The First 24 Hours or So ...

The second night in Punta Arenas, Chile. If I may: What a long strange trip it's been to get down here. Saturday morning started with a little snowstorm in Denver, with the inevitable delays to de-ice the plane. Of course, the de-icing machine ran out of fluid, adding another half hour to our time on the ground. Fortunately, my connection at LAX was still a couple of hours away by the time we finally arrive, so plenty of time to make the next plane.

LAX: Still chaotic, still ghetto. And smells like an overused gym locker.

A smooth flight to Santiago, which was warm and humid. The city is hemmed in by mountains, and home to about a third of the country's population. But all I saw of it was the airport for a couple of hours before boarding yet another plane for a final three-hour flight to Punta Arenas. By this time, my eyeballs felt as if someone had been poking them with dry erasers; I hadn't slept much at all during the marathon 24 hours of flying and waiting.

It was a fairly pleasant flight, with tremendous views of the Andes for much of the way. Very different than the Rockies, with some dramatic volcanoes punctuating the endless spine of peaks with their perfectly shaped cones. Punta Arenas' notorious wind greeted us on the descent, rocking the plane back and forth like an overzealous nanny rocking a baby's cradle.

AGUNSA, the company contracted to handle the logistics in Chile, met me at the airport. Punta Arenas is only about a 20-minute drive from the airport. The region and city itself are surprisingly hilly. The town seems to be a mix of ugly modern buildings and some wonderful Old World architecture, including my hotel, Jose Nogueira, which boasts a restaurant in a sort of vine-draped arboretium (quite warm when the sun fights through the constant overcast).

After a much-needed shower, I made for the main square, right around the corner from the hotel. A monument of Ferdinad Magellan dominates the little city park. Travelers are supposed to rub the big, polished toe of an Ona India lounging at Magellan's feet to ensure a safe return to the city. So I rubbed the hell out of that foot.

The food: My Spanish isn't nearly as good as I thought it was, so each meal has been somewhat of a surprise and not entirely what I expected. An order of what I thought would be steak and salad was a sliced beef sandwich covered in tomatoes and drowned in mayo -- a very popular condiment apparently. Seafood is plentiful here, and the local speciality is king crab.

Monday morning was back to work for me -- I went to the AGUNSA warehouse where I picked up my cold weather gear for the trip south and met a few of the people headed down on the other ship in port. The U.S. Antarctic Program has two vessels -- the Palmer and the Gould. The former leaves after we do, headed to the east side of the Anarctic Pensinsula to study the remnants of an ice shelf that collapsed there nearly eight years ago. I'll be aboard the Gould, which will be on its annual voyage to observe the marine ecosystem along the western edge of the Antarctic Peninsula. I'll be with the ship for a while and then spending the remainder of my time at the Palmer research station.

Al Hickey, the point man for Raytheon aboard the Palmer, gave me a tour of the ship in the afternoon. The vessel will be at max capacity with 70 people for its two-month journey, so the deck was packed with equipment. Two helicopters were squeezed into a hangar -- only the second time the ship has sailed with helos.

Tuesday I check out of my hotel and report to the ship, where I'll spend the night before we sail on Wednesday. I'll only have very limited email during the four days it takes to sail to Palmer Station.

Bon voyage!


Helos squeezed into a hangar aboard the Palmer.


A crane lifts supplies onto the Gould.



The statue of Magellan. Note the dangling foot of the Indian on the right.

A view of Punta Arenas outside my hotel window.

48 Hours and Counting

Less than two days before I board a plane -- well, several planes -- on my fifth trip to Antarctica. This will be my first visit to Palmer Station, and by all accounts, the perfect time to visit. Wildlife will be at its peak, and I should definitely see penguins and other seabirds, possible several species of seals, and maybe even whales. More importantly, I'll be there at a busy time of the year for polar research, joining the Palmer LTER team aboard the Laurence M. Gould, a science vessel in the U.S. Antarctic Program's two-ship fleet. Seasickness meds packed.

My route will take me from Denver to L.A. (an unusual stop, as usually people exit the country via Dallas or Miami) to Santiago, Chile, to Punta Arenas, the largest city in Patagonia. Based on the itinerary, it's about a full 24 hours of planes and airports, meaning I'll leave Saturday morning, the day after Christmas, and arrive sometime in the afternoon on Sunday in PA. The Gould and the Nathaniel B. Palmer are both in port right now, a rare opportunity to see both vessels together. Al Hickey, a sometime employee of RPSC, has promised to give me a tour of the Palmer, so I hope to get some good pics and maybe even a story before the adventure really begins.

Countdown Begins

Only 10 days before I head south once more to Antarctica, my fifth trip since 2003.

This time is different: A visit to Palmer Station, a research base for the U.S. Antarctic Program out on the Antarctic Peninsula, where the spine of the Andes re-emerges after a dunk into the Southern Ocean from South America. I'm scheduled to take a USAP icebreaker, the ARSV Laurence M. Gould out of Punta Arenas across the dreaded Drake Passage.

I'll spend about six weeks aboard the vessel and the station, writing stories about climate science, penguins, the people and other topics for The Antarctic Sun. I'll also post short dispatches, pictures and videos here of the trip as often as I can.

Here are a couple of more pics from the Antarctic Photo Library to whet your appetite:

Leopard seal with an unlucky penguin in its mouth.

A typical scene aound the peninsula.

Movie Madness

I just got a Flip Camera to use for work. It's about as basic as it gets for video: One big red button. Push it to record, push it again to stop. The software is simple but free, allowing you to cut and stitch your clips together into a little movie, perfect for the Web. Here's my first effort, recorded during a snowshoeing trip to the mountains.

Twitter Tipping Point

The term "tipping point" has certainly entered our modern-day discourse with great gusto, and it can refer to anything from climate tipping points to the seemingly sudden widespread coolness of things like PBR and Hush Puppy shoes, as Malcolm Gladwell noted in his book The Tipping Point, which deconstructs the breaking point for social epidemics.

Add my Twitter account to the latest tipping point phenomena. About a week ago, I had 50, 60, maybe 70 or so followers, people who for some reason have decided they want to hear what I have to say, perhaps multiple times a day, in 140-character snippets. I've at least doubled that number in the last few days after adding my name to a sort of list serv of Society of Environmental Journalists. Now every green, eco-conscious writer, PR professional and spamming love goddess wants to join my virtual cult.

I feel empowered. I feel ... overwhelmed.

Part of this game, as I understand it, is to at least consider following a follower, in some sort of all-inclusive game of leap frog. Yet my inbox is quickly filling in with new acolytes. Who do I follow? How many different "green" headlines do I really need to see? How many can I, in reality, ever see, as the hits come faster and faster. Look away and 30 or 40 souls have cried out into the virtual void, seeking to make their voice count in the most disjointed, ephemeral conversation ever undertaken.

On the other hand, I am getting more RTs and #FFs ... what more can one ask in virtual life?

Not Made in China: Half Done

Yikes. Nearly a month since my last post. ...

Our self-imposed standard of avoiding anything Made in China has past the halfway mark. In some ways, it's been fairly easy to achieve because we buy very little that is new (and decided just this weekend -- or at least re-confirmed? -- that anything bought second-hand doesn't count as a digression). I guess it's a carry-over from last year's experiment to try and not purchase anything new for 12 months, which we did admirably well up until the last few weeks of December.

Yet, it is easy to forget to check every label, and not everything you purchase online states country of origin ... So, it was with some surprise, that my wife's new Converse sneakers should have been made in China! Even a set of paper clips had the words "Made in China" stamped into the cheap metal.

How can one country -- even one with a population of more than 1.3 billion people -- produce so much stuff? Where does all the raw material come from? Where does all the waste go? As the Dude would say, "All this consumption cannot stand."

Comment with Caution

I've certainly adopted the attitude of "if you can't win, join them" when it comes to the new media revolution. I blog (with less-than-stellar regularity) and twitter (who doesn't have time for a 140-character tweet now and then), Facebook and Digg (are these all verbs now?). I even find myself scrolling down to the bottom of real news stories to see what other readers think of this or that story, and once in a while add my own two-cents to these transient, much-ado-about-nothing debates.

I've found that some of these people are really, really stupid. And these so-called debates are really just ways to vent and rage. (That's what blogs and right-wing radio talk shows are for.)

Find any weather story about a cold snap or maybe a spate of rainstorms, like we've had in Denver over the last few weeks. Scroll down to the comments. Invariably, there some moron who interjects that such and such an event just goes to show you that global warming and climate change are bunk, some sort of leftist (and, now, Obama) conspiracy to steal tax dollars. For what purpose? It's never really clear. Maybe so GOP, Bible-wielding politicians like Gov. Sanford can go bang hot South American chicks on the public teat. Mmmm ... South American teats ...

Seriously, weather and climate are two different topics, but there's no convincing some people. I just hope these people have luxury homes on the Florida coast.

That's Crap

First, I should preface the following by saying I like dogs (and even kids) and maybe some day I'll own a pooch again (and possibly an 18-year-old house girl). I guess it's really some dog owners that completely piss me off.

So, I'm in the kitchen. The front door is open, with the glass door closed, so I can see in front of our house. A woman is walking her dog, stops to chat with our neighbor, and her mutt starts to do the squat dance, preparing to unload in front of my house -- on the concrete! OK. She was swift and deft at picking up the excrement, but who lets her animal s**t right on the sidewalk like that?

And why do most dog owners assume their flea bag is so lovable that we're all happy when it runs up on us (unleashed, of course), muddy and wet, its big black nose like a ballistic missile to the crotch. An unleashed dog has often come close to taking me and my bike out, if not for some extreme defensive riding on my part -- I just assume all manner of man and beast is out to kill me when I'm peddling. It's the only way to stay alive.

While I'm gripping about pets, let's talk about kids (many of whom could stand to be on a leash, frankly): When did parents start buying these SUV-sized strollers? They're fine for the sidewalk, I guess, but not in crowded farmers markets, or at the mosh pit that passed for a book sale at the Denver Public Library this past weekend. (See my book club blog on this.) There are other options for hauling your little munchkins around. Maybe try a saddle on the family dog.

Self Service for Dummies

I don't remember when gas stations became almost entirely self-service in this country. (I say "almost" because I assume there must be some Mayberry, USA, where Gomer still pumps your fuel and stutters "golly.") I suppose it marked the beginning of the end of our service-oriented society/culture/ economy, where you only get personalized service like that in places where you have to leave a tip. On our trip to Costa Rica in March, I was a little surprised that gas stations still employed people at the pumps -- but perhaps it's a way to keep folks employed in a country light on industry and heavy in agriculture and tourism.

One place were I think the self-service concept has gone too far is the grocery store. At first, the idea seemed like a good one. After all, any idiot can scan a few barcodes and bag his own groceries, right?

Yeah, not really.

Have you watched these people in front of you struggle with how to scan a loaf of bread or which slot to stick their greenbacks in? It's like watching an IQ test for zombies. But I don't blame it all on human error. The scanners, at least until recently, seemed dumbed down like the GPS satellite network used to be before it became a commercial enterprise and not reserved for military-industrial operations. Looking up an item alphabetically, while superficially simple, has many nuances. Are the green beans listed under "b" for beans or "g" for green beans. Using your own bags? Boy, does that piss off the machine: "Unknown item in bagging area!"

I estimate it takes me two to three times longer to check myself out versus a clerk, who, for all his faults, has an encyclopedic memory for four-digit codes related to beets, bananas and berries.

On the other hand, if I could save 20 percent of my bill by refilling my own mug of beer and picking up my own plate of food, I'd be happy to hit the self-service line -- bar codes, bagging area violations and all.

Made in China or Not II

The experiment to go a full year without purchasing anything carrying the tag "Made in China" had its first full-on failure this weekend (see previous post), though I blame the need for expediency ...

Of course, the choice to go shopping ... shudder ... at K-mart (yes, there are a few of these left, including one within a mile of our house) pretty much set me up for failure. I needed a few items -- belt, white undershirt and black dressy shoes -- for a wedding that was taking place within 24 hours. I didn't have time to shop around, so after making a token gesture by going to our local mega-Goodwill store to score something cheap and used, and hence less consumerist, I trudged to the Big Box store.

I found a leather belt made in Mexico, while the package of three white shirts (but I only wanted one, dammit) was from somewhere in Central America. Then I tried on the shoes I wanted. Made in China. Damn. But that was OK, because there was a shoe store nearby, but the selection was crap and the one pair I considered buying was, of course, made in China.

Back to K-mart, where I grabbed the shoes and started toward the cash register. I froze about halfway, put the shoes back, and started to leave, then changed my mind and picked them up again. I agonized for five minutes or so, as if were planning on stealing them and not just in a quandary over my own self-inflicted rules.

On the positive side, the shoes, of course, were on sale. I'm sure the $25 I spent on them will turn out to be a wise investment that will last many years to come.

I wonder why the heel feels a little loose ...

Everything In Its Place

I've heard that expression before, but like "sleep tight" and "you gonna eat that," I'm not entirely sure what it means. But it came to mind the other day while I was in the kitchen, pondering what to do with a short stack of new (but previously owned) dishes we bought for a party. They were sitting on the counter, homeless and with few options of where to store them.

Normally, this is a job for the wife -- not because I'm sexist or misogynistic, but rarely am I granted the autonomy of deciding where to place a new object in our home unless it's something I specifically own. I apparently don't possess some sort of innate ability to discern the proper feng shui of inanimate objects on the common spaces and walls of the house. 

The disapproval and disagreements even involve drawers -- junk drawers. Every house has one or three of these long, overstuffed repositories of worthless batteries, 15 Allen wrenches that came with different products requiring some self-assembly, and stacks of stained take-out menus from the local eateries. My so-called junk drawer has maybe two menus in it -- and I have to be vigilant lest they end up in the recycling bin. 

Back to the party plates: I hesitated and fretted, wondering whether to simply call this one in to the proper authories. But, suddently feeling rebellious, I rearranged a few items on one shelf of mismatched cups, China and sake bottles, and slipped the plates in. Later, I casually mentioned where I had placed the plates to my significant other. She agreed that's where she had planned to put them as well. Job well done on my part, though already I could tell there was some concern that they were not quite in their proper place.

Wherever that is.

Made in China or Not

That was the name of my second blog, which I decided to abandoned because I felt it was a bit too narrow a topic to keep me going with material, particularly since I buy so few new things. However, I would like to occasionally return to the topic and pass on a few tips as I can.

The idea my wife and I came up with was to try and buy nothing "Made in China" for one year. How difficult is this to do? Go down the aisles in any store, especially those big box stores like K-Mart, and randomly pick up a product. A hundred to one says it was made from our generous lenders in China.

We didn't make this pledge out of any particular animosity for the Chinese, though most of these goods are generally of poor quality, in my opinion. That's why K-Mart sells so many items from there for so cheaply. But I've also come across the "Made in China" label on products sold by Patagonia! Based on that company's business ethics (and prices!), I would hope they pay a fair wage to their overseas employees. Nor are we committed to buying only things made in the USA. I'm not sure it would be possible to house, clothe and feed two people on such a stipulation.

One of the most difficult things I've tried to find to date was an insulated coffee mug. A trip to Target ended in utter defeat. Six shelves of coffee mugs of different shape and color, short and fat, stainless steel and plastic go-go colors -- all made in China! They did have a nice thermos made in Malaysia (probably by the Chinese Malaysians), but I was out of luck.

And don't think you can go to one of your local 15 Starbucks within a three-block radius -- all made in China. I turned to Amazon.com, purveyor of just about everything on the planet now. Unfortunately, the lengthy product listings don't mention country of origin, so I had to email a couple.

Finally, I came across a company I had never heard of before -- Zojirushi, which is based in Japan. Of course the products aren't made in Japan but Thailand. Still, it was a minor coup, as I can finally retire my South Pole "safety" mug at home that leaks and that holds heat about as well as the new station. So remember the name, Zojirushi. Not made in China.

Pig Out

No, this post is not about food, but a short one on the deadly swine flu that promises to be the next Black Death.

Or not. You've probably seen, read or heard about a rash of deaths in Mexico from a virus that has apparently passed from pigs to humans -- and now possibly transmitted from person to person. 

Is this it? Killed off by a pig virus. I picture Will Smith running around an empty metropolis being chased by pink, snout-nosed humans who want to turn him into pork chops. The news reports always say the same things when these outbreaks first occur. From an MSNBC story: "World health authorities worried openly that the strange new virus could become a global epidemic."

It's not Waiting for Godot, but waiting for coup de grace of the race. Global warming, nuclear war, the plague, tobacco, cancer, high fructose corn syrup and really nasty cat allergies -- death awaits around every corner. The strange thing is that we almost seem eager to welcome it. What would get bigger headlines: Armageddon or a Cure for Cancer?

A freak. A brilliant freak. But a freak.

That's how I described Werner Herzog to someone today, who forwarded me a link to a recent interview by The Guardian with the German-born director. An avant garde, fringe director for decades, Herzog broke into the mainstream (again?) a few years ago with his documentary "Grizzly Man," about Timothy Treadwell, an Alaskan misfit who got a little too cozy with the wild Yogi Bears and paid with his life. 

Herzog is himself attracted to the fringes of society, so he was the natural choice to make a documentary about science and society in Antarctica, "Encounters at the End of the World," which was nominated for a Best Documentary Oscar. The film is far from fluffy, focusing on the quirky characters who live and work at McMurdo Station, most of whom I know to varying degrees. I was working at the station the summer Herzog filmed his movie, though my colleague Steven Profaizer ended up interviewing him for an article in The Antarctic Sun. 

He even came into our office one day with his cameraman, carrying the sound boom like a scythe. At one point, Herzog turned to me, asking a question. He smiled -- a grim smile like one that must greet the souls seeking passage to the Underworld on Charon's ferry across the River Styx. Smiling does not come naturally to that man, who in the Guardian interview admits that he likes to act a bit, playing psychopathic characters. Though he stresses that he's unlike those characters in real life.

Still, I think Herzog would make a good guide to Hades in a film directed by David Lynch and co-starring Laura Dern. Just because.

Poster Shock

I went to the Denver Art Museum today to check out its much-anticipated Rock Poster exhibit, a collection of psychedelic art, mainly rock posters, from the golden age of hippie music, from 1965-71. I don't think I realized just how dynamic that era really was. Everyone was there: the Dead, Credence, Joplin, Hendrix, The Doors, the Beats (Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Snyder, et al), Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, etc., etc.

A lot of the art certainly seemed designed for an LSD trip -- kinetic, organic, fluid, colorful. There were plenty of subtle and not-so-subtle drug references, such as a miner panning for gold at the corner of one venue, hinting of the discovery of a particularly delicious type of marijuana bud.

One poster advertised for a 1969 concert featuring Country Joe and the Fish, Led Zeppelin and Taj Mahal. But the most amazing thing was the price of the ticket: $3.50. And only $3 for Thursday's show. You can't even buy a soda for $3 at a concert these days!

A couple of other posters below. It's interesting to see how the style changed from the typical psychedelic look in the first poster to one more like a collage, something you would see on a Pink Floyd album cover in later years, in the second.

Click on any of the posters to learn more about them from the DAM's Web site. The three-month exhibit ends July 19.

Beep Beep

The car horn. Such a simple instrument, yet perhaps the most vital to self preservation while driving. But no one uses it here in Denver. Why? Are we afraid that someone will take offense and shoot us? I suppose that's a possibility, and my wife has often commented that she fully expects me to come to an early demise from my overly generous horn use.

But look at a place like Costa Rica, which I recently visited. Drivers there use the horn as regularly as tuning the radio or turning on the windshield wipers. A few beeps to say, "Here I am. Don't hit me. Look out. Oh my god I'm about to die on this 16-lane roundabout, get out of my way." Seriously, though, liberal use of the horn is just part of the driving technique there.

I've decided I'm going to start using my horn more liberally but with less malice, to tip the balance of its everyday use. This morning I was making a quick trip downtown, a journey I've done so often that I know how to hit all of the green lights. As I approached one intersection, a pedestrian unwisely started to cross, threatening my smooth crossing of the intersection. A few short but stern beeps sent her scurrying across, high-heeled boots and all, to the safety of the other side. Another life saved.

Now I just need a bigger horn. And bullet proof glass.

Travel Expectations

It's been about a week since I returned from a little vacation in Costa Rica. Based on the cynical descriptions provided in the Traveler's Bible (i.e., Lonely Planet), I had expected to find a hot and humid country with too many pale and bloated Americans, and the need to constantly watch my back for fear of being picketpocketed, robbed or scammed at every turn in the country's unpaved roads.

Hmm. Perhaps travel writers really do go to hell ... because that's far from the reality. Yes, the country is about 10 degrees on the sweltering side. There are a fair amount of gringos in the usual tourist traps. And, yes, there are a disconcerting number of barbed wire fences in the cities that would suggest that either Costa Rica has a large domestic market for barbed wire or that not everyone respects the rights of ownership.

But even on a short two-week jaunt it was easy to see that there was so much more to the place. I spent a few days in the very untouristed towns of Heredia and Alaquela, where English speakers were far and few, and the shady town squares, anchored by a Catholic church, offered a welcome respite from tropical sun. A solo trip to one of the nearby rainforests, up a 30-degree-grade dirt road, offered complete solitude. (An old man and young boy added some local flavor to the adventure when they tried to charge me for parking right outside the park. I most politely burned out of there as quickly as I could over the rutted road.)

The volcanoes were perhaps my favorite part. Belching a constant stream of smoke, Arenal is impressive (below), though the gaudy resorts clustering around its flanks like so many weeds were disconcerting.

Even more impressive, and with few tourists, was the crater at Irazu (below), located just north of San Jose and reached by a nice (for a change) paved road that only requires a suicide drive across the edge of the city.

My expectation had been that Costa Rica would be one of those countries to check off the life list of destinations: "been there, done that." Instead, I find myself wondering where I'll go next time. I'll just leave the guidebook at home.

Welcome to Fantasy ... Baseball

Well, I find myself on the cusp of my second season of Fantasy Baseball, a hobby that wastes prodigious amounts of time, and you don't even have a pair of mismatched socks to show for your six months of effort. I could probably have learned how to play the guitar and be able to read Mandarin based on the amount of hours I spent last year analyzing stats, following games online and reading news about some pitcher's wounded elbow. (Dammit! Ichiro has a bleeding ulcer ... how much did I pay for that guy ...?)

The funny thing: I don't really know that much about the game. Well, more accurately, that much about all the players. Sure, I know A-Rod was having relations with Madonna or Todd Helton is the reason the Rockies can't afford to win. But do I know their battering averages and strikeout to walk ratio from 2003 to 2008? The guys I play with have a sickening, encyclopedic knowledge of even the most minor characters in the great baseball drama. Stuff like how much Nick Swisher strikes out against lefthanders in ballparks built prior to 1984. I have trouble remembering if the Atlanta Braves are in the American or National league.

So why do I play?

Well, obviously it's a guy thing, this obsession with statistics and numbers. It's a confirmation that there is an established order to the universe, that even the best of us can only hit the little white ball with the red seams and get on base about one-third the time. The other two-thirds of the time you're striking out, getting thrown out or popping out. It's sort of like dating with cleats on.

I guess that's enough mixed metaphors and one-liners for one post. I gotta go: My first baseman, Kevin Youkilis, isn't feeling well ...

Third Time the Charm?

This is my third attempt at a blog in less than a year, after several years of simply refusing to be drawn into what I saw as a self-indulgent, narcissistic outpouring from the Age of New Media. But with the rapid demise of newspapers from around the world, and the apparent ascendancy of e-media of all types, such thinking is obviously hazardous to one's (career) health.

Both blogs failed, I think, because I tried to be too thematic: the first, an attempt to drive Internet traffic to my work Web site, The Antarctic Sun; the second, a memoir about my attempt to go a whole year without buying anything made in China. The former seemed too much like work, and the latter, while an interesting experiment, didn't provide much fodder since I'm not a very good consumer of new products. Of course, one must post more than twice a month for any blog to work ...

This latest attempt offers freedom for random ramblings (the "musings") and an arena for griping (the "rumblings) on just about any subject, though my proclivities tend toward the cultural and political, the environment and entertainment, entropy and epicurean delights. I've come to realize that blogs, Twitter, Facebook, et. al., aren't simply for inflating the ego -- though plenty of that sort of plastic pollution abounds (by "plastic pollution" I mean the worthless crap that circulates around the virtual and real world, like the Pacific Ocean gyre that contains a Texas-sized trash heap). Instead, many of these tools seem to represent a new way to converse in a world grown both smaller yet more fragmented.

Hopefully, I can add something useful to the conversation.