the sub by communicating with the support vessel on the surface should the pilot become incapacitated.
We also learned about some of the features of our submarine:
The Cruise Sub 7 by U-Boat Worx is capable of descending to 900 meters.
It’s air-conditioned.
It features two back-to-back acrylic spheres, accommodating three passengers facing forward and three facing backward–offering undistorted 270o views.
The seats, situated on rotating platforms, allow everyone to reposition for shared views of the marine environment.
It’s equipped with eight thrusters: four vectored horizontal, two dedicated horizontal, and two dedicated vertical, providing the Sub 7 with exceptional maneuverability and the power to contend with strong underwater currents.
A handheld joystick control device enables easy maneuverability.
It can operate for up to 16 hours submerged.
Each one costs $4 million.
We finished up with Q’s & A’s. So, I got to wondering out loud, “If the pilot should pass out, and it falls on me to operate the sub, and I wreck it in the process, am I on the hook for $4 million, or will my travel insurance cover the damage?”
It was good for a laugh and a good way to end the meeting.
Following the briefing, my neighbor turned to me and confessed, “You know, my doctor gave me medical clearance to participate in this activity, but I never told him about the vertigo that I started experiencing a couple of weeks before the trip. Do you think I should still go?”
It baffled me that she would even contemplate this, considering her latest complication. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” I said to appease her, “but maybe you wouldn’t want to risk compromising someone else’s experience.”
We arrived at the South Shetland Islands by late morning with a modified schedule in place,
and the hangar toys were immediately deployed.
When Leah and I checked our daily agenda, I discovered that my time had come; I would explore the ocean floor off King George Island. The feeling was akin to winning the lottery… which cost me only $499 to play!
After arriving at the hangar–eager and ready with my Sony RX-10 around my neck–our group of six received lanyards with numbered pendants corresponding to seat assignments and the order in which we would board the sub. Mine was #1.
The Zodiac ferried us to the submarine platform, where #6 stepped aboard with a firm sailor’s grip. He wriggled down the 18-inch hatch opening and took his designated seat on the starboard side. #5 repeated the transfer drill and took his seat on the port side to manage weight distribution.
I was the last passenger to come aboard, and while I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, it was hard to ignore how cramped the cabin felt, especially squeezing into my seat with our bulky parkas taking up so much space.
Excitement quickly turned to disappointment when I realized that my camera’s auto-focus function was compromised by the window. How could I ever get any cool shots in these extreme conditions?
With Kat in command, she rotated our trio of seats into the acrylic bubble for optimal viewing and completed a readiness checklist with the dive support vessel.
After receiving clearance, she managed our descent through a 300 ft. wall of krill, until we finally emerged with a view of the bottom. There was a collective “Wow!” from the cabin.
Kat proclaimed, “I believe we are the first people to have ever explored this part of the Southern Ocean. So, let’s see what we can discover.” One of our initial discoveries was a change in the visible light spectrum, where longer wavelength colors, such as red, nearly vanished as we ventured further into the depths of the unknown.
Kat hit the thrusters to slow our decent, as we gently settled atop the sandy bottom. I was surprised to learn that we had reached a depth of 409 feet.
Far from being mere novelties for tourists, Viking’s submersibles have become a vital tool for marine biologists once constrained by resources, to carry out research missions in remote regions. Consider, in early 2022, when Octantis submersibles documented three sightings of the rarely encountered scyphozoan Stygiomedusa gigantea, commonly known as the giant phantom jellyfish, measuring 30 feet in length. A white paper was subsequently published in Polar Research, the scientific journal of the Norwegian Polar Institute. (The full research paper is available at: http://dx.doi.org/10.33265/polar.v42.8873)
Although our dive didn’t make news, we still encountered a variety of sea life that I managed to capture on my Samsung Galaxy 23 Ultra… such as a lonesome a brittle star,
and multiple snake-armed, Labidiaster annulatus, commonly known as wolftrap starfish,
including a rare look at a hunter, ready to snatch fast-moving, swimming prey as it passed by.
I was also delighted to capture a potpourri of sea life, featuring a couple of sea spiders hugging a sea worm tethered to a feather star.
After 45 minutes, we surfaced!
Indeed, it was a unique experience shaped by our environment and the adventure; however, I had anticipated more. I imagined leopard seals hunting penguins and orcas pursuing seals. Perhaps, my expectations were set too high. Yet reflecting on the event, it remained a highlight of our voyage, and another item checked off my bucket list.
As for the lady with a cane, our paths crossed again on our last day at sea. She was sitting with her older sister sipping tea over dropped surgical masks at Mamsen’s, a Norwegian-styled cafe dedicated to the mother of Viking’s founder, Torstein Hagan. I asked if she had enjoyed diving in the submersible. “Unfortunately, not. I ended up caring for my sister, who fighting a cold at the moment. But there’s always a next time!”
Leah and I wrestled our way into pricey polar drysuits in preparation for kayaking in Chiriguana Bay, a protected inlet on the southern end of Brabant Island in the Palmer Archipelago.
We strained to pull our heads and hands through unforgiving latex gaskets that promised to seal in our body heat while preventing icy water from infiltrating our suits, effectively turning us into human buoys in the event of a capsize.
We boarded our Zodiac, and raced around a steady stream of bergy bits,
before reaching a string of tandem kayaks already moored in the bay.
Each of us performed a precarious “shoehorn” transfer into our kayak seats without incident. At once, Leah and I fiddled about–making adjustments to our outfits and gear–until we reached a level of comfort to maximize our paddling efficiency. Surprisingly, at 32o F / 0o C with clear skies and sunshine, it felt warm enough to remove my gloves.
After safety instruction from Stephanie, our kayaking guide, we glided through the bay in unison for a closer look at our surroundings,
all the while following Stephanie’s lead.
The stretch of blue ice,
and white serenity–occasionally interrupted by the distant thunder of calving ice–left us breathless.
Before we realized, our 45 minutes of paddling had come to an end. Drifting on the Southern Ocean, time seemed to stand still, as if the rhythmic waves that rocked us held the secret to eternity.
Coming up: a journey to the depths of the ocean floor…
The journey continued beyond our early morning detour through Lemaire Channel. Viking Octantis set a course for nearby Cuverville Island, a protected rock lying between Arctowski Peninsula,
and the northern tip of Rongé Island, west of Graham Land.
Leah and I were keen to arrive at our first landing zone–originally scheduled days earlier by Pamela, Viking’s program director, who coordinated the excursions and edutainment events throughout our time at sea.
In accordance with Antarctic Treaty visitor site guidelines, Pam’s team launched a staggered fleet of Zodiacs to Cuverville Island capped at 100 visitors (excluding guides and scientists) for a closer look at the estimated 6,500–7,000 breeding pairs of Gentoo penguins–making this the largest colony of this species on the Antarctic Peninsula.
Despite the pristine vista, we were forewarned by our Zodiac pilot/naturalist to expect an unpleasant smell on our approach to the island.
No joke. As if on cue, the stench of penguin poo was so sudden and overwhelming that a couple of old-timers dared to let go of the gunwale lifeline to hold their noses.
In a matter of minutes, we reached the landing beach, distancing ourselves from the eastern edge of the cobble, where the colony accessed the sea. It was no surprise that the guano-stained beach proved to be ground zero for foul fowl.
Eventually, we landed on the northern edge of the island. Before disembarking the Zodiac–a drill we perfected within the ship’s hangar–we were instructed to stay a minimum of 5m from wildlife whenever possible and avoid the penguins’ highway lanes.
Strolling the penguin highway
Easier said than done. These critters seemed especially curious of us when they weren’t preoccupied with preening,
impressing their future mates with the perfect selection of nesting stones,
or incubating on nests of captured stones.
Occasionally, an adult would sound the alarm for an invading skua,
whose interest in Gentoo eggs and chicks is always a threat to the rookery.
Leah and I hiked to the top of the promontory,
for an overview of Cuverville and the channel.
Sadly, we worked our way back to catch the next available Zodiac bound for Octantis, but the stories and adrenalin from the day carried us to sunset (11:25 PM) and into tomorrow.
Next stop: our kayaking adventure in Chiriguano Bay.
A familiar voice woke us from the public address speaker above our bed. I checked my watch; it was 6:45 AM:
“Good morning, everyone. This is your captain from the bridge. We are approaching a special spot along the Antarctic Peninsula known as Lemaire Channel, and after discussing with my officers, we will be cruising through this waterway because today it’s mostly free of large icebergs that can sometimes block the entrance or exit and bring us too close to the cliffs.”
I jumped out of bed, grabbed my camera, and ran to the Nordic balcony to power up the blackout blind. I didn’t want to miss a thing! Leah sat up in bed to supervise because she already knew what to expect.
“What are you doing? I hope you’re not going to open that window,” she growled as I was already lowering the window.
“Come see this! The light is perfect, and I’m trying to get a clear shot before it disappears,” I argued, talking over Captain Cardestig’s continuing announcement:
“But today, all of you are in for a treat because the sky is clearing, and the seas are calm.”
“And while there’s still some hazards to consider when sailing through this beautiful channel, much of the small ice has already broken up from the warmer weather,
and we can easily guide Octantis around the bigger ice.”
Leah clutched the blanket around her in surrender while I braced against the window in my birthday suit, capturing unimaginable views with little concern for the crisp Antarctic air.
Captain Cardestig continued, “But best of all, the kitchen staff is serving breakfast buffet at the bow of the ship. So please dress warmly, and join us outside for this remarkable voyage, and don’t forget to bring your cameras and binoculars.”
“I guess we’re getting dressed,” Leah lamented. “And could you shut that window! It’s fucking freezing in here!”
Lemaire Channel is a narrow strait of glossy water that traverses 11 km between Booth Island in the Wilhelm Archipelago and Graham Land–shrinking to 600 meters at its narrowest point. With views of stunning snowcaps atop dramatic cliffs, Lemaire Channel easily earns its moniker, “Kodak Gap.”
It was all hands around the bow deck. Leah and I joined the crowd, hopelessly jockeying for a position at the rail, until we found solace on the upper deck away from the fray,
where we were content to enjoy breathtaking vistas,
and watch the world float by.
There were penguin playgrounds …
and a pod of Orcas along the way,
but for now, the real star of the show was the scenery.
When Octantis eventually reached open water…
with captivating views of the Argentine Islands,
Captain Cardestig turned the ship around, allowing us to enjoy the approach from the opposite direction.
It was a dramatic crossing from Ushuaia to the Antarctic Peninsula, and the reward was visceral.
When seas had finally calmed, relieved passengers emerged from their cloistered cabins, looking refreshed and revitalized, with a “what’s-for-breakfast” look on their faces. There was a literal pep in their step as they attacked the buffet on Deck 6.
I attended the 10 A.M. daily briefing in the Aula, a two-tiered, smartly equipped, and fashionable auditorium,
while Leah live-streamed the event on the wall-mounted, flat screen TV in the privacy of our well-appointed Nordic hive on Deck 4.
At the briefing, our Program Director confirmed that our first destination would be Fournier Bay, a picturesque sanctuary located in the Palmer Archipelago,and situated on the northeast coast of Anvers Island, a mountainous coastal enclave just above the Antarctic Circle.
Our flexible activity assignments were previously distributed in anticipation of our arrival, although none of us would be scheduled for a landing, as deep water and rocky surroundings were among deciding factors.
However, it was a perfect opportunity to board a Zodiac for a closer inspection of the coastline. According to our team schedules, we gathered in the hangar, all of us outfitted and overheated in our complimentary expedition jackets, and waited patiently …
until the next Zodiac became available.
The water was calm as our pilot dodged floating chunks of ice,
and weaved through more formidable icebergs on our approach to the Anvers Island.
It was nearly impossible to contain our giddiness as we cruised closer to shore,
where we reached an outcropping of volcanic granite.
That’s where we spotted a solitary chinstrap penguin–identifiable by the telltale line that runs under his helmet–who was posing on a puddle of penguin poop for our benefit.
It was our first Antarctic wildlife encounter, but judging from the penguin’s apparent apathy, probably not his first photo shoot.
The excursion was brief and memorable, but easily topped the following day by an early morning sail through the Lemaire Channel, featuring breathtaking views of mirrored mountains standing against azure skies.
Two of South America’s great urban centers–Santiago, Chile and Buenos Aires, Argentina served as designated transfers on our journey to the bottom of the world, but time would not allow Leah and me to explore our interim surroundings to the fullest. Nevertheless, we hit the ground running,
utilizing the long summer days to our advantage and netting a few memorable moments and postcard pearls to satisfy our wanderlust.
Santiago is a vibrant capital sandwiched between the Coastal Range and the Andean Mountains, and best experienced from the summit of San Cristobal Hill–
accessible by cable car from the east,
or by funicular from the west.
For many Catholics, the pilgrimage to the top of Cerro San Cristobal is incomplete without hiking to the Sanctuary of the Immaculate Conception,
where a statue of the Virgin Mary rises 14 meters from her pedestal.
The Catholic Archdiocese is based at the neoclassical Metropolitan Cathedral at the Plaza de Armas,
where it stands as the centerpiece of the square.
The opulence of the sky-blue frescos and the cathedral’s gilded columns are a testament to the hundreds of artisans who toiled for decades to evoke the aesthetics of Tuscany and Rome.
On the civics side of the peso chileno, there is also a wealth of Beaux-Arts architecture that dominates the cityscape, from the Supreme Court building…
to Constitution Square.
Leah and I initially arrived in Santiago, Chile, only to fly out the following day to the Antofagasta region, where the Atacama Desert figured large in our itinerary (see Atacama Desert). Then it was back to Santiago, for an overnight, before an early departure to Buenos Aires, where our time was sorely limited to an amazing rib-eye dinner in the midst of Monserrat,
followed by a necessary “walk-off-our-meal” stroll through the city’s oldest district, replete with sidewalk bistros,
political art,
and public buildings defended by commemorative art,
and protected by full-figured gargoyles.
The following afternoon, we arrived in Ushuaia, acclaimed as the southernmost city on the planet.
Although our ship Viking Octantis awaited us at the harbor (just kidding),
Leah and I still managed to appreciate the Patagonian panorama surrounding the waterfront,
the inland tributes and monuments,
and the resplendent gardens scattered throughout the town.
Ushuaia surprised me. I anticipated a sleepy town, but discovered a hive of trendy shops, boutique hotels, and pricey outfitters. The scenery was unparalleled, and the weather was ideal. It seemed the perfect segue to an exciting Viking expedition.
And so, the time had come to embark on our adventure to the White Continent by first surrendering to the dreaded Drake Passage…
Despite the monochromatic omnipresence of shifting sand and salt across the Atacama Desert (observed from previous post, “Atacama Desert”)–
aside from the occasional splash of flamingo pink–
there is an abundance of color to behold in other regions of Antofagasta. Leah and I joined our expedition colleagues…
for a 90-minute drive north through remote, rugged terrain and narrow switchbacks, to catch a 7am sunrise over El Tatio Geysers, the highest, albeit 3rd largest geothermal field in the world, and certainly, the most active in the southern hemisphere.
At an altitude of 14,170 ft, the -6oC desert temperature was biting at our faces, but it was a temporary inconvenience. The backlit, pre-dawn sky and cold air benefitted the playful plumes that vented from 80 steaming geysers and fumaroles amid 12 sq miles of Andean volcanoes.
Like so many others, I was poised for the first sun to creep over the horizon,
not only to return the feeling to my fingers, but to reveal the chromatic clouds playing across the landscape.
Soon enough, the rising sun would turn the blackest of hot springs into a glorious reflecting pool.
It was worthy of a celebration.
Because El Tatio is community-owned and administered, there were several local rangers scattered throughout the vicinity to patrol, advise, and admonish any foolishness similar to Pierce Brosnan’s trespassing at Yellowstone National Park (although he entered a “not guilty” plea during his recent arraignment).
One can only hope that discretion and common sense would prevail in this fragile and volatile environment.
El Tatio Geyser
A stroll through the field revealed a kaleidoscope of algae-induced minerals and salts,
that stretched into the distance.
El Tatio didn’t appear as daunting as Old Faithful and its surroundings, but it was impressive, nonetheless, with nowhere near the number of onlookers!
From our position–only 100 miles to Ollagüe Volcano, bordering Chile and Bolivia–
we continued to Valle del Arcoiris, another community-based natural wonder,
where “purple mountains majesty”…
become a befitting backdrop to roaming, grazing llamas.
The valley was as wide and rich with the scent of riki riki…
as it was awash with colors created by a primordial stew of Sulphur, gypsum, crushed shells, and clay.
When the Pliocene Epoch carved out the valley,
all traces of copper and lithium were swept away–
which is a silver-lining for a spectacular landscape that would otherwise have been ravaged by mining companies.
Rather than go thru the details of how we got here, suffice to say that 2 days of inconvenient travel brought us to the Chilean Andes…
to experience the highest and driest desert on earth (averaging 13,000 ft. elevation), where temperatures can fluctuate between 0oC and 25oC, and rainfall averages 2 mm of rain per year with a humidity factor of .02%.
The area is so vast, it spans Chile, Peru, Argentina, and Bolivia.
But despite the hostile environment, flora and fauna still manages to survive.
Our first destination was the Soncor Sector of Los Flamencos National Preserve,
where a variety of native flamingos congregate to feed on brine shrimp that flourish in pools along the salt flats.
Although the park flamingos were unidentifiable from a distance,
it became easier to identify their individual characteristics the closer we got to them,
distinguishing the flock as Andean flamingos.
Our next destination was Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon), another sector of Los Flamencos–only 10 minutes from San Pedro, across a dusty road built for vehicles with dependable suspension.
The park was aptly named by Gustavo Le Paige, a Belgian missionary who pioneered much of the archeological research of San Pedro de Atacama in the 1950’s.
The sector captures the essence of the region’s vastness and aridity, so much so, that NASA tested its Mars rovers on the surface to simulate future planetary exploration.
Salt and sodium nitrate crystals are found throughout the Atacama Desert, as the dry air and lack of vegetation allows them to collect on the surface.
Although the region also contains precious metals including an abundance of copper, silver and gold, it was the large cache of potassium nitrate that brought the railroads and development to Atacama, turning the region into a hub for culture and commerce by the 2nd half of the nineteenth century.
Today, large reserves of precious metals such as lithium provide a significant source of revenue for private and state-owned mining companies.
In fact, as of January 14, Chile’s SQM, the world’s 2nd largest producer of lithium has suspended its operations in Atacama due to 500 protestors from indigenous communities in the Antofagasta region who’ve been blockading roads–immobilizing workers, supplies and lithium to and from the mines–demanding that they be included in negotiations between SQM and the Chilean government.
Let’s hope that this conflict can be resolved quickly, so we may continue to feed our global appetite for electric vehicles.
It’s a new year, and there has never been a better time for Leah and me to explore our world. We are always up for a challenge, so we’ve decided to begin 2024 with our most ambitious adventure yet. Not satisfied with returning to some of our favorite destinations–not that there’s anything wrong with familiar places—we booked a bucket list trip over a year ago that would literally take us out of our comfort zone.
We filled the waiting time by visiting friends and family across America (and a speck of Canada)–only some of which I memorialized during the past year in this blog. In fact, a large part of last year’s travels never made it past my unpublished thoughts and unprocessed SD cards, including: a trip to Israel (months before the October 7th massacre);
a Central American cruise to Costa Rica,
Panama City,
and Cartagena, Columbia;
as well as a relaxing siesta on the Riviera Maya in Mexico;
a flash visit to Victoria, BC;
and a southwestern tour of America in our silver bullet–
all worthy of sharing sooner than later.
But until then, I must fast forward to our most recent trip to Chile’s Atacama Desert before embarking aboard Viking’s Octantis to Patagonia and Antarctica–in search of whales, penguins and extraordinary landscapes.
We overnighted in Santiago, Chile,
followed by a morning flight to Copiapó, the region’s capital incorporating San Pedro de Atacama.
And set out to explore the highest, driest ecosystem on planet Earth.
Forgive me; it’s been a while since my last confession.
Life happens and it’s been challenging at times to juggle travel with business affairs, personal affairs and blogging. And with the passage of each passing day, it’s become increasingly more difficult to return to summer events with the same vitality, and cobble a detailed timeline from 3 months ago. In fact, there are still stories from last year’s journey to Canada that have yet to be written and published.
While I could travel less to blog more often, or continue to travel without memorializing the occasion, neither option is an acceptable one. Perhaps, I’ll just have to find a better way to accomplish both without sacrificing one for the other. In the meantime, I’ll pick up where I left off, which is somewhere on the road between here and there.
First of all, a shout-out to our friends Dirk and Heather,
who allowed us to park the Airstream at their ranch in Fort Collins, assuring us peace of mind while we boarded a flight from Denver to Seattle to visit my son Nate.
Dollar for dollar and day for day, Leah and I figured that flying round-trip to Seattle probably saved us 2 weeks of driving 1,500 miles, at a proximate cost of $1300 in fuel.
After our arrival to Issaquah (suburban Seattle and Nate’s hometown), we ventured southeast along the I-90 corridor to hike Rattlesnake Ledge on Rattlesnake Mountain–
a demanding 2-mile ascent…
that gave us sweeping views of Rattlesnake Lake,
and the Cascade Range beyond the clouds.
Seattle was also our gateway to north of the border…
After a 2 hour and 45-minute cruise aboard the Victoria Clipper, we arrived at Victoria’s Inner Harbor,
where we would spend the weekend at the historic Pendray Inn and Tea House…
in the very pink, Executive Suite.
Victoria is well-known as a pedestrian town,
with a variety of landmarks and attractions within a few miles of our hotel. We were less than a half-mile from Parliament,
and Fairmont’s Empress Hotel,
and another half-mile further to Canada’s oldest Chinatown.
And strolling along the Lower Breakwater (adorned with First Nation symbols) with panoramic views to the south, afforded us a different perspective of the Cascade Range.
Also within walking distance, we discovered Craigdarroch Castle, a Victorian architectural marvel…
from front…
to back….
top to bottom,
and everywhere in between!
And exquisitely furnished throughout the residence.
Of course, no visit to Victoria is complete without a stroll through Butchart Gardens,
Leah and I arrived in Colorado Springs, where we liaised with Leah’s daughter, Carrie and her clan to enjoy a camping adventure together during the Independence Day holiday weekend, and it was action-packed.
Hiking one mile into Guffey Gorge…
brought us to Paradise Cove, a swimming hole popular among local adolescents who come to cool off from the 100oF heat and flex their courage muscles by cliff jumping into deep water.
Risk-takers were scrambling up the terrain to pick their “launch” position on the rocks, and prove to themselves and others that they had “The Right Stuff.”
We were happy eating our lunch while watching the derring-do entertainment.
But Colorado Springs has so much more to offer. For starters, the interactive U.S. Olympic and Paralympic Museum offered the perfect opportunity to celebrate athletic excellence;
to mock-compete in several sports categories by testing memory, reflexes and endurance;
and provide exhibition space for thousands of Olympic artifacts collected over the years.
After capturing a clever montage from the digital mural in the building foyer,
it was time to watch the Colorado Springs Switchbacks take the pitch at Weidner Field against Monterey Bay, but not until after the cloudburst,
when the unexpected hail finally had a chance to melt.
While Carrie and clan cruised to nearby Cañon City to view the Royal Gorge (our destination in 2 weeks,
Leah and I returned to Garden of the Gods,
before continuing to Manitou Springs to visit the urban fauna…
and flora.
Ironically, we’ve recently visited Carrie and clan at home in Cedar Crest, NM after 7 weeks of subsequent travel to dozens of different destinations…
which is a sore reminder of how far behind I am in chronicling this summer adventure, whether it’s because of inconsistent internet on the road or enjoying myself too much to stay current.
I never considered Kansas to be particularly picturesque (no offense, Kansas), and rarely in the running for Most Beautiful State title.
Driving westbound on I-70, my initial impression of Kansan landscape was a blur of high plains, pastureland and fields of fodder as far as the eye could see. The drive was basically a bore and staying alert was becoming a challenge. I glanced at Leah. She was slack-jawed with her head back and pretend-listening to an audiobook.
I activated the ALEXA app on the dash display.
“Hey Alexa,” I intonated and enunciated, “Name the flattest state in America.”
Alexa quickly responded with, “By any measure, Florida takes the prize for the flattest state in the nation [along with its flat-earth thinking, of late] because the highest point in the state is only 345 ft above sea level… Kansas merely ranks seventh in flatness.”
Nevertheless, Kansas does have an honorary mountain barely within its western border, making it the highest point in Kansas at 4039 ft.
There was another notable elevation change that Leah and I explored before we reached the Rockies. We scheduled a stop at Lake Scott State Park (elev. 2979 ft) to break up the drive between Topeka and Colorado,
stretch our legs,
and discover the Badlands of Kansas.
But first, we detoured 15 miles east to Monument Rocks.
As the first National Natural Landmark in Kansas designated by the Department of the Interior,
we thought we ought to pay our respects, and we were just shaking our heads at the many visitors who couldn’t wait to desecrate the brittle, 50 ft chalk towers.
Although the formations were small in stature and compact in scale,
they were a site to admire,
and fun to explore!
See ya, fella.
With this tasty morsel served and enjoyed, our appetites were whetted for the main course.
I really wanted to be awestruck by the vision and overwhelmed by the novelty of the geology, but what I saw was a craggy white cliff with spots of color in an unexpected location.
And while it was anything but ordinary…
it failed the goosebump test.
I really wanted this as a win for Kansas, but I got the impression that Kansas wasn’t as prepared as its closest competitor across the border.
Was I becoming, perhaps, jaded?
“Hey Alexa, what’s the longest, straight highway in America?
Much has happened since leaving Bonnaroo for Denver. There’s been a long-distance get-together in Rogers, Arkansas with a nursery school buddy from Pittsburgh…
and a long-overdue reunion with family from Pittsburgh, who now reside in Overland Park, Kansas.
We’ve also kept a watchful eye on the weather–always tracking the extreme conditions that have been swirling around us, the likes of tornadoes, hail, flooding, land slides, and record-setting heat streaks–yet with each destination, we’ve mostly managed to dodge a bullet.
There was also a handful of visits to some iconic sites along the way, and some less familiar, but definitely photo worthy.
Our first stop took us to Parker’s Crossroads, halfway between Nashville and Memphis, and the site of a celebrated Civil War skirmish in West Tennessee.
It was the final battle for Confederate Brig. Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, who managed to outfox the Union brigades of Col. Cyrus L. Dunham and Col. John W. Fuller by escaping with his regiment across the Tennessee River and avoiding certain defeat in the face of an enemy nearly twice the size with two times the artillery.
Leah and I took the walking tour past interpretive markers depicting critical moments in the battle, and observed that Parker’s Crossroads battlefield, while a testament to the 737 fallen soldiers,
should also be appreciated for its serenity and pastoral scenes.
Only 45 miles west of us was Tennessee Safari Park in Alamo,
where we looped around a drive-thru zoo for an hour with 4 buckets of animal nachos for hungry wildlife roaming freely throughout the fenced prairie. We were immediately greeted by an aggressive mob of ostriches and camels that descended upon our truck sensing a meal was imminent.
With the passenger window down, Leah tentatively extended the bucket beyond the door, only to have the bucket ripped from her hand by a dromedary with no manners and fewer eating skills.
Kibble went flying everywhere–inside and outside the truck. Even today, I’m still fishing out morsels between the seats. Lesson learned.
However, the lure of food was a perfect ploy for pet portraits…
Continuing west, we traveled to Little Rock, home to the Clinton Presidential Center, dedicated on November 18, 2004.
We parked the Airstream directly across the Arkansas River in North Little Rock by a decommissioned WW II tug and sub…
and cycled the long way around the riverwalk trail (some of it kinda sketchy),
past the Big Dam Bridge…
until we circled back 8 mi. to Clinton’s library–a hulking structure clad in glass screens that cantilevers over the Arkansas River as a symbol of “building a bridge to the 21st century.” And it was air conditioned!
The building that houses Clinton’s legacy is enormous enough to collect and archive 2 million photos, 80 million document pages, 21 million e-mails, and 79,000 artifacts from the Clinton years (1993-2001).
Appealing graphics break down the headlines and the issues of the time: year by year, month by month, surrounded by wings dedicated to domestic policy, diplomacy, economy, education, civil rights, and scandal. It’s all on display throughout the Main Hall, modeled after the Long Room of Trinity College in Dublin.
To date, my blog has been about chronicling my travel adventures, with occasional lapses into cultural insight and political satire…from my perspective, of course.
Equally as important, this blog has been a repository for thousands of photos I’ve taken along the way, helping me identify and memorialize hundreds of destinations I’ve visited during the past six years, and perhaps, transcending the ubiquitous and banal:
whether animal;
mineral;
or vegetable snapshot!
I admit to taking my fair share of goofy personal photos, and occasionally posting them from time to time (see “Looking Back in Pictures”). But for the most part, Streaming Thru America has been my “show and tell” outlet for timestamping my wanderlust…
until now!
What follows is this summer’s shameful display of selfies and portraits of familiar faces from faraway places.
And there are instances and circumstances when the background becomes the most important element in the picture:
Finally, there are occasions when I get to strut across nature’s catwalk, and Leah is mostly there to capture the moment:
This blog was never intended as a vanity project, and I was never under any illusion that posting my travel adventures would ever turn me into a world-wide influencer. But at the very least, there are precious moments when I get to star in my own production.
Streaming thru America 