The Last Continent

Looking back at the exploits of some of the great Antarctic explorers, if you had had a burning desire to be part of an expedition to that remote region, what would be the attraction for you?

If you were intrigued by scientific exploration, you would probably have gone with Scott. If speed in reaching your goal was the primary criteria, then Amundsen would have been your man. But if during the expedition things went wrong and your very survival was at stake, you would have prayed for Shackleton.

It was the Ernest Shackleton story of survival that allured us to the most remote continent in the world – and the remaining continent we had yet to visit.

After Amundsen won the race to the South Pole in 1912, Shackleton turned his attention to crossing the continent from sea to sea, via the pole. He left on his Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition in 1914 from Buenos Aires on board The Endeavour but part way through the expedition, the ship became trapped in the ice and he and his crew were marooned. The story of survival is inspiring - everyone came home safely, but not before enduring incredible hardships and suffering many disappointments.

Our own trip to Antarctica in January 2004 followed the ill-fated voyage of The Endeavour from South America to the Antarctic continent and its islands, South Georgia and its capital, the old whaling town of Grytviken. It was in Grytviken where Shackleton, in total exhaustion at the end of his isolation, staggered to the door of the house of the Norwegian whaling master and announced who he was.

As for our adventure, we began it in Ushuaia on the tip of Tierra del Fuego in Southern Patagonia - the most southerly city in the world. Fin del mundo - the end of the world. We boarded our ship, the Marco Polo, and set sail from Ushuaia with a sense of great expectation.

The first thing one notices about this part of the world is the smell. Then the colour - and then the silence.

The smell is clean and fresh, with a hint of krill - small creatures that provide a major food source for penguins. The colour palette changes constantly in tune with the ever changing weather. But the silence and the vastness of everything around one is overwhelming and it made us feel insignificant.

Not forgetting the residents of the region - seals and penguins are present in prolific numbers, as well birds of every size and description. What a cruel environment in which to live - survival of the fittest and the bravest.

For us it was summer - 14 January 2004 to be exact - and that first night we were asleep long before darkness came. Darkness stays but a few short hours and by the time we awoke the next morning the sun was rising high in the sky. Daybreak was at 3 a.m.

What does one do at that time in the morning? Birding on Board of course! Chris Wilson, the resident ornithologist had the philosophy that birds are the thermometer of our environment and their behavior is the precursor of what is to come. Every morning, and I mean any time after 4 a.m. Chris led the aft bird watch as sea birds of all descriptions swooped and soared above us. Chris was not above harbouring an injured bird in his cabin until it was ready to return to the wild. Such was his passion, I stupidly told him at the end of the trip that until I had participated in his birding sessions, they had all been seagulls to me. He smiled and said that rich in my new found knowledge he had obviously done his job.

Our adventure involved zodiac expeditions from the ship, the first of which took us to a King Penguin rookery in the Bay of Isles. 20,000 pairs of penguin went about their day. Seals sunned themselves. Cormorants and petrols skimmed the water as we skirted the shoreline.

Arriving in South Georgia, we awoke to brilliant sunshine and a vista framed in snow-capped peaks. Icebergs and several longliner fishing boat wrecks were visible in the bay. The zodiacs took us in for a beach landing in Gritviken and its resident population of two souls. The white picket fence which surrounds the Whalers Cemetery was temporary home to dozens of penguins and seals who were totally unimpressed by our presence.

The next day good weather permitted us an unscheduled cruise into Drygalski Fjord on southern South Georgia. The scenery was breathtaking - there were numerous snow-capped glaciers and oddly shaped icebergs floating silently against a backdrop of sea-green ocean.

On 26 January at 7:30 p.m. Marco Polo crossed Latitude 50 degrees south, officially taking us into Antarctica. Arriving at Coronation Island, enormous glaciers swept down to the sea.

Today's zodiac landing was a visit to Shingle Cove and a large Adelie penguin rookery. Skuas, an aggressive bird, patrolled the shoreline looking for undefended young penguin. Youngsters cried frantically for their mothers as a skua approached - carcasses were plentiful.

Foggy weather and poor visibility resulted in many dodging the iceberg manoeuvres the next day. Confirming the fact that most of an iceberg is underwater, one rather large berg brushed the port side of Marco Polo, taking out the railings on Decks 9 and 10 and causing much consternation all round. The Captain was not smiling that day.

Underway again and repairs well in hand, the next day was spent threading the eye of the needle through an extensive field of icebergs - iceberg alley. Small growlers - low lying icebergs - occasionally made contact with the hull or were cut in two by the bow as the ship thrust forward. Our speed dropped to a crawl as we passed through a large concentration of sea ice - penguins and seals lounging on the ice flows.

At 10:30 a.m. on 29 January we entered Antarctic Sound, setting foot on the Antarctic peninsular at Hope Bay. We were greeted by a Snowy Sheathbill feasting on the remains of a penguin that had been turned inside out by the exploits of a Leopard Seal. The Leopard Seal had thrashed the penguin on the surface of the water to break its skin - a gruesome sight.

Kelp Gulls stood at the waters edge as Adelie penguins marched down to the sea, some sliding face first on their bellies. The mountainside was covered in what at first glance looked like black dots – an estimated 124,000 pair of Adelie penguins. Skuas circled above searching for defenceless chicks.

The trip had been full of drama and excitement, but there was also a sense of tranquility in the knowledge we had had an opportunity to explore this untamed place.

We returned to Ushuaia across a calm Drake Passage and past Cape Horn.The next morning we would begin the marathon flight home. The first leg was a chartered 747 - the same plane that had brought us down from Buenos Aires. As we began take-off we just didn't seem to be going fast enough. With the ocean approaching, the captain aborted the take-off, turned the aircraft around, and got it right the second time. A final drama in an eventful journey!

The Red Centre

We reached the desert clearing for dinner when the sun was low in the sky. The colour palette of gold, ochre and yellow was akin to the colours of Tuscany. The effects of the setting sun provided a richness to the landscape, darkening as the sun retreated.

We were in the Red Centre - the term Australians use for the centre of their Continent - or in their vernacular - The Red Cenner.

We had flown in from Northern Queensland a few days earlier - the main purpose of our visit to see Ayers Rock - that sandstone monolith standing in the middle of nowhere. As our Quantas flight touched down at Ayers Rock airport we felt a little let down. We had seen the Rock from the air, and quite honestly, it did not look that impressive. In a climate where rainfall is scarce, the morning of our arrival had been a deluge of heavy rain and the vista was overcast and sullied. And you may be asking yourself, where do you stay when you have arrived in the middle of nowhere.

A complex of hotels and campgrounds accommodates the many visitors who come to the Red Centre, and checking into our hotel room, we saw that the clouds had lifted, replaced by a piercingly blue sky. Before long we felt the power of 40 degrees in a arid environment.

Our room was a short walk from the lobby through desert gardens of cactus and less familiar vegetation that provided home to the natural inhabitants of the Red Centre - monitor lizards and colonies of rather large ants who worked feverously to move the sand between the paving stones. Other creepy crawlies crossed our path and a loud buzzing from invisible life forms came from the surrounding bushes. And then there were the flies - millions of them. They are persistemt and undaunted by a brush of the hand. They also seem to travel in cavalries - no lone flies here.

What is remarkable about the Red Centre is the way in which the changing light of the day strengthens and dulls the colours of the desert. Sunrise over Ayers Rock - or Uluru - its aboriginal name - is like watching a rebirth of an ancient giant as the colours change from grey to tan to yellow. Sunset is even more dramatic as the colour morphs from red to rust before disappearing in its nightly ritual.

That evening we would experience it first hand in the desert. Walking up a small incline we quickly understood why this spot had been chosen as the greeting point. On one side Uluru shone in the fading sun. On the other side an almost ethereal glow encased the Kata-Tjutas - an oddly shaped mountain range known as the Olgas.

Australian sparkling wine, garnished with stawberries was offered as we watched the time old actions of nature. As the sun disappeared, out of nowhere came the haunting drone of a didgeriddo - the oldest wind instrument in the world, mastered by the aboriginals of Australia, one of the oldest cultures on earth.

All colour had drained from the sky by the time we took our seats for dinner. Tables had been set with white linen, silverware and candles - elegance in the rawness of nature. The backdrop - a fading landscape.

What followed was a meal showcasing the delicacies of Northern Australia - kangaroo kebobs and crocodile in red wine sauce. But fortunately, no witchety grubs - an apparently tasty snack found in tree roots and much enjoyed by the Aboriginals.

As we partook of the various courses, complimented by some very good Australian wine, the only illumination left came from the candles on the various tables. Occasionally there would be a loud shriek of surprise as an insect confused by the flame would dart to another source of interest - in my case, inside my shirt. I could hear my own scream - how could something that small feel so enormous and evoke such a reaction?

And then the waiters extinguished the candles and we were in total darkness. As our eyes adjusted, we looked up and experienced something truly astonishing - a canopy of stars that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was as if the land had disappeared and we had been consumed by the Milky Way.

The sound of the didgeriddo and our own animated conversation ceased - replaced by total, utter silence. The sound of silence was overwhelming - it was as if we were collectively holding our breath, absorbed by the magnificence above us.

As astronomer began to explain the night sky. Mars and Venus were now clearly visible to us. The Southern Cross shone brightly. Some of the astrological signs like Taurus and Libra were clear. Orion and the Seven Sisters sparkled against a backdrop of black velvet. It was as though you could reach out and touch the shimmering stars.

We learned that the Aboriginals have a legend about Orion and the Seven Sisters. An old, ugly man chased seven sisters across the land, determined to marry one of them. Eventually the sisters took to the sky to escape him, taking on the persona of the stars. The man became Orion and while his star is nearby, he is never close enough to harm the sisters.

That evening in the desert was remarkable. Talk about being reminded of your place in the universe. As human beings we have such grand ideas - and then you see a million stars in an infinite universe. One that Uluru and the Kata Tjuta have been basking in since time began.

This story comes from our 2006 visit to Australia - some of the

8 aboriginal prints above depict Orion and the Seven Sisters as well as witchety grubs.

Memories of Japan

Japan was a very pleasant surprise for us.

While our trip expectations were more than met, we had not expected the friendliness and courtesy of absolutely everyone along the way.

That was the case from our very first day in Tokyo as we bumbled in the subway system trying to get the ticket machine to spit out a ticket. Within minutes, not only had someone come to our aid, they had walked us to the correct platform, bowed and waved us goodbye!

Why were we on the subway you ask? It was our first day in Japan and raining as though it was the end of the world. After a soggy morning on an organized tour to orient ourselves with the capital we decided to spend part of the afternoon dry on the subway system as we ventured to Ginza.

Those who know Doug understand his dislike of all things fish. This was a little challenging as we left Tokyo for smaller communities. At several hostelries, the advertised western-style breakfast turned out to be western in name only with many items difficult to identify. Being a trooper he did join me for a sushi dinner on our final night in Kyoto some days later. We sat at the counter of a small restaurant, the only non-Japanese. Despite the language difficulties, Doug was presented with beautifully wrapped vegetables masking as sushi. The chefs watched as the first bite was taken into their special creation, nodding approvingly as Doug smiled, relieved that no tuna had crept on to his plate.

Much of our travel in Japan was by train, including the Shinkansen (bullet train). On one of our train legs, there was a fault on the line and we were delayed for several hours. In Japanese style an apology was offered by way of a complimentary lunch the next day.

We had timed our trip to meet up with a repositioning cruise back to Vancouver from Kobe and we were hoping that we would not miss the cherry blossom season completely - it was a little late for Honshu as we tracked blossom progress on the website before leaving Vancouver. While the season was over on southern Honshu we were not disappointed as we travelled northwest, and later north to the island of Hokkaido. Cherry blossoms are revered in Japan, with the season viewed as a new beginning. Apparently cherry blossom enthusiasts actually camp out in the larger gardens in anticipation of the first signs of trees breaking bud.

Mount Fuji was another highlight. We were not expecting to be able to get up into the snowline where it was cold, windy and fresh with new snow. Fuji is often cloaked in cloud and while this was the case early in the day of our visit, by afternoon we enjoyed a tremendous view.

Takayama and Shirakawa were highlights of our Japanese adventure. Takayama lies in a valley surrounded by mountains. Untouched by WW2 bombing, examples of original Japanese structures line the picturesque streets. Householders decorate the entranceways to their homes with imagination and colour. The glacial water from the mountains drains into the town through narrow, winding waterways - and apparently - makes excellent sake.

As we drove north west to Shirakawa we saw an interesting site at a small dam. Many years earlier, the power company successfully relocated two 500 year old cherry trees to higher ground when the valley was flooded to create the dam. The trees are regarded as icons by the locals and we were thrilled to seem them in full bloom.

Shirakawa is a world heritage site because of its homes with steeply crested roofs, thatched with pampas grass and designed to deal with the very heavy snowfall each winter. Our first view of the town was from a hillside - it looked like a community of gingerbread houses in a tranquil, lush setting with beautiful mountainous scenery. One of the villagers took us on a tour of her home and explained the various facets of life in her community. Her home had recently been re-thatched at a cost of $US 100,000.

On our trip we visited many Japanese gardens, but our favourite was a 17th century garden in Kanazawa, our next stop. We arrived at the garden early in the morning. It was uncrowded and we felt as though we were the only people there and well outnumbered by koi of every shade of red, orange and yellow.

Our final train journey took us from Kanazawa to Kyoto - the imperial city of Japan. We spent the next few days exploring this beautiful city, enjoying Nijo Castle and the Golden Pavilion, as well as walking through the many shopping arcades and markets.

We also visited the Imperial Palace which required us to venture to an administration office where we showed our passports before being issued with tickets for the official tour. We assumed this was because members of the royal family may be in residence. Not so - the palace has not been used as an official residence for years. Despite the paperwork, the visit was memorable- some, but not all, of the buildings were beautiful and set in such tranquil gardens back dropped by what colour remained of cherry blossom and azalea.

Our land tour of Japan over, we left Kyoto for the port of Kobe via Osaka to join the cruise ship for an 18-day trip back to Vancouver.

Our first port of call was a second visit to Tokyo. We were grateful because it was a sunny day and we enjoyed venturing to some of the places we had not seen the first time, including several fascinating markets. What made it all the more interesting was observing the people going about their daily lives.

Sailing north, we called in at Hakodate and Otaru (for Sapporo) on the island of Hokkaido. Here it was cooler and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. At one of the gardens all you could see was tree after tree of glorious colour against a snowy backdrop.

Our final Japanese port was Aomori on the northern tip of Honshu. While this was another great day of sights, the highlight was the town of Nabuta. Nabuta hosts an annual festival of paper floats each August. The massive structures are beautifully decorated and depict scenes and people from local culture. The floats are enormous and are dragged by the townspeople through the town with revellers who come from all over Japan to dance alongside the floats. We were invited to join a team to try and pull a float in the warehouse where they are displayed. It took about two dozen very strong people to get any movement at all from what looked like a smaller float!

Leaving Japan we enjoyed a six day crossing of the North Pacific which followed the Aleutian chain of islands, finally docking on Kodiak Island in Alaska. Kodiak is the king crab capital and home to the second largest fleet in the United States.

Our next port of call was Homer. Surrounded by glaciers, we had an incredibly scenic sail in as the sun rose in the sky.

As the ship turned south, our next port of call was Sitka. We spent that morning sea kayaking in light rain. Eagles swooped over our kayaks in mild interest and the mountains made a moody reflection in the water.

After many years of cruising we knew we were back in reality when we docked in Ketchikan. While early in the Alaska cruise season, two other ships were docked. Uncharacteristically, the sun shone brightly in Ketchikan and we had an enjoyable day exploring the town beyond the tourist shops.

The final day cruising the inside passage and Seymour Narrows back to Vancouver was absolutely gorgeous, providing an appropriate final chapter to a very enjoyable journey.

The Heatwave

The heatwave continued relentlessly. It was every man to himself to devise the best way to stay cool. We had gone to the beach early that morning, much earlier in the day than we would have normally, in the faint hope that it would still be reasonably cool. Not so.

Walking along the gravel pathway, the only sounds came from sprinklers in the gardens of homes where the owners still cared about their lawns, such had been the duration of the heatwave. Above us, a bald eagle swooped over the beach in search of a meal, while two heron made their approach to the shoreline, landing in graceful unison.

And then we saw him, head down, draped in a wide-brimmed hat. He was digging furiously in the black sand. Two of his companions appeared disinterested in the digging. One played with a red plastic tugboat, dragging it enthusiastically through the sand as though it were fighting the waves in a ferocious storm. The other ran carefree through the waves as they faded on the beach, kite in hand. Such was the stillness of that hot sunny morning, the kite refused to cooperate, bouncing clumsily along the beach.

None of this detracted from the digging.

On closer inspection we could see that a city was under construction, the design of which had evidently undergone much thought and planning. This was not a crude collection of sandcastles. In the vision of its architect, it could have been Venice on the beach, complete with grand buildings interconnected with intricate waterways when the tide eventually came in.

While Dad worked busily on his city of sand, the children continued to play with their boat and kite, unaware of the urgency of the construction. The trio were oblivious to the heat. They had beaten it for now.