kate keeley

In Between the Silence

2009-06-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

I have been traveling quite a bit these last few months—Canada, Sweden, Ireland, Romania, Norway, Greece, and Spain. I began to suspect that I had brought the perpetual rains of Ireland home with me as late spring and early summer in Colorado has been wetter and greyer than usual. The upside to that has been a proliferation of wildflowers and blossoming cacti. It’s amazing what a semi-arid mountain desert can do with just a little water.

The number of blooms surprised me, so rather than upload individual photos, I put together a video, with a special guest appearance by a sweet, Irish lamb.

You can also see the show on You Tube if you prefer a larger view.

The Art of Tea

2009-05-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all you have to do is walk outside in a new place and you’ll find an adventure. I’m in Vancouver, and I learned to drink green tea. The clay tea pots catch my eye, and I walk inside Modern Tea Art where three Chinese gentlemen are sitting at the tea bar taking tea. I inquire about the tea, and Mr. Lee invites me to sit down. He is dousing a pot that looks like it belongs in a playhouse with steaming water. Each of us has two cups—one tall and one short. Mr. Lee pours the tea into the tall cup, shows me how to cover it with the shorter, wide-brimmed cup and then how to hold the cups and flip them so that the tea flows into the drinking cup.

I learn that I should inhale the aroma of the tea from the tall cup before drinking. This mutes the stronger flavors of the tea, much like sniffing brandy before sipping. Not to mention it is good for the sinuses and can help with allergies. Inhaling the steam still rising from the cup, the scent of white flowers greets me. Mr. Lee tells me that is possible. He smiles. There are over 700 varieties of green tea. Each with a unique flavor and aroma. Maybe flowers, maybe not. If I want flowers, then flowers.

We drink half the tea, turn the cup and let it warm our fingers. Now we sip the tea, savor the fragrance of flowers and green, enjoy the company of old friends and new acquaintances. I didn’t think I’d have time to discover Vancouver, but just outside the hotel entrance, adventure was waiting. The marvels and the miracles of life.

While we drink tea, we talk about the benefits of green tea—good for digestion, calming, cleansing. Many vitamins. But the benefits are lost and the tea turns bitter if it’s over heated or steeped too long. If it’s stored too long, it will ferment again as well, which causes the tea to turn.

Mr. Lee’s friend pats his forehead with a hanky. “No more for me,” he says. “I’m good.” The tea has begun to take effect. “You drink this tea for 60 years, and it makes a habit.”

“I’ve had worse habits,” I say.He smiles. We sip our tea.

San Francisco: Funtabulous Family Vacation

2009-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

I just read in the Financial Times that San Francisco is a good choice as a travel destination for business groups looking for a low-profile opportunity to hold face-to-face meetings. With the economy in the tank, traditionally popular destinations like Orlando and Las Vegas are under scrutiny. Having just come back from a writers’ event sponsored by PenNobHill in San Francisco, I can attest to what a funtabulous city is perched above the Bay.

The vistas are stunning; strolling the pier is delightful and relaxing; the ambiance is international; the cuisine superb.

If you’re considering taking the family along, there are plenty of activities for kids. We had nine young adventurers with us on a Saturday in San Francisco and found plenty to keep them smiling.

We visited Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, and I believed it all, except for how the kids were able to touch their noses with their tongues and even twist their tongues upside down.

The young ones with too much energy we set bouncing on the bungee cords.

When we all needed to sit down, we climbed aboard a cable car to China Town.

We stopped by the Fortune Cookie Factory, where we were treated to free samples of fortune cookies. Mine said I was going to win an award, and I was! Wow!

San Francisco: The San Remo and the Sea Lions

2009-03-31T14:45:00.000-07:00

We choose our hotel, The San Remo, because it is haunted. Although no ghosts float at the top of the stairs or glide along the hallways, lights flicker on and off at will. We are treated to strange sounds—cats meowing—and odd smells. We are told later than an elderly woman (with a cat) died in the room that Laura and Shelby occupy.

In the heart of Little Italy, we are surrounded by Italian restaurants and cafés. We don’t know it that first day, but regardless of the compass direction we choose, our path will lead to beautiful vistas, bright sights, sounds of life. San Francisco—city of color.

On our list of must-dos:

Ride the cable cars
Stroll Pier 39
Climb Lombard Street
Visit Alcatraz

San Francisco is a city I’ve visited many times. No matter how many times I go, there are things I want to do again—crest the rollercoaster hills and glimpse the Bay Bridge shimmering in the morning light. Stroll along Pier 39 and watch the sea lions basking in the tepid sun.

A mother has her flipper wrapped around her pup.

The little one sleeps smiling, content and secure. Another sea lion slips into the bay, squeals, and dives. It swirls and pokes a flipper out of the water.

The man standing next to me says, “He’s flipping you off.”

Only a sea lion could do that without seeming rude.

Rescue: Rockin' With the Best

2009-03-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

I’ve been home for three weeks now, but that’s no reason not to adventure. Today was one of those not-so-rare to Colorado stunning, early spring days. Everybody was out. Some got higher on the spring air than others. While I was walking in our beautiful Garden of the Gods, I came upon a rescue. (You can watch the video compilation below.)

First of all, let me say that I admire these guys for getting out in nature, for breathing the cool, Colorado air, and for letting the day take them away. Second, let me mention that it’s not only written in some ordinance somewhere, but also probably a good idea not to do what these guys did without climbing ropes, experience, and advising someone of your plan. Lucky for them, they had at least one cell phone and unobstructed access to a cell tower. Ha, ha. They should have had good reception. They were on top of the world.

Whether you travel afar or you just explore your own back yard, the adventures are out there waiting for you.

In case you wonder what possessed these young men to make such a dangerous climb without the proper equipment, I included a few pictures of the Garden of the Gods. The first picture is the rock they climbed, known as Cathedral Rock. At the end of the slide I included a few shots of the Garden—almost, but not quite, what they got to see and experience. Today they were rockin’ with the best.

Cheers to Colorado Springs Fire Department, station 13, for bringing them safely back to the ground. The battalion chief was very gracious in directing me to the site of the rescue, and the whole team (from what I could hear) was extremely professional to those young men who got lifted up by life and deposited between a rock and a hard place.

Music that accompanies the video is DJ Pavo & The Prophet, Rocking With the Best.

I also posted this to YouTube if you want a larger view...Rockin' With the Best

Animals Talk to Me

2009-03-09T16:15:00.000-07:00

I love Dr. Doolittle, and ever since I was a child and saw that movie, I wished that I could talk to the animals too. As time has passed, though, what I wish most of all is that I could listen to the animals. I wish the animals would talk to me. More precisely, I wish that I could understand the animals when they talk—to me or to each other.

My dogs, for instance understand a smattering of English—come, sit, stay, back, down, and...do that again and you’re toast. That’s more English than I speak or even understand of Dog.

Several species of parrot can even speak English. But how many People can speak parrot?

In all fairness, I did meet a guy in Antarctica who could speak three dialects of Penguin. But I’m pretty sure Toby had no idea what he was saying.

For the most part I suspect that the animals I’ve met—whether they’re visiting my backyard, floating on Antarctic sea ice, or hanging out in top tourist destinations like Xel-ha—are telling me not to take life so seriously, to enjoy the world and all the beauty that surrounds me.

As a tribute to the beautiful animals I've listened to, here are a few more of my favorite pictures. I was the author of some, but others were taken by brilliant and talented friends and acquaintances, including Clare, DJ, Gitte, and the photographer at Xel-ha. (Note: The beautiful dog hiding in the Colorado brush is my brother's dog, Smokey.)

The Sun Is Going to Be Shining

2009-03-04T07:48:00.000-08:00

Three hours on the bus, and finally we arrive at the Maya ruins that Tom and I have come to see. Ventura, our guide, ushers us out of the bus. We follow him along dusty roads to the entrance of a long-deserted city. He gathers us in a half-circle and sweeps his hand across his body. “When the Maya get across the peninsula of Yucatán,” he says. “They walk. That because no rivers out there. That’s why the construction of the streets. We can see that one over there.” He points. “Sac-bay. The name of this. Sac, Maya for white. Bay, Maya for road-e. White Road-e.” Ventura’s accent is like music playing. “And they walk-ed from one city to another. From Chichén Itzá to Tulum.”

“Only the lee-ders live in-si-dee the ci-tee,” Ventura tells us because, in times of war, the invaders only killed the leaders. The common people, they worked. Ventura smiles. “So the leaders, they don’t kill the workers. The workers live out-si-dee the city walls.”

The conquered people often adopted the gods of their invaders because a god that could lead an army to victory was powerful, deserving of some respect and attention. In fact, many of the temples of Tulum are dedicated to Kukulkan, but his origins are uncertain. Later invasions probably resulted in some blending of Kukulkan and the primary god of the Aztecs, Quetzalcoatl. A Mayan merger of sorts. Not so different from the lee-ders of today, I think.
Ventura points to the eastern side of the city, where the temple of Kukulkan towers above the rest of the ruins. “This is where the lee-der sits and watches the people and thinks,” he tells us.

But it is to the little temple to the left that Ventura directs our attention. “The amazing of this,” he says, his words more lyrical than notes wafting from a flute, “is that the astronomers capture the mo-ment of the sun in the two solstices. In the two solstices the sun is going to be seen inside of the temple.”

In the space between yesterday and today, Kukulkan rises, drawing the sun across the sky, bringing life. I stand beneath the Mayan god who brings light, and I wonder how a people who understood the movement of the planets and the stars, who charted the fragile journey of our own little planet through space and time could believe that this god or any other demanded the life blood of his subjects in exchange for his light.

A little voice , perhaps Kukulkan himself, whispers in my ear: “It is so different from other religious wars,” he says, “wars fought and people killed to bring the Word of the One God to unbelievers?”

I don’t think he needs an answer, so I give none.

Ventura explains the Maya perception of heaven—nine levels of hell and four of heaven. The noble class was guaranteed a place in heaven, but the average citizen could hope, at best, to land in one of the upper levels of hell. For the majority of the population, the only hope of ascension to a better place was through stardom (as a sacrifice to the gods) or sports.

Tulum has no ball court for playing pitz, the Mayan ballgame that could end in the death of one or more players. Ventura tells us a little of the game. Spectator sports have never been top of the list for me, and my mind wanders out to sea, up to the sky. Ventura yanks me back to present moment, though, when he says that it was the winner of the game who offered his life to the gods. The captain of the losing team cut his opponent’s head off.*

“Can you imagine that going on today?” I say to my brother. “A CEO orchestrates a merger or acquisition, and the CEO of the “winning” company gets to cut his head off?”

We chuckly at the impact this would have on modern-day, enterprising nobility.

“That ought to be an episode of South Park,” I say.

Tom points his finger, assuming the identity of Cartman, one of South Park’s stars. “But wait,” Tom-as-Cartman says, “I won.” He shakes his finger. “You must respect my a-thor-e-TIE.” Rules are rules, though, and Cartman loses his head.

Ventura ushers us along, stopping in front of another temple. I am still lost in the why, why, why would the winner want to die?

While we examine the stone tablet that was a book, and I consider carrying one of those stone blocks to class, the thought seeps in that perhaps the Mayans valued something more than life. To win at pitz was to assure one’s place in paradise. After all, in the end, as Kukulkan sets on the last day of our life, what can we carry with us but the memory of how we lived?

(*This is not what I found on many of the websites dedicated to the topic. Most say that the a noble was pitted against a starved and drugged slave so that he could show off his prowess in a risk-free environment, or that the losing team was killed as a sacrifice. It’s a testament to our times, I think, that we assume the loser lost his head rather than the other way around.)

Swim with the Dolphins

2009-02-24T08:45:00.000-08:00

My brother and I climb down the ladder, shivering as we submerge ourselves in the water. The Caribbean water is warm as oceans go, and maybe the shivers are more excitement than chill. In the pool to the south of us, four dolphins leap into the air, twirl above the heads of half a dozen visitors, and dive. The visitors squeal and clap.

The dolphin trainer blows his whistle and waves his hands. “Swim to the middle of the pool,” he says, “turn around, and face me.”

The six of us—Leone and Lyle, Kathleen and Bill, Tom and I—obey his command. Sunlight shimmers on the water. To the left and right all I can see are bright eyes and smiles. The water laps against our life vests. I hold my breath. Behind me I hear a splash. Water sprays down, and I glance up. Arched pink bellies gleam like morning sky.

During the next hour we are kissed by Box (pronounced Bush) and Nuk. We hug them. We dance and sing with the dolphins. We play games. We splash them; Box and Nuk splash back. The dolphins push us across the pool, lifting us until we are airborne and we fly across the water. The dolphins click and squeal; the humans clap and cheer.

These creatures are well cared for and loved by their trainers. The affection between them shows in gentle flicks of water that sprays the dock, in eyes wide open and curious. They swim figure eights through the line of visitors bobbing in the water and patiently allow us to touch their sleek, firm bodies.

Somewhere I read that dolphin females choose when to become fertile. Many dolphins and whales don’t breed in captivity, but at Delfinus, five calves have been born. A record. One that indicates the dolphins are content and at peace with their lives.

Allied with the word’s most successful hunters, they no longer fall prey to fishermen’s nets. They no longer wander through oil slicks or islands of garbage floating in the sea. In exchange for tricks and human touch they receive the 40 to 60 pounds of fish they need to consume each day. They seek out human company as well as that of their own kind. They are affectionate and playful.

The scars that mark Nuk’s back and dorsal fin are a testament to their power. One-on-one, in the water that is their home, they have the advantage. They choose not to use it against us, even though—based on their brain to body size ratio, they may be intelligent to understand the harm we wreak in the oceans of the world. I wonder if they have sacrificed their freedom to teach us to love what we do not understand.

Off the Beaten Track

2009-02-13T15:38:00.000-08:00

One of my trips to Brazil took me to a little town called Joinville in the Santa Catarina region of the country. When I asked the concierge what sights the city offered to enliven a Sunday afternoon, he wrinkled his nose. “Joinville isn’t really a tourist destination,” he said.

Sometimes those are the best tourist destinations of all.

You find yourself acting like a funky-looking local. You wander the mall, eat at a churrascaria, visit the local zoo-park. The concierge has warned you the place doesn’t have many animals, but you find animals that don’t reside in your local zoo. You watch mothers bounce their babies in their arms and you learn the Portuguese word, arara, for a bird that looks like a parrot but maybe is a distant cousin. The mother says this over and over: A-ra-ra, a-ra-ra, a-ra-ra. You learn with the baby. You don’t know the word for the bird in your own language, but now you know it in a foreign language. There’s no translating. Now you speak Portuguese. Disney World has never done that for you.

You follow couples and families and gaggles of teenagers, winding into deep green rain forest, staring up at trees with leaves like fans. You look at the plants growing beside the road and recognize some you have blooming in pots set on your windowsill. Here your potted plants grown to the size of trees. You only know two or three words in Portuguese so you can’t ask where you are or where you’re going. You can’t check how long it will take to get there or what to expect when and if you arrive. You can only live in the moment, be in the moment, experience what is, without expectation.

At the end of the road, cars line the shoulder, umbrella shaded stands sell lemonade, bottled water, and Guarana, the Portuguese version of Mountain Dew. You hand over one of your bills, five reais, and you hope the coins that the woman drops into your hand are the right change because it’s embarrassing to peer at each little coin. You tilt your head, your eyes rolling up toward the sky as you try and count each piece of copper and silver to see if you’ve got the right change back. You take your drink and climb the spiral stairs to the top of the world where you can see rolling carpets of green, rivers spilling into the sea, mountains swirled in mist, the sun slipping between blue sky above and blue water below. Looking straight down makes you dizzy, so you peer at the horizon and know that tomorrow will find you, right where you are, wherever you are.

Into Africa

2009-02-02T07:58:00.000-08:00

My first time on the African continent and the sixth of seven continents to touch down upon. One to go (Australia), but in the spirit of staying in the moment…

My favorite memory is of the Men in Black that stood stiff-backed and ominous inside and outside the hotel in Casablanca, the cords of their white earbuds trailing into the pockets of their dress shirts and covered by black suits. (Sorry, no pictures.)

They lent a true sense of adventure to the trip, though Morocco is one of the safer countries for US citizens visiting Africa. They also saved me from being price gouged by the red-taxi drivers, though on return trips to the hotel I benefitted from no such protection.

Visitors to Morocco ought to choose a city other than Casa Blanca if they want a true sense of the country, but I never ventured farther than the mosque, Rick’s Café, and the medina (the old market) just across the street from the hotel.

If you ever visit, be sure to drop by the mosque, but if you want to go inside, check the hours because there are only a few hours on specific days when visitors are allowed inside the mosque. But even from the outside the architecture is stunning and the tower rises above all the other buildings in the city.

Women are expected to pay particular attention to their manner of dress when they reach puberty, but this can be interpreted in many different ways, from a simple head covering to leaving only the hands visible.

Casablanca is a cosmopolitan city situated on the Atlantic Ocean, with lots of sun, good restaurants, an old and a new medina, a modern (possibly the most modern) mosque, and the unforgettable Rick’s Café from the movie named after the city. But my favorite memories continue to be the red taxis and the Men in Black.

Time Travel: Colombia

2009-01-31T12:32:00.000-08:00

I’m going to time travel for a few entries because I’ve been a lot of places in the past six months. Today, in fact, is my six-month anniversary of fast-tracking going places I’ve never been before. So I’m going to go back to my second trip, because I didn’t take any pictures or go anywhere particular the first time. The first trip, for the record was to Costa Rica. I hope I get back there someday.

Trip number two was Colombia, where I have now been twice. But the first time I actually saw something besides the airport and the hotel.

This probably isn’t a worthy travel goal, but one of the things that I liked about Colombia, once I got over the State Department Report to US citizens traveling internationally, was how people looked at me when I said I’d been to Colombia.

“You went where?” they said.

“To Colombia,” I said, “the country, not the city in Ohio.” I paused for effect. “It’s a beautiful place.”

“Weren’t you scared?” they said.

“Not really,” I lied. “It’s not like they say,” I added, truthfully this time. I like for people to think that I have more courage than the average person, but I don’t. The people of Colombia are gracious, kind, welcoming, and intelligent.

The most asked question I got in Colombia was, “So…did they tell you we were dangerous?”
Hands clasped behind my back, I looked at my new shoes, and debated whether or not to cross my fingers and lie or to tell the truth. “Yes,” I said finally, deciding on the truth, “they did say it was dangerous. The State Department doesn’t recommend traveling here, but,” I added, “I don’t find it like that at all.”

Maybe I shouldn’t start my description of this country with its biggest detractor, violence, but that is where all conversations on the subject of Colombia begin, so let’s get it out of the way.
It is true that the country ranks high in criminal violence, but the United States is also in the top 25. Nevada topped the list of most dangerous states for 2008, and that doesn’t seem to stop the influx of visitors to the gambling capital of the US. Oddly enough, Iran, Iraq, Israel, and Lebanon don’t even make the list of the top 50. That may be more a function of crime reporting than the actual prevalence of violence. Colombia is also home to one of the most notorious terrorist groups in the Americas, but they have been beaten back into the jungle since President Uribe implemented his program of democratic security. The key to safety in Colombia is common sense.

Bogota is possibly one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. Perhaps I feel that way about it because it has so much in common with Colorado Springs—snuggled up against the mountains, 2000 meters above the sea. But unlike Colorado it’s not a semi-desert. The trees are lush and growing so close together that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Flower bloom from cracks in the sidewalks and spring from the foundations of the buildings. It is the sort of place where you could believe that Jack of Jack-and-the-Beanstalk threw a handful of seeds out his window and woke the next morning to find a vine that climbed into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

The city is home to a wonderful museum dedicated to the fantastical painter Botero, who painted everything fat—women with huge thighs, horses with broad chests and legs as wide as Greek columns. He paints the fear and hatred that swell inside us until it becomes larger than we are, too big for us to contain.

Correction: I previously implied that Botero was from Bogota. He is from Medellin, another city I hope to visit one day. Thank you for the post clarifying that point. I don't know who it was so I cannot give credit where credit is due.)

Then there is the Museo de Oro that intertwines the history of a lost people with the obsessive grip that gold has over the conquerors. The Incas wore gold and paid cash in salt. That in fact is the origin of the word “salary”—sal, salt, salary. The salt of the earth was, for the Incas, salt. For the conquerors it was gold, but the Inca caciques wore gold. They attached it to their heads and ears and noses and hung massive plates of gold from around their necks. They coated their buildings in gold so that as the sun rose over the mountain peaks, their cities shimmered like honey in rising light.

And then, perhaps two hours from the capital city, hidden deep beneath the earth is the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá. On a path that takes you three hundred feet below the surface are carved the Stations of the Cross. The journey culminates in a cathedral that is carved from the crystallized salt and can hold 8000 people. The cross behind the altar is a trick of light and imagination. From a distance it appears in 3D, a rounded column that stretches from floor to the immense, high ceiling of the cathedral. Traveling into the mine, I imagine Jesus during his three days of darkness, wandering in the heart of the earth. You can almost feel the weight of the world on your shoulders as you slip deeper and deeper into the mine. It is a place for leaving behind cares and worries, for letting the earth take hold of your fears, and for knowing that all will be well.

Salt and gold mines are not the only wonders of the place. If ever there was a place that deserved the title Emerald City, surely it must be somewhere in Colombia. The country is the source of the most stunning emeralds found anywhere in the world. According to a geologist that I met on the plane coming home, emeralds shouldn’t even be pressed into existence here. They are a wonder among gemstones. Most emerald deposits occur near volcanoes, but there aren’t any volcanoes near the Colombian emerald deposits.

“Why is that?” I said.

“No one knows,” he replied. “It’s a mystery to be solved.”

The whole of Colombia is a mystery. I don’t know if it’s a mystery I wanted solved, but it is a delight to step into the midst of it, to surround myself with the mists rising from the green mountains, to breathe, and to allow myself to be amazed.

Legacy

2008-02-27T20:53:00.001-08:00

During the two months that I spent in Antarctica I thought a lot about how our planet is changing.

How we are changing our planet.

How I hope future generations will remember mine...

...and what I want to leave as the memory of my life.

Searching for Bones

2008-02-23T15:31:00.000-08:00

We wander across hills of dust searching for bones. The forests are gone, the wood turned to stone. Leaves, as faint as ghosts, glimmer in the rocks. Remnants of seashells crushed into the dirt crackle beneath our boots. Above us blue sky; below us brown earth, and mystery.

What turned a forest into sand and rock?

What stole the last sloth and sealed the last butterfly in amber?

Who am I to a being so ancient that my life lasts no longer than a beat of her heart? When did the child begin to believe she owned the earth? Somewhere between the sun god and the logic of science, I have lost my place. This land that was rock, then forest, then ice, now dust, whispers away my worries.

Her fingers slip past my layers of fleece and wool and wrap themselves around my neck, slide down my back. “My belly is fire,” she says, “and I can hold my breath forever.”

I laugh, and my companions turn to see if I have discovered mammal bones amongst the seashells and shark teeth. I shake my head, and they turn back into the hills. I stick my fingers into her flesh. “Don’t let me change you.” I press my lips to her skin and let my tears fill the holes I made in her. ““I can’t hold my breath that long.”

Who will step on the bones of my children 10 thousand million years from now? Who will wonder where they went, and why?

Now the lady laughs and lifts her wings, disappearing like a butterfly in stone.

2008-02-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

I look back on the people I met while traveling the Antarctic regions, and today seems like a good day to reflect on what made them special. Life is so short, and one of the things that stands out about these people is that they aren’t afraid to live.

I mean to say that I admire people who follow their dreams, no matter how impossible they seem. They are people of Reasons Why, not people of Reasons Why Not.

They are connected—to each other, to the earth, to exploring.

They do what they do because they want to, not because they have to.

Here’s to all the dreamers, the believers,

the passionate, the lovers of life.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Melting

2008-02-07T20:20:00.000-08:00

Like a fleet of ghost ships sailing north, the ice travels with the wind. I seek comfort in believing these broken bits of ice are children that the glacier has nudged out of her nest. Will I never learn to distinguish a mineral from humanity again?

They rise two and three stories out of the water and dwarf our manmade vessel. How deep they stretch beneath the sea we cannot know, and our ship’s crew gives them wide berth. They are mighty, and ignorant of their power, oblivious to their fate.

Enchanted by wind and current, they press northward. They lift their sails to the sun with the confidence of those who do not know that they are sailing into death. Each caress diminishes their days. How long before they have become so much a part of the seas they travel, that they are invisible to human eyes?

I want to wrap them in my arms and tell them “Stop!”

But they would only laugh at me, because I cannot grasp that I too am melting.

One

2008-01-28T21:38:00.000-08:00

Someone asked me while I was traveling in Antarctica, “So...are you having the greatest time ever?”

Of course I said yes, and I was having a great time—beauty, adventure, and purpose all rolled into one delightful trip. But as time went on a part of me shattered into a million tiny pieces every time the glacier sprayed ice into the harbor or an elephant seal scream or a whale breeched earth and sky. In the groaning of the glacier, in the eye of the whale—I sensed something precious slipping away. Like a loved one you want to call home, but wait too long and when you speak, she is too far away to hear you.

One scientist said, “The question is not whether the earth will survive.” He paused and looked into my eyes. “The question is,” he said, “have we humans overplayed our hand?” When I think of acceptance, compassion, and hope all bundled up into one, I will forever see his brilliant blue eyes.

Antarctica is big—vast spaces covered in white. White is an expansive color, so the emptiness grows out of proportion even to itself. We haven’t colonized the place to any grand degree, and much of life in Antarctica goes on under the sea.

From the top of Pikes Peak in Colorado, on a clear day you can see for miles. If you look at the surface of the ocean—which can plunge down for miles before water meets earth—you might see a few hundred feet on a clear day. The deepest I saw (I know because we were measuring turbidity) was 65 feet. I felt so small. Small and helpless.

I am one person living in a world occupied by billions. Even if I went to bed at dusk and got up with sun, eliminated plastic from my life, stopped using gasoline, turned down the heat and shivered all winter, nothing would change. If I could do everything—and I know I can’t—what difference would it make?

A friend helped me to see that everything hangs in the balance of one billion divided by one. It’s not one person doing one billion things—that’s impossible, almost comical to imagine. But one billion people making one small change gives me shivers.

Why does that seem so much more possible? I think—I hope—it’s because I know I can do one thing, and my friends can do one thing, and their friends can do one thing. Try and think of one person you know who can’t do one small thing to help. Try and think of one person who wouldn’t help in some small way, if they could, if it was barely noticeable in the everyday motions of life. I can’t think of anyone like that.

Earth Hour: March 29, 2008 at 8 pm—http://www.earthhour.org/

Loved to Death

2008-01-24T22:56:00.000-08:00

Halfway between San Francisco and Hawaii, a mother scours a mass of garbage twice the size of the state of Texas for treats to take home to her child. A bright yellow Lego block catches her attention. She scoops up the toy and heads back to its home.

When the baby sees her coming, it begins to whistle and click. She leans over the side of her baby’s crib. It opens its mouth and cries to show her it is hungry. She feeds the plastic toy to her baby, followed by a treasure trove of tangled fishing line, a red bottle cap, and fingers torn from a broken doll.

****

Nearly half of all albatross chicks die each year from dehydration and starvation. Most of these chicks are well-fed. Their stomachs are filled with twice as much plastic as the stomachs of chicks that die from other causes.

~The albatross is the largest of all the seabirds.
~Its wingspan can reach 11 feet.
~These birds spend about 85% of their time at sea, eating fish and sleeping on the water.
~They drink seawater.
~Between chicks dying from dehydration and starvation (caused by ingesting plastic?) and adults drowning at the end of fish hooks, the population of some species have decreased by as much as 90%, many have declined by 40-50%.

We saw many of these beautiful birds as we crossed the Drake Passage and in the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula. What a tragic loss to our own children if we lose these birds. I cannot help but ask myself how long it will be before we see that we are endangering our own loved ones as well—we are simply farther back in the line.

I am not fool enough to think that I or anyone else can bring the sum of our bad habits to a grinding halt. We’re like a train; it takes us a while to stop. My hope is that we can make a big difference through small changes. It is a place to start.

The Sky for a Bag of Gold

2008-01-18T20:34:00.000-08:00

The ship rocks beneath my feet, as unnoticed as the beating of my heart. The ice stretches out between our ship and the cliffs rising in the distance, and I understand the power of the ice, the fragility of life. Land I can see, but not reach. Not even our powerful ship cannot breach that ice. We know this. We try, of course we try. Is that not the nature of humanity?

Silently my heart breaks with the ice. Why can we leave nothing as we find it? I wonder if the penguins perched on the edge of the ice will have to swim farther now to find food and then to return to safety. By our actions, have we killed another adéile or given a chance at life to a leopard seal?

The ice doesn’t care if penguins die, if seals live, if we reached our destination or not. It doesn’t care if we stay and wait, or leave. The earth doesn’t judge or forgive, she accepts.

I am ashamed for my people.

We charge the unbroken white, the only protests the creaking of our ship and the groan strangled in my throat. The ice halts our progress. The sun beats down, an ally to our cause, but even the sun cannot win our way. Not that day. But give her time. We turn and seek another path.

As we burn ozone in exchange for extravagant lives and trade gold for atmosphere, the sun gains power, the earth shudders, the ice weakens. Will our ally become our enemy? Will nature ever protest at how we impinge on her good will?

She lovingly gives in to our indulgences. She changes for us. She will change for us until we can no longer live and breathe her acceptance and her patience. Will she cry for us? Why should she? Having given us everything we asked, what has the earth to regret? What have we to regret but that we trade the sky for a bag of gold?

Learning to See More

2008-01-12T22:53:00.000-08:00

When I think of barren lands, barren wombs, barren lives, the image that comes into my mind is Seymour Island on the Weddell Sea side of the Antarctic Peninsula. Nothing grows here. I suppose a bit of lichen must cling to the sunny side of some wet rock, but I can’t find anything that isn’t brown or white. Even the mummified seal, however mystical, lacks color. The only things that move of their own volition are the wind, the birds in the sky, and the penguins.

The mummified seal suggests that the occasional pinniped also hauls out onto the ice that borders this desolate place. How is it then, in the absence of life, that life becomes so much more vibrant and real? I venture to guess it is because there is nothing standing between me and the beating of my heart.

No trees bar my view of the hilltops. None stand between me and the sea. Until the wind draws a curtain of cloud and snow across the horizon, I can see the bow-legged edge of water and sky. In the blue-green water, boulders shimmer, and I can believe them to be the petrified eggs of dinosaurs. In my pack I carry a collection of sharks' teeth set aside for further examination by the paleontologists. Sixty-five million years ago sharks swam where I stand. Then the weather changed, the sharks retreated. Time passed. Twenty-five or thirty million years later giant penguins—6 feet tall—lumbered across this land. I hold their bones in my hand, close my eyes, and listen.

Nothing lasts. The earth is patient. Why am I in such a hurry? What is missing in this sun, this blue-green water, these friends? What better thing will I find tomorrow or in ten thousand years?

Memories of Water and Ice

2008-01-06T10:59:00.000-08:00

I have been back from my Antarctica trip for almost a week now. First of all, I'm sorry it has taken me so long to acknowledge my return. Second, thank you for all your comments, notes, and well wishes. Knowing you were here to return to was a comfort.

Friends and family ask me what I saw and did. I open my mouth, but am not able to respond. Memories flash like whirlwinds across my mind's eye. I have a hundred answers and so am not able to articulate even one. I can talk for hours or days, but not for just a few minutes. I fear that if I begin to talk about this experience, I might never stop.

Perhaps this is a better place, a better way to unleash, and I have the 18 day cruise aboard the Laurence M Gould to account for. I stepped on the ship wary of spending so many days at sea. I said goodbye to my companions with tears in my eyes. This sentiment hints at the answer to what had the most impact on me during my travels--the people I met. But they deserve more than just an acknowledgment and, though I won't be able to get to them all, I will post profiles and excerpts from our conversations.

I had a wonderful journey, filled with new insights and a great deal of fun. It is sad to be gone from such a wonderful place and the people I met there, but good to be home. I have memories to last a lifetime--and as many pictures.

Again, thanks to you all for your support.

Setting Sail Today

2007-12-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

As I prepare to leave Palmer, I find that I have more questions than before I arrived. I am overflowing with fresh perspectives and new ideas. The fluttering in my stomach suggests that I have been changed by these people and this place.

Looking back, I am embarrassed by my ignorance. Even those parts of my not knowing that have been erased by this journey still cause me shame. I thought it would be colder on this most southern continent. I thought this would be a black and white world, not one infused with brilliant blue-green or patched with rich shades of orange and yellow. I thought we had plenty of time to fix the hurt we are inflicting on the earth. I did not think I would miss the stars. I did not know I would be pierced to the core of my being by the sharp cries of the glacier dying.

Whether I am walking the coast, or sitting by a window and writing, or boating to one of the islands, I hear the glacier crying. She breathes the burning air, and her lungs collapse. She groans. She turns her face to the sun and loses clumps of hair to the fire. She presses into the earth, sloughing skin in giant handfuls. She screams. I fear her passing. Tears brighten my eyes.

I have come too close, sounds of the glacier dying will echo forever inside my head. I touched her. I cannot pull away—the palms of my hands are frozen to her skin.

My soul stepped onto the peninsula sleepy and complacent, it leaves wounded and afraid, but fear makes me stronger. And while I know the earth has plenty of time to heal, the knowledge that my own people teeter on the edge of extinction scares me.

(Photograph courtesy of Dan Jennings)

Out the Window

2007-11-30T03:09:00.000-08:00

Every day, first thing, I look out the window. Between opening my eyes, climbing out of bed, and lifting the window shade, I wonder, “What kind of beauty will I see?”

This morning, it’s a ship set in water as clear and calm as black diamonds. The sun, poised in a cloudless sky, lights up the glacier in brilliant white and blue. Bergy bits knock against the stones lining the shore. An elephant seal’s call echoes off the ice. A tern screeches. But these noises of nature are a part of the stillness, not separate from it. The air is fresh and crisp, odorless.

How long, once I leave here, before I shut the window in my mind that drinks in the beauty of the moment, the wonder of the world, the exquisiteness of being, the preciousness of family and friends?

Close Encounter

2007-11-27T18:39:00.000-08:00

Announcing himself with a burst of spray, the humpback rises out of the water beside of our zodiac. Terns chatter overhead, the surf crashes the shore, the sea herself slips off the humpback’s glistening skin like a whispered caress.

Forty-five tons of muscle, body over 50-feet long, he arches and dives. The water around the zodiac swirls. He circles us, rises, sprays, lifts his back, and slides beneath the gently rocking waves.

“How close do you think he came?” someone says, voice low, eyes scanning the water.

Close enough to reach out and touch, I think. This idea is unsettling. I am suddenly aware of how small we are—four of us in a boat no wider than one whale fin.

“Here he comes again,” one of my companions shouts and points. He skims beneath the boat, and I imagine that I am reflected in his eye.

The humpback floats underneath our zodiac, white belly shimmering in the blue water. He stretches his fins as though he is measuring our little craft. I hang over the side of the boat. His slender fin extends well beyond the edge of the zodiac. His rippled chin is just beneath the bow of our boat. In my head I hear a song. A tear wells in my eye, but I cannot tell if it is because the song is joyful or sad. Perhaps this is just the feeling of being present in the moment, focused, in awe.

Again he emerges, but farther this time. When he arches his back, his tail rises. I wave.

I search for words to express my gratitude, some sound that he will know, but I have none. If I stay here long enough, I will end up not able to talk at all.

(Many thanks to Stacie Murray for allowing me to use her wonderful pictures.)

Blue Ice

2007-11-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

What endless ache lay down upon her breast?
Cutting, carving, etching ever deeper
Helping hide the secrets meant to keep her
Weeping and alone, not allowed to rest.

Why once did she agree to play a game
As cold and white as winter wind and snow
That left her soul with nowhere else to go
Made happiness and hurt seem all the same?

It matters not what promises were spoken
Or love betrayed or truth in silence lost
Now laugh and live and love and not know when
The pale, warming sun might rise within
And give of self no matter what the cost
That frees her crying, dying heart again.

Whispered Secrets

2007-11-20T05:36:00.000-08:00

I walk out to Stacie’s tent about midnight, hunker down, and watch the sea. The moon, the only light bright enough to penetrate the layer of clouds, glows in the mist. Bits of berg rise and fall with the roll of the sea, and my own breath matches her calming rhythm.

The glacier rolls over in her sleep, and groans. The sound makes my eyes heavy, and I yawn. I climb inside the tent and wrap myself inside the down sleeping bag. I close my eyes and let my thoughts dig deep inside the earth. The elephant seals trumpet, and from inside the tent it sounds as though they are swimming in the water right below me. I take a deep breath to check for the telltale odor that gives them away, but all I smell is air cleansed by snow, wind, and salt.

My eyes open, but I can’t tell whether it is the boom of the glacier calving or the waxing light that wakes me. Snow pelts the tent, enticing me back into sleep. My eyes flutter, but I force them open, unzip the entrance to the tent, and peek outside in the hopes of seeing the glacier calve. Later I find out that the spray of ice precedes the noise by long enough that to hear the calving means I have missed seeing the glacier disgorge herself. How the earth withstands this great pressure is beyond my comprehension.

Her compassion, her endless tolerance of the burdens we place upon her will kill us one day. We will simply take from her until she has nothing left to give. She won't complain. We will wither at a breast we have sucked dry and wonder at her selfishness while we die.

Afraid I have already overslept, I check my watch—4:11 a.m. The sun has been up for at least an hour now, but I can close my eyes for a while longer. I bury my head in down and dream that the sun chases me across the sky. When I awake again, I find this time I have overslept. Still, I want to stay here forever, wrapped in down, listening, laughing, loving the snow and the surf, the seals and the glacier whispering secrets in my ear while I race the sun across the sky.

Unquiet World

2007-11-18T04:11:00.000-08:00

Scientists get their questions from observing, as do artists.

I walk along the shore, cliffs laced with ice, crackling when the sun touches them. I go to think about art, about describing what I see and hear and smell, but mostly what I feel. The glacier moving sounds like gunshots or like old bones creaking.

Clean air smells like nothing, but if an elephant seal comes in range, the air fills with its musk. The sea moves, the sky, the wind, the waves. Clouds swoop down like a skua snatching an egg from a penguin nest. Wind stirs whitecaps on the bay, but most of the movement is inside the glacier and invisible. On my side of the harbor, icicles cover the rocky cliffs and break under the weight of the sun peeking through the clouds. Skittering through a maze of frozen lace, they chime. The glacier snaps and groans. And while I smile at the sight of the sun, the glacier weeps. Growlers hiss and pop, bits of ice bump each other or the rocks.

On the way back, the glacier calves, spewing bits of ice and powder into the bay. The water surges, rocking the growlers at the base of the ice cliffs. A few minutes later the waves hit the opposite shore. All this noise and yet I am alone.

Glacier Speaks Silence

2007-11-15T14:20:00.000-08:00

We decide to take a walk on the glacier and the moment couldn’t be more perfect. The sun is shining and, except for a line of grey on the horizon, the sky a brilliant blue. The snow is beginning to melt. Scott needs to check the VLF tower, and Rosemary is learning to back him up on his day off. They invite me along. Rosemary and I decide to wear snowshoes; Scott only boots, and it turns out the snow is solid enough that we ladies remove our snowshoes and tromp along. We're warm with the exercise. We strip off our coats and gloves as well. The glacier is less than a quarter mile away, and you can see it from almost anywhere at Palmer, but the glacier has melted significantly since the station was built. Where the outermost buildings now stand the glacier used to crouch. The glacier melting into the sea lowers the salinity of the water, and this kills some of the creatures that make a home here. If the phytoplankton cannot live, the krill cannot feed. Without the krill, the seals and penguins have less to eat.

The adélie penguins eat only krill, and if they don't change their species may soon be extinct. Petermann Island sits at the southern border of the gentoo range and the northern edge of the adélies range. Over the past five years the temperatures have risen, the glacier is melting, the sea ice is thinner, the krill are less abundant. For the gentoo this change has meant they can extend their feeding and breeding range. But for the adélies penguins the warmer temperatures mean dwindling numbers. Five years ago the scientists on Petermann Island counted 2000 pairs of adélies and 60 pairs of gentoos. Last year the tally was adélie 500, gentoo 2000.

Stepping out onto the glacier there aren’t any trees, no breaks of any kind in the vast expanse of white. To the right mountains pierce the clouds, behind me the sea—alive with bits of iceberg—rushes the shore, ahead and to the left smooth, glistening snow coats the glacier. As we climb we begin to see the tips of larger mountains peeking up over the glacier. Away from the station, the noise of the generators and fans fade and all I hear is the snow crunching beneath my boots, the crash of the sea against the shore, the occasional call of a tern or a petrel gliding along the ice cliffs. In the distance we see two seals basking in the sunshine. As summer progresses we will begin to hear the seals barking warnings at trespassers who come too near their pups. My first question about the glacier was where it began. It’s not possible to tell from looking when you move from walking over snow-covered stones to walking over snow-covered ice. For the most part the glacier looks like a giant, snow-covered dome. Only at the edge, where the glacier calves, can you see the jagged edges of ice and the brilliant blue colors caused by gas being trapped inside the ice.

I look at the glacier edge and at the surface of the sea in much the same way, wondering, “What secrets are you hiding?” Gazing at the ocean I see only the surface of the water and a few feet down. I gaze at a distant crevasse and imagine it as an unspoken invitation to enter the world beneath the ice. These things remind me that for all our accumulated learning, we know so little. On the walk back we veered closer to the shore, and as close to the edge of the glacier as we’re allowed to approach. Where the snow had melted we see boulders emerging, glistening with the runoff of yesterday’s snow. Palmer Station, Torgersen and Litchfield Islands, and some of the other smaller islands that I can’t yet identify by shape dot the landscape below us. The clouds swoop in on the breeze coming from the sea, and the surface of the water turns grey, bits of ice bobbing at the surface. Ice dots the bay looking like a vast room covered in sculpture. One looks like a swan.

The Jump

2007-11-12T18:39:00.000-08:00

Today I joined the group jumping into Arthur Bay as a way to thank the crew of the Laurence M Gould for resupplying the station. I'm glad there weren't any leopard seals in the vacinity because I look a little too much like a penguin!

There is ice floating in the water, and the temperature stays pretty steady at around 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Zee, who works on station, described it best. "It's like jumping into a glass of ice water." If anyone is curious what it feels like, you can fill a small basin with water and ice and put your hand in it.

Most people can withstand the cold for about 10 or 15 minutes before hypothermia sets in. If you would like to see more pictures of the jumpers, I have posted a few to the photo album on mollyfinn.com.

Penguins are so well adapted to the climate that they have smooth skin on the inside of their wings so that they can vent air when they get too hot from zipping around the water chasing krill. (BTW...Troy and Morgan asked some good questions about these topics, and I have published a partial reply to the 10 November post.

I have to follow up on the question about krill to make sure that I have the right information.

Man Overboard

2007-11-11T15:56:00.000-08:00

A lot of you have asked for pictures so I'm uploading one here and more to my website.

If you must go out and rescue the head of the search and rescue team at Palmer Station, Antarctica, I can say from experience that a recent graduate of Boating II will be grateful for the wise and patient instruction of a most excellent teacher.

Today Kim and I completed our Boating II course and--beside the notable fact that we have piloted a zodiac around in Antarctica--we are now qualified to check out the boat and take excursions to the islands. (Okay, I admit we must still have a seasoned seaman on the boat with us.)

Part of our class was the "Man Overboard Drill." Both Kim and I steered the boat up beside our instructor (Ryan) who had kindly submerged himself in the chilly waters so we could practice. Neither of us ran him over so all of us were quite cheered by that. Brian Johnson was with us as well (another SAR/survival skills instructor). To his credit and Ryan's, neither of them yelped once in fear when I came in a little "hot" on one or two of my three or so landings.

ATA dictionary: running hot 1. a zodiac boat landing that is taken a little too fast and causes the boat to rock and might send an unwary passenger over the side. (Hence, the "Man Overboard Drill")

This level of excitement induces exhaustion and hunger. I feel obligated to share the fact that we are fed five times a day here by an exquisite chef. For lunch we had tuna melts, cream of tomato soup with dill, and freshies.

ATA dictionary: freshies 1. fresh fruits and veggies (lettuce doesn't grow here but lichen, sea grass, and kelp do)

Excerpts from my Field Journal

2007-11-10T10:16:00.001-08:00

1 and 2 November
Depart Denver for Punta Arenas. In Dallas I recognize a few faces when we go to board the flight to Santiago. We are all headed for the LMG, the Nathaniel B Palmer, or Palmer Station.

3 November
We'll spend the day in Punta Arenas. Our appointment to pick up (and try on) our ECW (extreme cold weather) gear is at 10 a.m.

We tour the cemetery after we get our gear and have lunch at Lomito's. (Excellent sandwiches, not to be missed if you are ever in the city.) The statuary and gardens are impressive and peaceful. Most of the grave sites have a photo of the departed and perhaps some items that they treasured in life. Many have been planted over with spring flowers--tulips, daffodils, and violets along with many varieties I'm not familiar with.

After lunch we hike up to the top of the city and take pictures. We pass through the plaza on the way to the ship and kiss the toe of the indio. Local lore says this means we will one day return.

We overnight on the ship.

4 November
Departed Punta Arenas on the Laurence M Gould. Spent the first two days deep breathing the fresh sea air and napping while we became accustomed to the pitch and roll of the ship. Sighted Commerson's dolphins in the Straits of Magellan. Lovely black and white creatures that zip through the water, diving just as they approach the bow of the boat.

5 November
The intervals between naps and trips outside to stand in the sea breeze shrinks steadily. I dread the thought of entering the Drake Passage. The crew has been telling stories of seas so rough and rocky that they end up walking on the walls.

6 November
The passage through the Drake, while rougher than the Straits of Magellan, is relatively calm. Two days on the ship has most of us accustomed to the motion and feeling quite a bit better than we had the first two days.

7 November
We are putting in a camp at Cape Shirreff. This is a protected wilderness requiring special permits to access. The science team we are dropping off will study the penguins and the seals--elephant and fur--that come here to breed. The team will be staying five months so we are delivering quite a bit of food and other supplies along with them. The skies are overcast and the sea is rough. The wind--at 20 or so knots--makes the water choppy. We time our drop into the zodiac and hunker down in the boat for a bumpy, wet ride. We load supplies on sleds and pull them the quarter mile up a hill to the team's camp. Snow drifts reach the roof of the cabin on the seaward side of the building. Kim and I help dig out the propane tanks that supply fuel to heat the building. When the supplies begin to arrive, we hike down to shore, help unload the boats, load the sleds, and pull the sleds to the hut. A team at the hut inventories the supplies and stores them.

Between loads we watch the seals swimming in the cove. We see Weddell and fur seals. A short hike away the male elephant seals have begun to arrive and are lolling on the shore. A few penguins waddle up and down the slopes.

When the last load has been hauled to the huts we wave goodbye to the team, wish them luck, and head back to the ship.

We are frozen and exhausted as we climb aboard. Again we time our transfer to the swell of the waves to keep from being tossed into the water or pinched between the boat and the ladder.

At dinner everyone's cheeks are pink from windburn, but we are all happy to know that the five we've left behind are well on their way to being settled in.

8 November
Arrive Palmer for a brief two-hour stop. We are dropping off the station manager and picking up volunteers to help with the put-in tomorrow at Petermann.

9 November
Awoke early for the trip through the stark and stunning Lemaire Channel. Blue sky peeks through the clouds. The water is as still and shiny as black polished marble. Wrapped in clouds and brushed with snow and ice, the peaks stretch skyward, the sharp angles perfectly mirrored in the water below. I am wishing for another whale sighting, which is not to be. Instead we see a leopard seal and her pup sunning themselves on a bit of ice floating in the channel. Penguins leap and dart through the water. Slow and clumsy on land, they are incredibly graceful in the sea. Across the bridge someone shouts and points. "Leopard seal," he says, and everyone crowds the windows, searching.

"It's chasing that penguin," a woman reports. "It's got it." She lays the binoculars aside. We watch the penguins until they disappear in the wake of the ship's passing. We round a corner, and to our left is Scott's Peak. To our right Petermann Island. We don our float coats and secure the beaver tails. We dip our boots and scrub the soles before we climb aboard the zodiac.

When we reach the docking point, Vlad and Constantine are there to greet us. We are the first humans (beside each other) they have seen in eight months. Vlad is a biologist from the Ukraine doing field research. I am not sure about Constantine's background, but I believe he is supporting Vlad's research.

They help us disembark and unload the zodiac and then take off to do their research. The day is warm and after a little exertion everyone begins to shed layers, some down to shirt sleeves. It is a perfect, windless, warm and sunny day.

Penguins are scattered across the island, some on the high cliffs, others near the sea. The ones swimming look like white darts zig-zagging through the water. Several pairs surround the refugio (emergency shelter/supply hut) built by the Argentines and currently occupied by the Russians. The team we are "putting in" we live in tents less than a quarter of a mile from the coast. The island is small, less than a mile wide. We watch the penguins, and they watch us. They are curious, cute, and amusing creatures.

The camp is nearest a colony of gentoos and at the end of the day we hike up the hill to take a look at the adelies. As the climate becomes warmer, the adelies struggle but the gent oos, better adapted to warmer climes, are expanding their range to locations farther south than they have been seen before. We also see some blue-eyed shags. They remind me of trim, alert penguins. They build their nests from sea grass on the edges of the cliffs right among the penguin colonies.

We go back to the ship tired, hungry, and sunburned.

10 November
Arrived Palmer Station and have been learning our way around as well as basic safety. Tonight some of my shipmates and I are planning to walk up the glacier.

I hope this catches you up a bit with our adventures.

Hasta pronto,

Kate

Southbound Journey Begins Today

2007-10-31T23:23:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report I'm up past midnight finishing up my preparation for the ATA journey. My suitcase is packed and my carryon items are strewn across the guest bed. They clearly won't all fit in the case I want to take. I need that suitcase from my nightmare that was a bottomless pit.

I have a snappy green and black outfit to wear on the plane. I can't help but wonder what people are going to think of me heading into the southern hemisphere dressed for winter. I suppose they will issue us coats, gloves, and polar boots in Punta Arenas, but it seems strange (apparently not possible for me) to head to Polar Regions without a coat in hand. Such are the dilemmas of the adventurer--green hat or blue? one book or two? winter boots or dress shoes?

Thanks for all your wishes for luck and fun adventuring. I may not be online for a few days. Not sure what connectivity will be in transit.

Hugs to all,

k

None of these Birds in ATA

2007-10-30T22:22:00.001-07:00

This has nothing to do really with Antarctica, but this bird just is not to be missed. I hope I capture some moments and funny, amazing, and enlightening as this one....

http://birdloversonly.blogspot.com/2007/09/may-i-have-this-dance.html

Does This Count as a Nightmare?

2007-10-29T19:33:00.000-07:00

Well, my bed continues to amass all sorts of indispensible items for the trip south. The mattress is sagging in the middle, but the peak is a nearing a record altitutude for Colorado. Pretty soon we will have another 14'er...

Rarely does my mind even turn to what goes in the suitcase sooner than the night before departure, but this is two months! Last night I dreamed about packing and, on the bright side, the suitcase seemed to be a cousin to Mary Poppin's bottomless case. On the dark side, I just couldn't seem to get everything stuffed inside my Dimension 10 Samonsite. My palms were sweaty with the fear of not getting to the plane on time. Then I woke up.

The bed is still a mess, but I have not missed my plane.

Thank you all for the great suggestions on what to take along. The most unusual might be "ginger chews." I'll let you know how well they work on the high seas. Hmm...another strange one: vodka. Does vodka have some "anti-freeze" properties to keep the blood from turning to ice? The most unexpected: Sorel socks. They are warm!

If I'm missing anything, it's my own fault. Thank you all again for your suggestions and support.

Questions Are the Sign of Great Minds

2007-10-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

I am getting so many great questions about the trip (not to mention super suggestions on what to take along). My favorite recommendation so far is: swimsuit.

Did you know there is an amazing lady, Lynne Cox, who swam for 30 minutes in the freezing waters of Antarctica? Does anyone know why some fish, whales, penguins, and seals can swim in those cold waters?

Questions are the one thing I can think of the brilliant people all have in common. Most of the questions will require:

1. Careful observation
2. Quiet contemplation
3. Asking more questions
4. Writing down the answers

As I discover the answers, I will record them in this blog.

What Does a Person Take to Antarctica?

2007-10-25T21:47:00.000-07:00

Someone asked if I was packed already?

--Definitely not! That would be so un-Kate like.

However, I will concede to having placed some items on the bed in the guest room so that I can have a visual list of what I yet need to take along. So far the bed is strewn with merino wool undergarments, wrinkle-proof pants, shirts, a fleece jacket, miscellaneous pieces of paper, purple pens, anti-nausea medication, one of those wrist bracelets that is supposed to help with sea sickness, and Tootsie Pops.

Any other suggestions?

Shall we start one of those raffles like they do for football games or the birth of a new baby? Anyone want to guess what will be the first exotic creature I will see and on what day?

I'll award a signed copy of Molly Finn and the City under the Sea to the winner. Everyone else has to buy a copy on Amazon.com...

You can post your entries to the blog, but no repeats. If repeats appear, the first post wins the prize.

ATA Itinerary

2007-10-24T11:48:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone,

I was asked about my itinerary and travel route, so thought I'd post a calendar. The map is from the Office of Polar Programs and, by extension, the University of Texas map archive. Texans must like maps because the original request for my logistics also came from a Texan...

In case--like me--you have vision challenges, here is the plan in plain English....

November 1 Depart Denver for Santiago, Chile
November 2 Depart Santiago for Punta Arenas
November 3 Board the Laurence M Gould
November 4 Sail from Punta Arenas to Palmer Station, Antarctica (ATA)
November 10 Arrive Palmer Station, ATA

I'll post the tentative plan for the return journey separately.

Keeping in Touch from Antarctica

2007-10-21T10:12:00.000-07:00

Like the geese and other migratory birds, I'm heading south. Unlike geese, who head toward warmer climes, I'm going as far south as I can. Because I may have about as much access to phones as geese do, but more opportunity than our feathered friends to keep in touch via the internet, I'm preparing this blog so that friends and family can track my journey.

Comparing myself to a goose ignited a certain curiosity. Where do the geese go? Check out the Ross' Goose as well as the patterns and perils of migration.

My journey will begin (like the geese) by air. I depart from Denver on American Airlines a week from Thursday, on November 1. My all-night flight takes off from Dallas and arrives in Santiago on November 2. By evening of my second day away, I'll be in Punta Arenas, Chile. As it was originally settled as a penal colony and posting for military soldiers with "problematic" behavior, looks like I'll fit right in. The place looks astoundingly beautiful, remote, and peaceful, but popular enough to be home to 120,000 people with ancestry as diverse as Great Britain, Yugoslavia, and Spain.

From Punta Arenas, we depart for Palmer Station, Antarctica on November 4. We'll be passengers aboard the U.S. Coast Guard Research & Supply vessel, the Laurence M. Gould. I'll be posting pictures, including one of the ship, to my online photo album.

AuthorFest of the Rockies

2007-10-20T16:58:00.000-07:00

We just wrapped up the second annual AuthorFest of the Rockies writer's conference. In addition to the usual benefits--talking about writing with people who love talking about writing and meeting amazing and accomplished authors like Joanne Greenberg--the conference location was dreamy.

We met at the Cliff House, a restored historical building nestled into the foothills at the base of Pikes Peak. Between sessions authors, presenters, and attendees gathered on the huge wrap-around porch, sipped Rocky Mountain spring water, and talked books.

Another unusual and appealing aspect of the conference was the fact that young writers and book lovers attended the sessions. For a writer of young adult fiction, what a delight to have my readership attend the workshops. What a great way to support new writers and avid readers of all ages.

Who knew writing could lead to so many adventures? In less than two weeks, I'll be heading to Antarctica as a part of my grant sponsored by the National Science Foundation. I'll be observing and assisting scientists and gathering research for an upcoming novel in the Molly Finn series. If you want to follow this "cool" adventure, submit a question, or share your own icy adventures, click on the Antarctica tab on the Molly Finn website.

Will we find evidence of merlife on the frozen continent? I hope so!