Weaned elephant seals (affectionally known as weaners) would be waiting for us on the beach at both Grytviken and, in the case of this one, Jason Harbor. — Weaned elephant seals (affectionally known as weaners) would be waiting for us on the beach at both Grytviken and, in the case of this one, Jason Harbor.

Antarctic Adventures (Cont.): Grytviken and Jason Harbor

January 26, 2016

Mornings in the Antarctic do not typically begin with rats, reindeer, whale slaughter and whiskey—but this was no ordinary day.

A week and a half into our voyage from South America to Antarctica, Pamelia and I were preparing to go ashore at two vastly different spots on remote and wildlife-rich South Georgia Island. The morning stop was Grytviken, site of a rusting, abandoned whaling station, a small history museum and the grave of famed explorer Ernest Shackleton. The afternoon would take us ashore at Jason Harbor, one of the most interesting and beautiful landscapes we would see on our three-week journey.

But first we learned about rats.

The kettle-pond bog landscape at Jason Harbor offered endless opportunities to explore.

A lecture on board the Akademik Sergei Vavilov laid out a tale of invasive species dating back at least a century. Brown rats arrived on South Georgia either on explorer James Cook's ship in 1775 or later on a whaling or sealing vessel and ever since then have wreaked havoc on ground-nesting birds, particularly the South Georgia pipit and the South Georgia pintail duck. Expanding herds of reindeer—brought in by Norwegian whalers in the early 1900s as a source of food—compounded the problem by eating tussock grass needed for bird nesting and otherwise damaging the environment.

Unlike most invasive-species stories, this one seems on track for a happy ending. The South Georgia Heritage Trust launched a multiyear project to rid the island of rats using poison pellets dropped by helicopter. That program has worked so well—with minimal impact on birds that eat rats—that other invasive-species-plagued islands around the world want to emulate it. Meanwhile, the reindeer were culled by more traditional hunting. The populations of South Georgia pipits and South Georgia pintail ducks are already increasing, and Pamelia and I hoped to see both.

We learned in the lecture that the pipit is one of South Georgia's two endemic bird species.

Because of South Georgia's tricky winds, top helicopter pilots from New Zealand came in to fly the choppers and drop the pellets on a carefully calculated grid.

We wouldn't have to wait long. A short Zodiac ride took us ashore at Grytviken for a morning that combined history and animals—some of them alive, some of them stuffed, some of them (the whales) shown in photos being harpooned, dragged onto the beach, carved up and boiled down. It served as an important reminder of what happened in those rusty buildings in the first half of the 20th century to more than 100,000 highly intelligent, sensitive, social mammals.

Between 1904 and 1965, the whaling complex at Grytviken killed and "processed" at least 30,000 (I've seen numbers closer to 60,000) whales, reducing them to commercial products such as oil, meat, food-additive powder and even glycerine for… — Between 1904 and 1965, the whaling complex at Grytviken killed and "processed" at least 30,000 (I've seen numbers closer to 60,000) whales, reducing them to commercial products such as oil, meat, food-additive powder and even glycerine for World War I and WWII explosives. The total slaughtered by whalers based at South Georgia's various stations totaled 175,000, according to zoologist Mark Carwardine, our trip organizer, who's a leading whale expert.

As soon as we landed, we saw a Southern giant petrel eating the ghoulish remains of a young seal.

A few elephant seals relaxed in patches of snow.

The graves of Ernest Shackleton and several others are fenced off but open to visitors.

In keeping with the tradition of toasting Shackleton at his grave, a member of our crew welcomed us with a bottle of whiskey.

We were given the option of sharing the whiskey with the late Shackleton rather than drinking it ourselves. I chose to share.

Our ship historian, Katie Murray, who earlier had given us a lecture on the astounding story of how Shackleton and his crew on the Endurance survived after their ship was locked in (and crushed by) Antarctic ice, added a few final words before we to… — Our ship historian, Katie Murray, who earlier had given us a lecture on the astounding story of how Shackleton and his crew on the *Endurance* survived after their ship was locked in (and crushed by) Antarctic ice, added a few final words before we toasted.

Pamelia took a panoramic shot of some of the Vavilov explorers by the grave. Clouds were rolling in, and cold rain was about to start falling. — Pamelia took a panoramic shot of some of the *Vavilov* explorers by the grave. Clouds were rolling in, and cold rain was about to start falling.

We saw our first group of South Georgia pintail ducks off to the side of Shackleton's grave. These pintails are small ducks which mate for life and nest in the tussock grass. Their numbers were decimated by hunting when the whalers arrived on South … — We saw our first group of South Georgia pintail ducks off to the side of Shackleton's grave. These pintails are small ducks which mate for life and nest in the tussock grass. Their numbers were decimated by hunting when the whalers arrived on South Georgia, but have climbed some since the whaling stations closed in the 1960s.

These are pressure cookers that were part of the station's "blubber cookery." Read the sign if you can for a further explanation of how a living being was turned into industrial products.

The Grytviken station had a church, dorms, a mess hall and even an athletic field on which teams from rival whaling station played soccer matches.

Less than a century ago, this hulk was a whaling vessel. Note the harpoon cannon on the bow. The harpoons had explosive tips designed to blow up inside the whale's head and kill the mammal, if the gunner's aim was good enough.

Whaling and whalers have often been glorified in literature and history, but from today's perspective there seems little glory in the slaughter of highly evolved animals—mammal cousins of ours, known to live as long or longer than we do and to remain close to their family members. Yes, the whalers were tough men (in some cases racist ones, to judge from the Grytviken museum's fascinating installation on the treatment of black Africans brought in to toil at the station). But their brutal work brought some whale species to the brink of extinction in the Southern Ocean and seriously affected world whale populations.

One member of our expedition said that her father had been based at Grytviken as a young engineer and that he was horrified by the wanton killing of whales that went on even after demand for whale products had virtually disappeared. The experience left such an impact on him that he went on to work on environmental projects such as research into declining albatross numbers and the link to long-line fishing.

(I should note that my 88-year-old father later told me that the factory he worked in used whale oil in honing machine tools; a bit of abrasive would be added to the top-quality oil for the last, finest honing. What happened when whale oil was no longer available, I asked him. "We used Crisco," he said.)

With the cold rain falling on us as we wandered among the rusted relics, a few in our group joked that the whaling station might better be called "Grim-viken." It would indeed be the most somber and sobering stop on our voyage, but one that we would never forget.

I took one last look around the station before heading inside.

Grytviken has the only post office on South Georgia, so we all stopped in to send postcards or buy unique stamps.

Pamelia checked out the albatross and other specimens in the museum.

We were glad to get back to the Sergey Vavilov to dry off and warm up. And as so often happened in our travels in the Antarctic, the weather soon changed dramatically. Our afternoon at Jason Harbor could not have been more beautiful—or a better antidote to the grim reality of Grytviken.

The clumps of tussock grass were a wild backdrop for the beachful of elephant seals.

After the hundreds of thousands of king penguins we had seen earlier on South Georgia, this lone one seemed dramatic in a different way.

The mossy landscape was dotted with kettle pools.

Pairs of South Georgia pintail ducks (which mate for life) fed in the boggy grass.

...and met up with a king penguin cousin.

Pamelia studied the gentoos as inspiration for a sumo ink study that she would soon do back on the ship as part of her time-lapse penguin series.

Pamelia roamed back to a snowy hillside on which a cluster of penguins were hanging out. On the way, she and I saw...

...stunningly beautiful, graceful Antarctic terns. They closely resemble Arctic terns but don't migrate as far. Arctic terns fly from Arctic to Antarctic and back each year, while their Antarctic cousins generally don't go farther north than th… — ...stunningly beautiful, graceful Antarctic terns. They closely resemble Arctic terns but don't migrate as far. Arctic terns fly from Arctic to Antarctic and back each year, while their Antarctic cousins generally don't go farther north than the coast of South America—still no small feat. We couldn't stop watching them.

The terns hovered momentarily before diving to feed by the kettle pools.

The young seals again studied us and eagerly approached us. In one case, when an expedition member lay on the ground, a young seal came over and laid on top of her as a pet dog or cat might.

By day's end Pamelia and I were tired but elated. We shared dinner with an expedition member from the Isle of Man, a self-governing entity located between England and Ireland—never a dull conversation on this ship!—and then learned that tomorrow's wakeup call would come at 4 a.m. No problem. We would visit three more amazing spots on South Georgia Island, including Salisbury Cove, a haven for seals and penguins; Prion Island, home to nesting wandering albatrosses and those rare South Georgia pipits that we had yet to see; and Elsehul, a place that would turn out to be as moody and memorable as its Lord of the Rings-sounding name might suggest.

Off to bed we went, eager for a new day in an extraordinary adventure that just kept getting better. —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

The Antarctic fur seal startled me by charging out from behind a clump of tussock grass. He made clear that I had ventured into his territory.

Don't Mess With a Fur Seal

December 15, 2015

Pamelia and I heard the news when we climbed out of a Zodiac onto shore at Gold Harbor on South Georgia Island. "There's a light-mantled albatross nest at the top of the hill," said one of our Antarctic expedition leaders. "If you want to come along, we're going up to take a look."

Of course I wanted to come along. Never mind that the beach was alive with tens of thousands of king penguins, southern elephant seals and predatory sea birds in a spectacular setting with two glaciers as a backdrop. They could all wait for a moment. I had to look at the nest.

I had never seen a light-mantled albatross, described by some as the most beautiful member of the albatross family. Light-mantleds are smaller than most varieties—their wingspan is 7 to 8 feet compared to the world-record 8 to 11 feet of their more famous cousins, wandering albatrosses—and their distinct coloration has been compared to that of a Siamese cat. Their light-gray eye rings almost glow against the darker feathers on their heads.

We climbed slowly toward the nest on slick mud and patches of snow.

Little did I realize when I began the ascent that the tussock grass was loaded with Antarctic fur seals...

...or how handsome those those seals look...

...or how long and sharp their teeth are.

I began trudging in the muck between large clumps of tussock grass. I had taken only a dozen steps up the hill when I heard a bellow to my left. In a flash an Antarctic fur seal was charging at me from 15 feet away. He'd been hidden by the tussock grass. He was more than a little agitated to see an intruder in his territory in breeding season.

We expedition members had been warned about this. Earlier in this journey to the Antarctic, everyone on board our ship, the Russian oceanographic vessel the Sergey Vavilov, been shown a slide of a human hand that had been chomped by a male Antarctic fur seal. The hand was bloody and mutilated. Tendons were severed. Yikes. This was not your typical welcome-to-the-Antarctic! photo, but that was the point; none of us would ever forget it. We silently swore to give Antarctic fur seals—95% of whose world population breeds on South Georgia Island—abundant room and respect.

This utterly accidental meeting was my first encounter with one. I retreated as fast as I could, slipping and stumbling as another climber slammed her ski pole on the ground and hollered to distract the seal. He stopped, watched me and in a few moments returned to his original spot in the tussock grass. Victory was his. No blood had been shed. I was rattled but relieved.

Truth is, if I were a fur seal—Antarctic or otherwise—I wouldn't look upon humans so kindly either. Consider all that we have done to them even though they're fellow mammals which used to live on land (before they adapted to their changing environment and developed fins) and whose DNA is estimated to be 80 to 85 percent the same as ours. At the sight of these all-too-handsome animals, some humans have felt the urge to hug them (bad idea) but too many others have acted upon the urge to club them and wear them as coats or boots (worse idea).

Later I learned that I was not alone in my hillside experience. At least six other fur seals had chased away members of our expedition, even though we were trying to avoid them. I now understood why some landing sites on South Georgia are closed off to visitors when larger numbers of fur seals show up in breeding season and establish their territory.

I resumed my climb, slip-sliding every other step before taking a blooper-reel splat onto my backside. It was all worth it. I caught a glimpse of the nest and spent time watching and marveling at a light-mantled albatross in flight. My afternoon was already made—and I hadn't made it yet to the wildlife extravaganza on the beach below me.

The light-mantled albatross was even more beautiful than I expected. Look at that eye!

Here's an albatross arriving at the nest.

Like all albatrosses, light-mantleds are declining in number. As with many other types, these albatrosses often get caught on the baited hooks of commercial long-line fishing boats and drown. Happily, this wasn't the last we would see of light-mantl… — Like all albatrosses, light-mantleds are declining in number. As with many other types, these albatrosses often get caught on the baited hooks of commercial long-line fishing boats and drown. Happily, this wasn't the last we would see of light-mantleds on our trip—though our next encounter with them, at a different location on South Georgia, would be in crazier conditions.

Before going down the hill I looked out over Gold Harbor at a lovely rock shag gliding in the distance. On the Zodiac ride in we had seen other sea birds, including Antarctic terns and imperial shags.

I descended to the Gold Harbor beach. Would you like to imagine yourself there for a moment? A cold, sunny November afternoon (spring here in the Southern Hemisphere) is turning grayer and the wind is picking up. Mountains and those dramatic, spilling glaciers are in front of you. You are standing on a beach relatively few humans ever see, on one of the world's most remote and remarkable islands and breeding grounds, South Georgia, the Sergengeti of Antarctic wildlife.

Pause and look out at the expanse of seals, penguins and birds before you. Are you ready? Let's explore:

Multi-ton male southern elephant seals—known as "beachmasters," ruling large swaths of the shore and "harems" of up to 100 females (see our Dec. 9 post, below) —relaxed in the sand... — Multi-ton male southern elephant seals—known as "beachmasters," ruling large swaths of the shore and "harems" of up to 100 females (*see our Dec. 9 post, below*) —relaxed in the sand...

..with one of the two Gold Harbor glaciers behind them.

Here's a closer look at the awesome mass of ice and snow and its hint of glowing blue. The well-defined rock strata bespeak South Georgia Island's deep geologic history.

The snout that gives the elephant seal its name enables a bull like this one to trumpet his deep, lion-like roar across the entire beach. It also helps him conserve moisture when breathing, an important function when the bull is on land in breeding … — The snout that gives the elephant seal its name enables a bull like this one to trumpet his deep, lion-like roar across the entire beach. It also helps him conserve moisture when breathing, an important function when the bull is on land in breeding season and can't leave the beach to feed.

This jovial-looking male had been through some battles, as you could see from the scars on his neck. He had earned his status as a beachmaster.

Males typically grow to about 16 feet—so long that the front and rear of their bodies look like separate pieces in the water. This one was a so-called "sneaker," a male who tries to sneak onto the beach and mate with a female when the beachmaster is… — Males typically grow to about 16 feet—so long that the front and rear of their bodies look like separate pieces in the water. This one was a so-called "sneaker," a male who tries to sneak onto the beach and mate with a female when the beachmaster isn't looking.

Some young elephant seals turned eroded tussock clumps into pillows.

Beachmasters, mothers, pups and weaned youngsters—called weaners—crowded together along the water.

These fearless brown birds are skuas. We watched them suddenly fly in en masse to devour what we think was the placenta of a seal pup that had just been born.

Southern giant petrels also arrived to join the feast.

Wait—who was this? A species of penguin that Pamelia and I had not seen before on this trip? Indeed, it was a gentoo penguin, one of a handful of that variety that came ashore in front of us. Gentoos are the fastest-swimming penguins (up to 22 mph u… — Wait—who was this? A species of penguin that Pamelia and I had not seen before on this trip? Indeed, it was a gentoo penguin, one of a handful of that variety that came ashore in front of us. Gentoos are the fastest-swimming penguins (up to 22 mph underwater) and have the most prominent tails. I'll save the tale of penguin tails for later.

Gentoos are a near-threatened species, but recent evidence suggests that they may be less adversely affected by climate change than certain other penguin species because they are less dependent on sea ice to survive. That is, when feeding they don't… — Gentoos are a near-threatened species, but recent evidence suggests that they may be less adversely affected by climate change than certain other penguin species because they are less dependent on sea ice to survive. That is, when feeding they don't rely as heavily on the tiny shrimp-like creatures called krill that proliferate on the underside of sea ice and form a foundation of the food chain in the Antarctic's rich waters. In fact, as sea ice has declined around the Antarctic peninsula, causing sharp drops in populations of some other penguins, gentoo numbers on the peninsula have been increasing. More on that whole story later as well.

This one may look small (and, might I add, courageous) next to massive elephant seals, but gentoos, which stand 30 inches tall, are the third-largest penguin species after four-foot-tall emperors and three-foot-tall kings.

Speaking of which, king penguins—whom we had seen by the hundreds of thousands breeding and molting just a few hours earlier at St. Andrews Bay on South Georgia (see previous post, below)—were amassed on the beach at Gold Harbor. That's our wonderfu… — Speaking of which, king penguins—whom we had seen by the hundreds of thousands breeding and molting just a few hours earlier at St. Andrews Bay on South Georgia (*see previous post, below*)—were amassed on the beach at Gold Harbor. That's our wonderful floating home, the *Sergey Vavilov*, in the background.

...Gold Harbor had a LOT of king penguins.

This king chick seemed to be wearing an oversized coat. Note the reptile-like feet, a reminder that penguins and other birds evolved from dinosaurs. In a thrilling moment for me, a different chick and an adult later approached me as I sat on the gro… — This king chick seemed to be wearing an oversized coat. Note the reptile-like feet, a reminder that penguins and other birds evolved from dinosaurs. In a thrilling moment for me, a different chick and an adult later approached me as I sat on the ground. They sniffed and pecked at my boot. Pamelia and I were again finding that if we stayed in one spot for long enough, the animals would come to us.

Skuas are predators who will feed on penguin eggs or chicks, and they made frequent reconnaissance runs over the king colony.

One king penguin chick shooed away a skua that seemed to be ominously eyeing him for lunch.

This skua was attracted to Pamelia and nearly landed on her head—no small matter for either of them, given that skuas have a four- to five-foot wingspan and weigh about 17 pounds (more than a bowling ball). Instead he plunked down on the ground just… — This skua was attracted to Pamelia and nearly landed on her head—no small matter for either of them, given that skuas have a four- to five-foot wingspan and weigh about 17 pounds (more than a bowling ball). Instead he plunked down on the ground just a few inches from her feet and, in yet another unforgettable experience, stayed there for a long time staring up at her. (Pamelia was not photographing him, by the way; she was frozen in place watching him.)

Near the end of the afternoon, a weaner fell asleep on the tarp on which our crew members had carried gear; they resisted the temptation to wrap him up and take him back to the ship.

Before too long, dark was beginning to settle in and we needed to return to the Sergey Vavilov. Over a delicious dinner that night, One Ocean Expeditions team leader Boris Wise tantalized us with the news that early the next morning we would reboard the Zodiacs and go ashore at Salisbury Plain, yet another of South Georgia Island's seemingly endless variety of astounding sites, one that would be packed with more than 100,000 animals and possibly reveal to us a rare bird called the South Georgia pipit. We might explore two other breeding grounds later in the day.

Boris did add a caveat. The winds might be picking up a bit more overnight, to, um, gale force. Gale force? Sleep tight.—Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Coming next: Rough seas, icebergs, a bird rescue and the trail of Ernest Shackleton.

What an amazing afternoon in Gold Harbor!

The expanse of adult penguins and chicks at St. Andrews Bay on South Georgia Island was hard to fully absorb. It spread in every direction. (Please note that you can click on each photo in this blog and see it much larger.)

On a Beach With 200,000 King Penguins and Southern Elephant Seals

December 9, 2015

At 2 a.m., like a child on Christmas morning, Pamelia lay awake in her cabin bed, anticipating one of the most extraordinary days of our life.

Our Russian oceanographic ship, the Sergey Vavilov, had traveled 1,500 nautical miles from the bottom tip of South America to South Georgia Island, one of the most remote places and remarkable breeding grounds on Earth. Only 7,000 people set foot on this mountainous, 100-mile-long island each year. Landings must be made with inflatable Zodiacs. Tricky conditions (including gravity-pulled "katabatic" winds that roar down off South Georgia's glaciers at 60 mph) and bad timing (areas that are off-limits in key breeding months by international agreement) frequently block visitors from going ashore.

Not us. By the time a friendly 4 a.m. wakeup call came over our cabin's loudspeaker, dawn had broken on a crisp, beautiful morning: patches of blue sky, temperature 30 degrees F and the wind 17 miles per hour, a third of what it had been the previous day (scroll down for our earlier posts). We looked out and saw only a slight chop on the waters of St. Andrews Bay, the first of the day's two planned South Georgia landing sites. Game on!

The farther south we sailed, the longer the days were becoming in the Southern Hemisphere spring. At 4:30 a.m. the sun at St. Andrews Bay was already illuminating some of South Georgia's spectacular mountains. — The farther south we sailed, the longer the days were becoming in the Southern Hemisphere spring. At 4:30 a.m. the sun at St. Andrews Bay was already illuminating some of South Georgia's spectacular mountains.

As always, an early Zodiac tested the route to shore and picked a landing spot.

After a quick breakfast—not too much coffee, for we would be on shore for six hours with no bathroom options, as is nearly always the case on Antarctic and sub-Antarctic landings—Pamelia and I pulled on our many layers of winter clothing and grabbed our orange waterproof backpacks of camera gear. We headed off to take a 15-minute, wind-in-our-faces, cheek-burning Zodiac ride to the wildest shoreline we've ever seen.

Ten to 12 expeditioners climbed into each Zodiac...

...and off we zoomed toward a shore where we human adventurers would be outnumbered at least 2,000 to one—2,000 to one!—by king penguins and southern elephant seals.

Our new Swedish friend Eva Westerholm, a former pro soccer player and a cornerstone of the excellent and international One Oceans Expedition team, commanded the Zodiac and filled us in on what to do when we landed. — Our new Swedish friend Eva Westerholm, a former pro soccer player and a cornerstone of the excellent and international One Oceans Expedition team, commanded the Zodiac and filled us in on what to do when we landed.

Each of those tiny dots was a king penguin or a southern elephant seal. You can also see a few penguins swimming and dolphining in the foreground. We always think of penguins endearingly waddling on land, but these flightless birds spend three-… — Each of those tiny dots was a king penguin or a southern elephant seal. You can also see a few penguins swimming and dolphining in the foreground. We always think of penguins endearingly waddling on land, but these flightless birds spend three-quarters of their lives in their primary home, the water—their wings have effectively evolved into flippers—and they're agile, acrobatic swimmers. King penguins can dive 1,000 feet and stay submerged for five minutes while feeding on small fish and squid. They're amazing animals.

Hundreds of the king penguins seemed eager to welcome us at the landing site.

We saw more of them swimming, heard their loud chatter and whiffed the tangy smell of penguin guano as we neared shore.

"Don't panic. Stop for a few minutes to absorb the scene around you. Take your time. Then pick one animal or a small group. Concentrate on watching them for a while."

One of the trip leaders had offered those words of advice for our landing at St. Andrews. He knew how electrifying and overwhelming the up-close-and-personal sight of 200,000 penguins and seals can be, especially for nature lovers who have cameras in their hands and are eager to shoot photos, as nearly all of us were.

The words echoed in my head as I swung my legs over the side of the Zodiac, plunked into the shin-deep 34-degree water, waded ashore in my rubber boots and entered a world that was...electrifying and overwhelming.

For the next six hours, we were wide awake to life. In a spectacular setting ringed by snowy mountains and the rapidly retreating Ross glacier (hello, climate change), with a sparkling bay in front of us and the sky constantly changing, Pamelia, I and our 90-odd fellow expeditioners wandered among, photographed and studied these fascinating animals. We watched dramas unfold—predatory birds called skuas coming after penguin chicks, male elephant seals doing battle with each other, sometimes bloodily, penguin chicks pestering their mothers for food until the moms gave in and disgorged a mouthful into the chicks' bills.

March of the Penguins? This wasn't the same species as in that wonderful documentary, but the king penguins were marching everywhere we looked on the two-mile curve of beach.

The penguins mingled among us, unperturbed by our presence and often eager to approach us for a closer look

As their name suggests, king penguins are among the most regal-looking of the world's 18 penguin species. At three feet tall and about 40 pounds, they are second in size only to four-foot-tall, up-to-100-pound emperor penguins, which live on the Ant… — As their name suggests, king penguins are among the most regal-looking of the world's 18 penguin species. At three feet tall and about 40 pounds, they are second in size only to four-foot-tall, up-to-100-pound emperor penguins, which live on the Antarctic continent (and were the subject of *March of the Penguins*).

Eight-month-old chicks often followed their mothers around begging to be fed. Quite a few of the mothers were still out at sea gathering food.

The birds communicated in ways we couldn't always understand. Many of the chicks gathered in groups called creches that were overseen by a small number of adults.

The beach was carpeted with feathers—many of the adult penguins were molting—and adorned with white, yellow and green squirt-blotches of penguin guano. It also was littered with the remnants of dead penguin chicks and sea birds. Some of the chicks may have succumbed to the long Antarctic winter that had just ended; others might have fallen to one of the skuas that were gliding just overhead and wandering the grounds looking for feeding opportunities.

The chicks' fluffy brown coats gave them an adorably comical look but weren't waterproof, so the chicks couldn't go into the ocean. The coats will fall off through molting a few months from now and the young penguins will head to sea.

Many of the adult king penguins were already molting. With their feathers falling out they, like the chicks, weren't waterproof and couldn't go into the ocean to feed. Instead they remained on shore, staying as still as possible to avoid w… — Many of the adult king penguins were already molting. With their feathers falling out they, like the chicks, weren't waterproof and couldn't go into the ocean to feed. Instead they remained on shore, staying as still as possible to avoid wasting energy. Note the angled-up feet: King penguins (like the emperors in *March of the Penguins*) cradle their egg atop their feet to keep it warm and dry. They frequently stand in this tilted-back posture even without an egg, as was the case here.

The molting process wasn't always pretty.

The penguins' seemingly headless poses made for fun photos.

A resting chick showed us the underside of its leathery, ground-gripping feet, which didn't look so different from our winter gloves.

Some of the penguins went off to frolic on a snowy hillside at the back of the beach.

Many thousands of them gathered along, and swam in, a runoff stream from the retreating glacier. Yes, that's snow falling. Squalls moved in, typical of the constantly changing weather in this part of the world.

King penguins can live 15 to 20 years in the wild, or not make it past a few months as a chick at St. Andrews.

The skuas were a constant reminder of the threat to penguin chicks.

As were the southern giant petrels (wingspan up to seven feet), a species we would see often in the days ahead (sometimes pulling at a penguin or seal carcass). That tube atop the bill is for excreting salt from the ocean water it drinks, an evoluti… — As were the southern giant petrels (wingspan up to seven feet), a species we would see often in the days ahead (sometimes pulling at a penguin or seal carcass). That tube atop the bill is for excreting salt from the ocean water it drinks, an evolutionary feature that other seabirds share, though not always so prominently.

This curious elephant seal pup stared, sniffed and grunted at a dead giant petrel for several minutes.. — This curious elephant seal pup stared, sniffed and grunted at a dead giant petrel for several minutes..

Because the beach was so large, we all were all able to explore different scenes and animals that caught our interest. As was evident from photos we saw later, each of us experienced St. Andrews slightly differently. Pamelia plunked herself down in a few spots and had long stretches with individual penguins and elephant seal pups. I roamed more widely.

Many of us followed the photographic advice given to us a couple of days earlier by trip organizer Mark Carwardine, the great wildlife photographer and zoologist. He said to drop to the ground for shots and see the animals at their level. Having a dirty jacket and pants from doing that became a badge of honor throughout the Antarctic trip.

Pamelia was one of the many ground-based shooters.

This chick became particularly fond of her—or at least her boot.

This elephant seal pup wiggled his way more than 20 feet to get within an arm's length of Pamelia as she sat on the ground. The two stared into each other's eyes for several minutes—a pair of mammal cousins from different species and parts of the pl… — This elephant seal pup wiggled his way more than 20 feet to get within an arm's length of Pamelia as she sat on the ground. The two stared into each other's eyes for several minutes—a pair of mammal cousins from different species and parts of the planet connecting in a way Pamelia will never forget. I should note that at this time in the pups' lives, their mothers have left them to fend for themselves. The pups haven't realized yet that their mothers aren't returning, and seem to crave companionship.

Among those taking in the action in our group of expeditioners was award-winning wildlife filmmaker Peter Bassett (far left), one of David Attenborough's former BBC producers, who was shooting footage throughout the trip.

The penguins and seals coexisted comfortably...

...though the undisputed bosses of the beach were the roaring "beachmaster" male elephant seals. Each weighed between 5,000 and 9,000 pounds—southern elephant seal bulls are easily the heaviest carnivorous mammals on the planet—and ruled a "harem" o… — ...though the undisputed bosses of the beach were the roaring "beachmaster" male elephant seals. Each weighed between 5,000 and 9,000 pounds—southern elephant seal bulls are easily the heaviest carnivorous mammals on the planet—and ruled a "harem" of up to 100 far smaller females, which weighed one-fifth as much. The beachmasters fiercely defended their turf against other males who tried to sneak in and mate with harem members. Check out all the fight scars on this guy's neck and chest.

This was a typical example of mouth-to-mouth combat. The beachmaster always won.

By contrast, the weaned seal pups—called weaners—were playful...

Some pups were still nursing. They would be doubling and tripling and quadrupling in size in a matter of days on milk that is more than 50 percent milk fat, compared to four percent for human mothers' milk. (The mothers can end up losing hundreds of… — Some pups were still nursing. They would be doubling and tripling and quadrupling in size in a matter of days on milk that is more than 50 percent milk fat, compared to four percent for human mothers' milk. (The mothers can end up losing hundreds of pounds during nursing.)

Nearly all of the seals seemed content to lounge around in the 30-degree sunshine.

Though it was easy to chuckle at the southern elephant seals' loud and frequent vocalizations—most of which sounded like embarrassing human bodily functions—it was sobering to recall that humans hunted them to near-extinction in the 19th century. Th… — Though it was easy to chuckle at the southern elephant seals' loud and frequent vocalizations—most of which sounded like embarrassing human bodily functions—it was sobering to recall that humans hunted them to near-extinction in the 19th century. Their numbers are starting to fall again, for reasons that aren't entirely clear. These majestic animals regularly dive more than half a mile underwater (sometimes more than a mile) and stay submerged for more than 20 minutes when hunting for fish and squid. We looked forward to seeing and studying more of them in the days ahead.

As we neared the six-hour mark, we wended our way carefully around resting beachmaster seals and back to the Zodiacs. The Sergey Vavilov had to move on to our afternoon landing spot on South Georgia, a seal, penguin and albatross breeding site called Gold Harbor. The photos here scarcely do justice to what we had just experienced. We left feeling awed and humbled by the extraordinary animals and the dramatic landscape, which only one in a million humans will ever get to see.

And we weren't even halfway through this astounding day. —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

It was hail and farewell to this colony of kings, but our penguin experiences were only beginning to unfold.

Coming next: Glaciers, Gold and why you shouldn't get too close to a male fur seal...

A last view of St. Andrews from the departing Zodiac. Spectacular to the end.

Eight Things to Do If You Hit 30-Foot Waves On the Way to Antarctica

December 6, 2015

Pamelia and I were heading for one of the wildest and most astounding places on the planet, an island "smack in the middle of nowhere," in the words of our Antarctic expedition organizer, the esteemed British zoologist, conservationist and wildlife photographer Mark Carwardine.

He was speaking not of Antarctica—though he could have been—but of South Georgia Island, the breathtaking Serengeti of Antarctic wildlife. Small (100 miles long), rugged (11 mountains more than 6,500 feet tall, plus glaciers) and uninhabited (except for staff at two small science stations and a post office/museum/British government office located near an abandoned whaling station), South Georgia sits 750 miles from the nearest speck of civilization, the Falkland Islands and more than 1,000 miles from any continent.

To reach South Georgia Island, our Russian oceanographic ship, the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, would travel through 30-foot waves and cross one of the most distinct geographic and climatic boundaries on Earth, the Antarctic convergence. That's where warm ocean waters from the north collide with frigid waters from the bottom of the planet. Weather, animal life and scenery (here come the icebergs!) all abruptly change. It's where the Antarctic truly begins.

But we would not see South Georgia's snowy peaks and many thousands of penguins and seals for two to three days. What would we and our 90-odd fellow expeditioners do while our ship powered its way through roller-coaster seas? A whole lot, as it turned out. I've summed a few in my Top Eight Things to Do in 30-Foot Waves:

1) Photograph the waves to try to show their size. Photos rarely do justice to massive ocean-open swells, but below are a few of our attempts. (Unbeknownst to us, we would be seeing waves almost twice this big—50-footers—later in the trip.)

From the third deck on the Akademik Sergey Vavilov—normally about 15 feet above the water line—we looked up at colossal waves such as this one... — From the third deck on the *Akademik Sergey Vavilov*—normally about 15 feet above the water line—we looked up at colossal waves such as this one...

...and oh, yeah, it started to snow heavily. That orange pod is one of the lifeboats, designed to sardine-pack 56 passengers, an adventure we hoped not to experience.

2) Try not to fall off your bed. When a huge wave smacked and heaved the side of the Sergey Vavilov—which is a remarkably stable ship, I should point out, specially designed for polar travel and rough oceans—I would sometimes start to roll off my narrow bunk. I learned to sleep with my arms out as cross-braces, my legs spread wide and my toes hooked over an edge of the bed.

3) Laugh at the adventure. Glasses and bottles tipped over and slid off tables in the dining room. As recounted to us by Roz Kidman Cox, the longtime editor of BBC Wildlife magazine who was on board and writing a diary of the journey, two of our shipmates had their mini-fridge fly out of its cubby and dump milk and red wine throughout their cabin. Another passenger was flung out of the shower while not hanging onto the hand rail. Another was emphatically hand-signaled off the bow of the ship by a Russian crew member who was worried that the next big wave might wash him overboard. Two others failed to fully screw-tighten their cabin porthole and got a cold-water bath. Another, as a solution to the roll-off-the-bed problem, put her mattress on the floor and slept on it there.

I loved the tale told to us by Richard and Sue, a delightful couple from England, of a previous voyage they had taken through rough seas. Richard was tossed across the ship's bar and cut his forehead so severely that it needed stitches. He refused to let Sue, a nurse, do the stitching because he didn't want to yell at his wife if the procedure hurt too much. Instead he recruited a crew member, who stayed up all night practicing his stitch work on a banana—and ultimately handled the procedure so well that Richard doesn't even have a scar.

4) Defy seasickness. Having suffered my whole life from wretched bouts of motion sickness, I prepared for our voyage through the world's most turbulent ocean by bringing an arsenal of anti-sickness weaponry: Bonine tablets; a wristwatch-style device that, when strapped on, shot pulses of electricity into the underside of my wrist; anti-nausea gum; a queasiness-preventing inhaler; and stomach-settling candied ginger. All of those, and my decision to be extra cautious and lie down at the hint of a whisper of approaching nausea, worked.

Bottom line: Never rule out a trip to the Antarctic because you think you'll get seasick. You very well may not. And trust me, the voyage will be worth it even if you do.

5) Try to ignore the waves and attend lectures on the wildlife and places you're about to see. Pamelia and I had been studying the Antarctic for weeks before the trip, but on board we also soaked up the knowledge not only of the renowned Mark Carwardine, who had been to the Antarctic an astounding 23 times, but also of the likes of ornithologist Simon Boyes, entomologist and ecologist Mark Thatchell and award-winning wildlife filmmaker Peter Bassett, who as one of David Attenborough's BBC producers has ended up spending months at a time at places like South Georgia dealing with things like a tent-flooding river of penguin guano and a diet of dried mutton granules (tales he recounts hilariously).

How is the Antarctic defined? Many scientists will tell you it begins not at 66 degrees south latitude (the start of the geographical Antarctic Circle) but at the more northerly and varying line of the convergence, where warm and cold oceans meet,&n… — How is the Antarctic defined? Many scientists will tell you it begins not at 66 degrees south latitude (the start of the geographical Antarctic Circle) but at the more northerly and varying line of the convergence, where warm and cold oceans meet, the Antarctic environment starts and the sea becomes richer with churned-up nutrients, feeding a profusion of marine wildlife and birds.

And so en route to South Georgia, even as the ship swayed, we learned about everything from Antarctic photography (much more on that later) to sea birds to the natural history of South Georgia to the story of the ill-fated Endurance voyage led by Ernest Shackleton (whose grave we would visit on South Georgia) to the seal species we would soon encounter to the biology and Earth science of the 20- to 30-mile-wide Antarctic convergence zone, which we slowly angled across.

We couldn't see the warm and cold waters meeting at the convergence, of course, but beneath us the colliding waters were churning up nutrients that would feed countless billions (trillions?) of tiny, shrimp-like krill, on which Antarctic's larger ocean mammals and birds directly or indirectly feast. The water temperature, which had been about 43 degrees Fahrenheit in the Falklands, dropped by 11 degrees F to 32. (Around Antarctica proper, the water is 28 degrees, a sub-freezing temperature it can reach because of its saltiness.)

That's Ernest Shackleton's famously  ice-trapped ship, the Endurance. Enriched by the insights of our ship's spellbinding young Scottish historian, Katie Murray, we would in the days ahead be following Shackleton's path, rediscovering his … — That's Ernest Shackleton's famously ice-trapped ship, the *Endurance*. Enriched by the insights of our ship's spellbinding young Scottish historian, Katie Murray, we would in the days ahead be following Shackleton's path, rediscovering his remarkable tale of survival and even seeing his final resting place.

We would see all of these except the Ross seal, which lives closer to the South Pole.

6) Act like a real sailor and scrub your gear. In our case, we had no choice. One Oceans Expeditions is a stickler for "bio-securing" the boots and outer clothing of its voyagers to avoid spreading invasive diseases, plants or animals to any of its Antarctic destinations. We had been scrubbing off anyway before and after each trip ashore, but the time at sea was a good opportunity to bring out not just brushes and disinfectant but also vacuum cleaners, to suck up any stray seeds that might be hiding in the velcro strips on our jacket and pant straps.

7) Be creative. Pamelia takes risks as an artist. Despite the rough seas, she flung our cabin window open, kneeled on my bed and, grabbing materials she had handy, attempted to do some small indigo ink paintings of waves while trying not to fall over. She said they were quick studies (indigo wouldn't have been her color of choice to represent the water) to try to grasp, interact with and record an impression of the incredible ocean moment—AND it was great fun. That was a lesson: When the giant waves come, have fun and get to know them!

"I was aware of what a rare experience this was and wanted to try to know it more," she said afterward. "It was challenging to paint while being jolted by wave action. Sometimes the brushstroke was made by the wave—my hand would involuntarily be jerked and the brush would make marks that I didn't control. I loved the process. Now every time I look at this little painting I'll be brought back to this moment."

Pamelia's sense of artistic adventure matched the wild sea conditions.

This is a study using white ink in a notebook with black paper, for which she had to think in reverse when trying to represent dark and light. In the days ahead Pamelia would be painting and drawing on the ship and on land, producing 30 studies… — This is a study using white ink in a notebook with black paper, for which she had to think in reverse when trying to represent dark and light. In the days ahead Pamelia would be painting and drawing on the ship and on land, producing 30 studies and experimenting with a video component that we'll show you in the days ahead.

8) Think of the amazing sights ahead. "Ships run on two things: diesel fuel and rumors," Boris Wise, the day-to-day expedition leader, told us all during one of our meals at sea. He knew that we adventurers were all speculating on when we might set foot on South Georgia, given the rough ocean conditions and strong winds. We were beyond eager.

And then the sightings began: the first snow petrel, named for its pure whiteness. The first wandering albatrosses, the first gray-headed albatrosses, the first chunks of sea ice and glowing blue icebergs. And then...

...land. The first rocky, snow-capped islands we laid our eyes upon were the Willis Islands, just west of the main island of South Georgia. Then came South Georgia itself, forbidding and gorgeous, its white peaks rising as high as 9,600 feet. Seeing it, even from a distance, while standing in the biting cold wind on a viewing wing off the bridge, we were in awe. South Georgia was spectacular. And we were going to explore it.

Land ho! We were about to embark on four days of exploring South Georgia.

Inhospitable? That's what explorers from Captain Cook on have called it, but the animals living there would turn out to be quite hospitable to us human visitors.

At dinner that night, Boris gave us the good news. Tomorrow there would be a 4 a.m. wakeup call, followed by a quick 4:30 breakfast and a 5:30 departure on Zodiac rafts for South Georgia—specifically the beach at St. Andrews Bay, home to more than 100,000 king penguins, many thousands of elephant seals and the retreating Ross glacier.

We were, to borrow assistant expedition leader Nate Small's phrase from a few days earlier, about to have our minds blown.—Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Coming next: Can you imagine a landscape of penguins and seals as far as you can see?

A Falkland flightless steamer duck took her chicks out for a swim in waves that knocked them about but didn't stop them from huddling near her.

Antarctic Diary: The Falklands' Endemic Birds and the Value of Sitting Still

December 2, 2015

Our exhilarating morning on West Point Island now over (see previous post), Pamelia and I climbed out of the black Zodiac, reboarded the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, "bio-secured" ourselves by rinsing our boots and lower pant legs at the disinfecting station, shed our winter gear and headed to the ship's dining room for a deliciously hearty lunch of carrot-ginger soup and lasagna and a series of wasn't-that-amazing conversations with our fellow Antarctic-bound expeditioners.

By 3 p.m. it was time to leave again.

Less than 48 hours into our nearly three-week voyage, we were discovering that each day would be filled with explorations and discoveries—even when we didn't leave the ship. The journey to Antarctica would be fully as memorable as Antarctica itself.

We put our winter gear, backpacks and life jackets back on, rinsed our boots again at the disinfecting station and rode a Zodiac to another of the 780 islands that make up the Falklands. This small one—just two miles long and six miles wide—was called Carcass Island and was owned by a farm family.

Carcass Island was our second stop in the West Falklands; we would next head to the East Falklands to see Stanley and bird-nesting habitats around it.

We roamed the tussock grass and rocky shore of Carcass Island, where in a remarkable stretch of just 100 yards we watched 15 species of birds flying, swimming, resting, feeding and nesting. — We roamed the tussock grass and rocky shore of Carcass Island, where in a remarkable stretch of just 100 yards we watched 15 species of birds flying, swimming, resting, feeding and nesting.

Scarcely had we had stepped out of the Zodiac when we saw the first ducks, shags and oystercatchers. Soon we noticed smaller birds flitting around rocks on the shore. Simon, the expedition ornithologist, had told us before we left the ship that Carcass Island was one of the rat-free—and thus more small-bird-friendly—oases in the invasive-rodent-plagued Falklands. "We're going to see Cobb's wrens," he promised.

...before revealing his brilliant orange bill...

The Cobb's wren is one of the Falklands' two endemic bird species, meaning native to the islands and not found anywhere else. It is considered vulnerable to extinction because of its limited range and the Falklands' rodent problem, which dates back to the arrival of Norway rats on ships in the 1700s. (Norway rats can swim far enough that they spread from island to island.) Because the Cobb's wren nests on or near the ground, the rodents eat its eggs and chicks. That and the loss through animal grazing of tussock grass, part of the wren's nesting habitat, have reduced the Cobb's population to several thousand pairs.

Filled with personality, the endearing Cobb's wren serenaded us when not zipping around hunting for insects and small crustaceans in the tidal zone.

As amazing as this sounds, the Cobb's wren sang even when he had an insect in his beak. We loved this little guy.

The bird's moniker comes from Arthur Cobb, a Falklands farmer and the author of Birds of the Falkland Islands: A Record of Observation with a Camera, who in July 1908 on Carcass Island shot one with a gun, not a lens, while using rice (for reasons unknown) as his charge. The specimen was sent to the Natural History Museum in London, where it was named after Cobb.

We watched a family of the islands' other endemic birds, Falkland flightless steamer ducks, venturing out into the Carcass Island bay. As mentioned in an earlier post about the flying steamer ducks we saw in Ushuaia, Argentina, these birds are called steamer ducks because they churn their wings through the water to help propel themselves, suggesting a paddle steamer.

The mother seemed to be sounding a call for her parade of Falkland flightless steamer ducklings to march to the water.

The cuteness of the ducklings kept us and our cameras focused on them.

By venturing only a few dozen yards up and down the rocky beach, Pamelia and I saw and studied one bird after another. Many seemed curious about us. When I sat down on the rocks, a small brown tussock bird walked up to me, pecked my boot, hung around and finally moved on. He and other birds did the same with our fellow expedition members.

A mantra for the trip: Sit quietly and observe. Let wildlife come to you.

We all were learning a valuable lesson that trip organizer and renowned zoologist Mark Carwardine and other expedition leaders would repeat to us throughout the voyage: When out in nature, stop, sit still, watch and listen. Wildlife will come past you or even to you. Pamelia and I had learned this in the past from both great American naturalist and writer Bernd Heinrich (perhaps the most astute observer of nature on the planet) and a young Maine naturalist friend, Luka Negoita, who would spend 30 minutes quietly each day at what he called a "sit spot" in the woods, just observing and listening.

And so we watched and listened and learned. Here are more glimpses of our Carcass Island afternoon:

A juvenile black-crowned night heron stayed in the shadows of a low-tide rock...

...and flashed a wing like a poker player fanning his cards.

This and several other striking Magellanic oystercatchers patrolled the tidal edge. What a gorgeous yellow eye!

One Magellanic oystercatcher perched on her nest in front of us—unless it was a fake nest. Magellanic oystercatchers sometimes try to draw attention from their actual nest by sitting elsewhere and pretending that that's their nest. (I think this nes… — One Magellanic oystercatcher perched on her nest in front of us—unless it was a fake nest. Magellanic oystercatchers sometimes try to draw attention from their actual nest by sitting elsewhere and pretending that *that's* their nest. (I think this nest was the real deal.)

A rock shag, distinctive for his red eye patch, splashed down just offshore.

Tussock birds were curious and bold and in some cases walked right up to us, wondering who was visiting their home. They also were in the middle of their breeding season, the Southern Hemisphere spring. As ground nesters they too benefit from t… — Tussock birds were curious and bold and in some cases walked right up to us, wondering who was visiting their home. They also were in the middle of their breeding season, the Southern Hemisphere spring. As ground nesters they too benefit from the absence of rats on Carcass Island.

While some of our shipmates visited the farmhouse for an afternoon tea, Pamelia and I stayed on the beach until the last Zodiacs were leaving. Back on the ship, we rested up. Tomorrow we would be hitting two more spots in the Falklands.

The next morning I went out on deck aboard the Akademik Sergey Vavilov and checked out the weather for Day Two in the Falklands: cold, windy and rainy, with a chance of snow. — The next morning I went out on deck aboard the *Akademik Sergey Vavilov* and checked out the weather for Day Two in the Falklands: cold, windy and rainy, with a chance of snow.

"Two-banded plovers are known to nest here along the road," reported Simon, the ornithologist, the next morning as a cold, driving rain pelted us. We had stepped out of a shuttle bus to see the rusting wreck of the ship the Lady Elizabeth and briefly look around en route to Yorke Bay, Whalebone Cove and Gypsy Cove, bird nesting sites not far from Stanley, the islands' capital.

This would be a quieter morning, a time to observe several more birds—nesting rock shags, black-throated finches, austral thrushes, turkey vultures, dolphin gulls, upland geese and others—and appreciate some of the delicate flora: dwarf heath plants, pale maiden (the Falklands' national flower), great burnet, arrow-leafed marigold, native strawberry, pig vine, and a vast range of lichens, ferns and mosses.

As elsewhere in the Falklands, yellow gorse—invasive but lovely—adorned the scene.

Some of our English shipmates compared the landscape of rocky cliffs overlooking white sand beaches, dunes and turquoise waters to that of Cornwall. The idyllic setting had one jarring element: signs declaring the beach off limits because of land mines that might be left over from the 1982 Falklands War with Argentina.

Along the trail we saw a pair of Magellanic penguin eggs in an abandoned burrow.

A moment later we saw a lone Magellanic penguin.  We were not likely to see this South American species of penguin again as we journeyed farther south and closer to Antarctica. But we would see plenty of others. — A moment later we saw a lone Magellanic penguin. We were not likely to see this South American species of penguin again as we journeyed farther south and closer to Antarctica. But we would see plenty of others.

Our hike took us through a landscape of rock, ferns, lichens and mosses. I believe that this is a blechnum fern. — Our hike took us through a landscape of rock, ferns, lichens and mosses. I believe that this is a blechnum fern.

The birds at Gypsy Cove included an adult black-crowned night heron.

After a couple of hours of exploring, we traveled by bus to Stanley, the quaint and very British capital, for a couple of hours of traditional sightseeing. At the Historic Shipyard Museum we learned more about the 1982 war (through the eyes of civilians who experienced it) and also about the lone land mammal that was native to the Falklands, the warrah, which was hunted to extinction in the 1800s.

Pamelia sized up Stanley's main street, which we had walked a decade earlier while doing a travel story on rounding the horn of South America.

In Stanley all penguin tracks lead to the visitors' center...

...though Penguin wine is available in the shop up the road...

...and father along you'll find all the penguin news that's fit to print.

Pamelia went postal shopping for some of the Falklands' beautiful nature stamps.

The only land mammal native to the Falklands was a type of canid called a warrah (also known as a Falkland Islands wolf, Falkland Islands dog or Falkland Islands fox). Warrahs were extensively hunted for their fur and poisoned by Falklands farmers w… — The only land mammal native to the Falklands was a type of canid called a warrah (also known as a Falkland Islands wolf, Falkland Islands dog or Falkland Islands fox). Warrahs were extensively hunted for their fur and poisoned by Falklands farmers who feared that the canids would kill their sheep. The last one died in 1876, giving warrahs the unfortunate distinction of being the first known canid species to go extinct in historical (as opposed to prehistoric) times. During his visit to the Falklands in the 1830s, Charles Darwin wrote prophetically, "It will be ranked among those species which have perished from the face of the Earth." All that's left now is this statue in the Stanley museum.

Perhaps the most striking sight in the center of Stanley is an arch that was made in 1933 from the jawbones of two blue whales to celebrate a century of British rule in the Falklands. We would be exploring the amazing world of whales and the horrifi… — Perhaps the most striking sight in the center of Stanley is an arch that was made in 1933 from the jawbones of two blue whales to celebrate a century of British rule in the Falklands. We would be exploring the amazing world of whales and the horrific history of whaling in the Antarctic in the days ahead as we sailed on toward South Georgia Island.

Around noon, snow began falling as we ate a picnic lunch on the empty Stanley town green, with a dolphin gull perched on our table hoping for scraps. It was an are-we-really-here? moment. We'd had a few of those already, but many more lay ahead as we set sail for South Georgia, the rarely-visited Serengeti of Antarctic wildlife.—Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Coming next on the blog: Have you ever been through a cyclone in a ship?

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