Reporter's Notebook: New Antarctic Summer Warmer, Wetter, Tourist-Heavy

Feb. 4, 2008 — -- After nearly two-and-a-half weeks of beautiful, blue-sky weather — very unusual in Antarctica — we finally paid a price with seven straight days of rain, which is also very unusual here.

The summertime wetness dampened our efforts and our mood. We camped beneath Sharp Peak in the Fish Islands, hoping to climb its 4,000-foot peak, but were thwarted by deep, slushy snow. Our final days in the kayaks were soggy and cold. The wildlife, particularly the month-old penguin chicks we saw at virtually every stop, were at great risk too, thanks to the rain. Covered only by downy fur, the rain soaked them through; if — or when — the weather snaps back to cold, many of them could freeze and die.

During one 24-hour period we experienced only torrential downpours, which every scientist we met along our route said was the most sustained rain they'd ever seen in the area. While scientific accounts continue to document the changing climate down south, which manifests in melting glaciers and decreasing amount of ice coverage, our anecdotal experience is that summertime in Antarctica is becoming something new: warmer and wetter.

The other thing I saw more of in January than ever before in my experience along the Peninsula was a relatively new breed of Antarctic biped: humans. Each year the number of tourists visiting Antarctica grows; this year it's anticipated 40,000 will visit by cruise boats ranging in size from 100 passengers to monstrous, 3,000-passenger vessels with swimming pools and casinos.

Voluntary guidelines limit the number of people who can actually put feet on Antarctic ice, which is a good thing. The bigger risk is that one of these big boats will have an accident, sink and throw thousands of passengers into the cold Southern Ocean. The possibility of that happening in the next few years seems no longer to be an if, but a when.

After 30 days exploring the peninsula, we are obligated to head back north, toward the southernmost tip of Chile. The crossing of the notorious Drake Passage takes more than four days of continuous sailing through some of the roughest seas on the planet.

By day four, it seems like the ride will never end; each of us — either out loud or to ourselves — has sworn never to step on a sailboat again. Even when you feel well enough to stand and move from bunk to pilothouse to saloon, it takes every effort to physically manage the walk up the short set of stairs and down the next without being thrown violently across the ship. Generally, once that move has been achieved the only thing to do … is lie down again, wherever you find yourself.

Four days and six hours after leaving our last anchorage at Port Lockroy, we come into sight of one of the marquees of the sailing world, Cape Horn. Simultaneously, the seas slow to a mellow roll and we coast in toward the gray-green-brownscape of the southernmost tip of Chile. It is a shock on so many levels.

First, and most thankfully, the seas have stopped tossing us about the ship like rag dolls, allowing our inner ears to stop pounding. Second, the colors are so different from the stark blue and white of the seventh continent.

We are escorted past the Horn by a most incredible scene: Five hundred black-browed albatross soar all around us, fishing, coasting on seven-to-eight foot wingspans. Even our albatross expert, Fiona, is stunned into reverie. It is a beautiful welcome home from the ice.

My first steps back on solid ground in nearly five weeks — rather than on the ice, snow and slush of the Antarctic summer — felt very good. The warm Patagonian breeze was welcome too, though the air temperature this far south even at the height of summer barely gets out of the 40s.

The Antarctic Peninsula is 600 miles away, but today somehow seems even farther, another world away.

I guess the one good thing about that nasty piece of sea known as the Drake Passage is that it acts as a giant speed bump against too much human invasion from the north. Its time-consuming crossing also puts distance between memories. Although we were just there prowling its shoreline, those days have already taken on a certain haze, many of them running together into one.

A peek at a few photographs takes me right back though: kayaking on the blue-blue waters surrounding massive, sculpted icebergs; the collapse of the 100-foot-tall iceberg arch as we watched; humpback whales swimming alongside us under the bright light of midnight; the seeming neverending line of tall, rocky, snowcapped peaks marching down the Peninsula and the towering glaciers running down to the sea from them; and mostly the incredible vastness of Antarctica -- a continent of which we saw just a sliver -- which seems on first glance as if it probably hasn't changed in a millennium yet which we know was changing in front of our eyes.

I think it is the sense of risk to a place that would otherwise appear to be invulnerable given its enormity, raw power and frigidity -- that is my most powerful memory of Antarctica today.

Through anecdotal example, scientific evidence and firsthand experience, it is clear that the Peninsula is changing and changing fast. Air temperatures are warming, rain is falling in record amounts, glaciers are receding and wildlife is changing its patterns to adapt.

I think what I'll take away from this expedition most -- on top of the camaraderie of the team, the beautiful days of kayaking and wandering, the wealth of knowledge gained from people met along the way -- is that it is a place perhaps more than anywhere on the planet that deserves to be watched closely. Because as tough as Antarctica may seem, as it changes its relevance to the rest of the world grows.

If Antarctica is the beating heart of the planet, as I believe it is, it deserves to be cared for with all of our best intentions.