Eric Hutt and Amy Westman smile from the Hadar boat near Palmer Station.
"This place works almost as a natural selection for people that have this intention to jump off the margin of the map, and we all meet here – where all the lines of the map converge.
I think a fair amount of the population here are full-time travelers and part time workers. They are the professional dreamers."
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The sun sets over the bow of the Laurence M. Gould, as we make our way across the frozen Weddell Sea.
Widely regarded by scientists as one of the iciest places on the planet, the Weddell Sea is perhaps best known for trapping Ernest Shackleton’s ship, the Endurance, in 1914. When I read Alfred Lansing's book about that doomed expedition, and the incredible fight for survival that followed, I loved the gripping descriptions and vivid details.
But I have an entirely newfound appreciation for that epic story now. No wonder they got stuck here.
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A humpback whale surfaces in Andvord Bay | Antarctic Peninsula
After months and months of planning, and weeks of transit, it feels good to finally get to work. The eight people on our team, plus the marine technicians and the LMG crew, work together seamlessly, and I find it invigorating to document how all the pieces come together - the easy radio communications between the bridge and the back deck and the boats, the joy of the marine technicians when they see whales up close, and the tangible excitement of the PhD students on board.
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The team pauses while setting up camp to watch the clouds roll in over Joinville Island.
It's a classic question: if you were stranded on a deserted island, what would you bring with you?
For five people spending 12 days on a rocky, icy strip of land at the bottom of the world, the answer is this: over 2,000 pounds of stuff — food, water, tents, clothing, scientific equipment, tools, and other supplies.
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Our first view of Palmer Station from the deck of the Laurence M. Gould.
The freezing wind whips my face as I try to fully grasp where I am. Exactly one week ago, I was boarding a plane at Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Now I’m less than five miles from Palmer Station, Antarctica. It still doesn’t feel real.
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KC and Chris look for whales on the port side of the bridge as we enter the Antarctic Peninsula.
“I’m glad I'm not nauseous— but I’m exhausted. I’ve been fighting to stay awake all day.”
Dave nods knowingly, surveying the bags under my eyes.
“Sea sickness can present itself in different forms,” he says. “Sometimes it’s nausea. Sometimes it’s general fatigue.”
“You should rest up,” he says, patting me on the back.
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After a rainy morning, blue skies and abundant sunshine burst through the clouds during our second afternoon in Punta Arenas, Chile.
Three flights, four airports, 30 hours, and 6,170 miles down. Another 637 miles (and a couple long days at sea) to go before we reach Antarctica. But first we have 48 hours in Chile's most southern city, Punta Arenas.
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A wonderful Christmas present from my mom. In the past year, I've read seven books about Antarctica.
No matter how much planning and preparation goes into it, there are no guarantees on an expedition. Despite all the reading and research I've done, the only thing that can truly prepare me for Antarctica is Antarctica.
Still, for posterity's sake, I'm going to make a few predictions about what might happen during the next six weeks. If nothing else, it will be fun to read this post at the end of the trip (or years from now.)
Okay here we go.
I, Mary Lide Parker, believe the following will occur during my first expedition to Antarctica:
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After a decade — four years as a student and over six years as a staff member — today is my last day at UNC-Chapel Hill.
From student to alumnus to staff member — I have a resume that might as well be printed in Carolina blue ink. This university connected me to inspiring people, sent me to exotic far-away places, and introduced me to experiences that forced me to become a more intrepid, independent and resilient person.
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On the last day of 2017, at a trailhead deep in the Black Mountains, the temperature hovers right around 20 degrees. We have a big crew - 10 people bundled up in all the warm clothing they own. Armed with snacks, hand warmers, a thermos of tea, and a flask of bourbon, we're preparing to do a nine mile hike with over 6,000 feet of elevation change in temperatures that will only decrease as we climb higher.
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Thanks to collaborative conservation efforts, fish and coral populations at Laughing Bird Caye remain abundant.
We're heading to Laughing Bird Caye, the only marine area in Belize designated as a national park. When it comes to coral reef conservation, death and despair tend to dominate the headlines. But Laughing Bird is a success story, thanks in part to the hard-working folks at Fragments of Hope and other local people who care deeply about preserving the Belize Barrier Reef. In the 10 days we've spent here, one thing has been made abundantly clear - the locals have great pride (and concern) for the natural environment.
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Mariko Wallen prepares a fragment of massive starlet coral for transplant.
The Belize coastline extends roughly 240 miles and includes hundreds of small islands and cayes, but our journey today is short. Twenty minutes after leaving the dock, we arrive at False Caye.
The water here is shallow - no more than 15 feet at the deepest part. We leave our scuba gear in the boat and jump in with snorkels and plastic bins. I am immediately blown away by the abundance of life - the color and variety of shapes and sizes of organisms here is unlike anything I've seen underwater.
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A large symmetrical brain coral starts to show signs of stress at False Caye, about one mile off the coast of Placencia, Belize.
Weighing in at just 8,867 square miles, one might consider Belize a light-weight country. It is roughly the size of Massachusetts - or one sixth the size of North Carolina. Yet this small, coastal nation boasts some of the most striking biological diversity in this part of the world, including 80% of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef - the largest reef in the northern hemisphere.
I'm not aware of any of these facts as I cram myself and my camera bags into a van outside the Belize City airport.
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T Money laughs her way up Mizzen Mast (V1) at Stone Fort Boulders in Chattanooga, TN.
As we make our way down the trail from the parking lot into the main area at Stone Fort, the crunch of twigs snapping under our approach shoes and the soft thump of our crash pads hitting the ground generate the only sounds in the still morning. This crag - one of the most renown in the southeast - is blissfully empty. After navigating through crowds of people here yesterday, it is a welcome sight to look around and see only clean rock and empty trails. More people will come later, but for now, Theresa, Joy, and I bask in the small glory of having an epic boulder field all to ourselves.
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Kicking our feet up on the west rim of Crater Lake.
When Haas and I inquire about backcountry camping, the male park ranger raises his eyebrows with a quizzical expression. His partner tuts disapprovingly. "No way," she says. "There is way too much snow up there."
"Do you have snowshoes?" he asks.
Jon shakes his head. We patiently listen as the rangers explain how we can try to make our way up towards Watchman Overlook, but we probably won't get far without snowshoes.
Jon and I are feeling fairly confident in our abilities on snowy terrain - at this time yesterday morning we were drinking celebratory beers in the parking lot of Timberline Lodge, having reached the summit of Mt. Hood about three hours earlier. We convince the rangers to issue us a backcountry camping permit, and they reluctantly hand it over.
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Jon on the summit of Mt. Shasta at 7:25am on Monday, June 5, 2017.
“So that’s the summit up there,” Jon says, pointing past the top of the ice wall. “This can’t be right.”
While Mt. Shasta is a big, long climb, it is not supposed to be technical. We went the wrong way, and now our only option is to climb down what we just climbed up. I steel my mind. I hate going down. Whether it’s a steep trail or a wall of plastic holds at the climbing gym—going down is my least favorite part.
Breathe through it, I tell myself. Every time I kick in with my crampons, I’m sure that the loose terrain is going to give out below me. My ice axe feels like the only thing holding me to the mountain, and every time I lift it, my stomach muscles clench with fear.
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Setting up camp at Lake Helen, elevation 10,400 feet.
When I look up, Jon is crouched over his pack, staring at me.
“I’m okay." I sound pathetic.
His expression is so intense, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I look down at the snow.
“Look at me Marley.”
It is the most serious tone I have ever heard him use. I look up and meet his gaze.
I have known Jon Haas for the better part of a decade. He is one of my favorite people to do anything with: engage in a long, reflective conversation. Collapse into a debilitating giggle fit. Climb a massive mountain. During all our years of friendship I have seen Jon full of joy, frustrated, stressed out, celebratory, sleep-deprived, and stricken by heartbreak.
But I have never seen him like this.
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Scoping out the scene at Lake Helen (not actually a lake.)
In the ten days that we’ve spent climbing together, Jon and I have learned a lot about each other—how we eat and sleep, how we deal with problems, how we relax, and how each of us approaches climbing a mountain. I love going up the steep stuff. It makes my legs and lungs work hard, and reminds me of the training I’ve done. It makes me feel strong. Jon, on the other hand, likes going down.
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After hiking a little over 4,000 feet, Jon gazes up at the remaining 1,000 feet of steep, snowy terrain that stands between us and Camp Muir.
I start out in front, well aware that Jon's pace is faster than mine. We hiked ten miles yesterday and I fought to keep up with him the whole time. While I've spent the past three months training for this trip - running hill repeats and stadium stairs, doing circuit workouts, and busting out more pull-ups and push-ups than I've ever done in my life - Jon hasn't trained at all. And he doesn't need to, of course. He's a Haas.
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My best friends in my favorite place.
With a mountain house full of friends, I'm halfway through proposing a toast when I hear a tapping sound. I turn around to see Austin's face pressed against the glass door. For what feels like the hundredth time, I scream. I fling open the door, and my heart is in my throat as I squeeze him - I can't believe it.
"This was all my idea," Austin says, with a huge smile.
Later that night we joke about how fortunate it is that I'm in such good cardiovascular shape - if I wasn't, I surely would have had a heart attack by now.
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