You are small, the world is bigger

(But what you do with it matters) 

I don’t remember the cold:

Everything is big. We are small. 

That first step, when your foot is hovering between the safety of the door and the uncharted outside, is a choice. And while an astronaut’s step launches them into space, where footprints go rogue, my step leads me to a new planet, an alien world. 

I wonder if an astronaut gets a pit in their stomach without gravity. I can promise the swooping in my stomach was only amplified with every growing inch between us and our ship, our home, our safety. As much as we love the ship and the home within it, the point of the work, money, and time is for the moments when the ship is no longer there. Insignificant in the face of towering glacial mountains. 

Slowly, the understanding settles in: 

From that point on, everything is overwhelmed by the simple fact that every single thing in your vicinity, the foreign world you’re discovering, has only been seen by a very small percentage of the homo sapian species. Where few have ventured before. A land that can count you among the first thousands to be there. A homo sapian, conquering the land of ice. 

I do remember the wind; it stung my cheeks. But they were so warm and red from the budding excitement, the laughter and buildup, for the awe of the self-proclaimed coolest-badass-thing-I ’ve-ever-done! 

I remember the wabble of the Zodiac boat when I stepped into it, and the sailor’s grip from the guide helping me down. I remember it was calm. I was not calm. Hands clutched around a camera bag like it’s a lifesaving parachute in a mayday plane. Having no idea what was going to occur next. Anticipating excitement. 

There is a simplicity in the title “homo sapian:” 

For me, it sparked the realization that we are not special. We are alive, we move, we build, we create, we feel- and so does nearly every form of life we know of. The birds, the snakes, the coyotes, the flowers- we are not alone in the universe, much less on this planet. We’re not a special species; we’re a dominant and quickly evolving species. Sentient in a way that’s separated our understanding of life into categories, “lesser than” being anything that doesn’t follow the steps we took and the changes we morphed our lives around. “Developed” only means what we say it does. 

For the thousands of ants living in the meticulously created ant hills, with their social systems and the ability to carry something up to 50 times their own body weight (something we can’t do), they are incredibly adv(ants)ed. Compared to an ant, what are we? Large… I guess? We’re special in the way every moment is unique, unlike anything else, but not inherently better. Value comes from what we associate it with. 

All this mind-dumpiness hits me like a snowball to the face as I’m sitting in our small boat, on the precipice of change. Sudden, stinging, alive. Just like the land of the ice, vast before me. 

We’re in paradise:

Paradise Harbor, that is, on the western coast of the Antarctic Peninsula. Eons ago, the land beneath us was South America, and the mountains were the extending tendrils of the Andes. Upon Antarctica’s split from South America, the Western Peninsula became a glacial mountain range, one of many on Antarctica. However, the various Antarctic mountains are very different from their cousins that dot the globe. 

I don’t remember being surprised that Antarctica’s Pinesula was extremely mountainous. I thought nothing of it. I saw the mountains and gaped and awed, but I wasn’t surprised. Later, our Expedition Guide Leader, Laura, would share her first memory of Antarctica itself, and she was very surprised by the mountains. Her surprise made me notice that I’d hadn’t shared it. And then it planted the idea in my mind that there were so many ways to see the world, and some you could only experience through others’ recollections. 

Antarctica’s Challenge: 

Antarctica’s climate requires adaptation from every species that relies on Antarctic survival. A Polar Desert, the driest, windiest, coldest, iceist and highest elevation landmass in our known universe challenges every form of life with polarizing changes and extinction-grade weather. 

The scars of these battles litter the environment. There are gouges carved out of mountains where enormous glaciers once proudly grew. Stubborn snow that’s faced enough polar-night blizzards is too proud to let the sun wear it down in summer. Vicious, silent predators lurk beneath the surface, invisible and waiting to strike down their prey. Blinding, deafening, and numbing, the environment takes a toll on our homo sapien senses. But on day one of exploring the continent, we don’t care. Would you?

As we begin our passage around corners and into the nooks and crannies this harbor shelters, the weight of Antarctica’s challenge hits hard. Learning about a biome this intricate and diverse is so harddddddd. (I’m sorry, my science education was mainly sheep heart dissection, Bill Nye, and the animated movie about a white blood cell- blame the American public school system, not me.) Every biological and physical aspect of our earth is combined, related, and influential on one another. For Antarctica, as the base of the planet and the point from which every drop of water travels through, this is even more true. 

Far braver people than I have dared to overwinter in the total darkness and unquenchable storms. For me, there is not enough Sunny D in the world to get me through that debilitating darkness. Instead, our challenge is that of a protector. Whatever conquests we claim on the land of ice pale in comparison to the deeply intricate ecosystem that’s survived for thousands of years, undisturbed and independent. 

We’re participants in the continent’s conservation. Our respect, attention, and give-a-sh*t quantities are the start. We follow biosecurity protocols, regular disinfection procedures, rules, and expectations developed to keep the land, the animals, and the invasive visitors safe. Boots clean, eyes open and up, with your ego abandoned; that’s how we set off in this lawless place. 

Everything comes in shades of greyscale I never even knew existed. I’m sure I saw countless colors for the first time. From the sea, the ice, the reflections, the sky, and the 20-hour daylight that blends and refracts light into thousands of variations, it is all new. Seabirds are soaring, dipping, turning, dancing through the sky.  When the sun was peeking out, it was like a young child, afraid but curious. And just a hint of that life-bringing light would illuminate the snowglobe around us, and suddenly, we shone. And my mind, completely overwhelmed by the world in front of me, shuts off. 

Memories foggier than the clouds, but more real than the wind: 

Looking back, I don’t solidly remember much about our harbor explorations. I remember glimpses of Southern Humpback Whales coming up for air, flashes of birds zooming through the air. I remember the Crabeater Seal well, the lazy animal snoozing on an iceberg. But even that I remember, admittedly, because my brain attached it to the fact that Crabeater Seals don’t actually eat crabs… and a part of me found that really amusing, hence the lasting memory. 

My pictures hint at other moments in the water, tantalizing snapshots of the memories that lived only in those moments. A sight in front of me 1,000x bigger than myself, and 10,000x smaller than its whole. Things that big are hard to trap. They’re too encompassing, too much change, an overload of information and active senses, tense on the edge of the experience. I’m only 5’2”, far too small to be able to take the entirety of those glacial mountains with me. Instead, I treasure and collect every small fragment in my mind.

What I do remember: 

I remember impeccably well the crunch of the pebbles under Laura’s boots as she directed our boat up to the Antarctic shore. I remember laughing in wonder at the small Gentoo penguins waddling up and down the beach, and the single-file trail stamped out by human feet that led somewhere up and over the small hill in front of us. 

I think it’s safe to say I’ll never leave a footprint on the moon, and I have no way of knowing what was spiraling through Armstrong’s mind as his foot hovered between the safety of the ship and the unexplored expanse before him. I know the world likes to remember that first step and the monumental FIRST it achieves, but for me, it was the steps that came after that mattered. Those secondary and tertiary steps were the ones that changed my life. 

I don’t remember the cold. 

I do remember the squawking penguins around us, the vastness of the sky, and the clouds blanketing the world. I remember looking down at my boots, wondering if that first step really meant anything. I’ve stepped foot in the London airport, never outside of it, would that count as going to the UK? It counted for Armstrong on the moon. But there is no way that he would be looking across at the horizon, this formidable rock, the conquered land, and would feel no need to take another few steps. I know, because I would’ve had to have been dragged, kicking and screaming, if one step on the continent was it. 

Lured by the curve of the hill and the clouds beginning to part, we were giddy walking toward the trail. Slushy and warm, dissolving under our feet, faint in the effort of carrying gear and person up the trail. Staggering in the snow, unlike any other snow I’ve ever skied or seen. Stopping in awe. No rush, no worry, no fear. Just euphoria and compounding curiosity. 

Yet, despite our efforts, the end of the trail reveals nothing more than the reminder of how small we are. On top of the land, overlooking the bay, losing sight of the ship we thought was massive, as it blurs between the icebergs and the clouds. 

Small:

Even the birds, from the tiniest __________ to the largest _________ serve only as reminders of place, as they dominate the skies, navigating the winds. The penguins, even at two feet tall, are experts in this terrain, at home on land and sea, fearless on the beach and fast as bullets in the water. Mountains upon mountains, layers of ice and snow and rock, unshakable, bold and steady. The laborious walk up makes it real, especially when we learn it wasn’t really significant. Not in the face of the astronomically large ridges above us. (Cue Miley Cyrus… there’s always gonna be another mountain…). 

And if all of that isn’t enough to put us in our place, we were about to be given one final, massive demonstration. It started when we were looking the wrong way. We were looking out across the ocean, not in at the land. CRACK!!!. Deafening, thunderous, and cripplingly powerful, the glacier calving behind us sends shockwaves through my nervous system. Whipping around, we turn to see a massive glacier piece collapsing into the ocean. Seemingly immovable chunks of ice and snow, brutally resilient for centuries, crumble like an old cookie. Cathedrals of ice, arched and freestanding, tested against time, crushed faster than the beer can under your foot. 

It’s the kind of event that would obliterate Colorado’s mountain roads. The kind of noise that would make you question the stability of the tectonic plates beneath your feet. Thousands of variations of frozen water (because apparently, there are thousands of variations) that once stood tall, silhouetting the sky, shaken like a maraca. The waves that race outward as the disintegrating bones of the continent invade the stilled water send ripples so far that the last remnants of them are strong enough to shake our Drake Passage crossing ship. You certainly can’t experience something like that on the moon, Niel. 

The glacier’s calving has everyone, even our seasoned expedition team, in awe. But the event that’s literally rocked our world has no effect and causes no reaction from anything in the bay, but us. The non-natives. This calving is just one of hundreds, just another example of the thousands of ice monuments that disappear forever, daily. For the animals around us, I imagine it’s similar to the siren noise of emergency vehicles we’ve gotten so used to; we only pause in our conversation just long enough to let the brief interruption pass. 

But we are not native to this place. For us, it’s like watching Stonehenge topple. Just a casual destruction of a one-of-a-kind masterpiece that takes its centuries-old lifespan and secrets to the grave. 

I don’t remember the cold, but I do remember the stark silence. The silence in the land and the sea, the whole world, silent. Silent in memory of the end of millennia, a fractured piece of the world gone forever. 

The legacy of the ice doesn’t end with its collapse:

 Rather, its the start of a second phase of transition, melting into the sea, salinating and raising sea levels around the world. One billion people globally are at currently at risk from rising sea levels, and the rate in which its occurring is alarming enough that the World Economic Forum names it as the third-biggest threat to the world. Perhaps even more alarming is the two issues that precede environmental threats, state-based armed conflict, and secondly mis and disinformation that “fuel instability and undermine trust.”

The end of a millennium-long lifespan. We never saw it begin, but it’s because of us that it ended faster than its natural cycle. 

I recognize the hypocrisy in that and take responsibility not only for my part in it, but also for the extended harm caused by my travel. However, I do firmly believe that every fact I learned, every joke I remembered, every irony that exists on the land with(out) life, taught me these lessons. These lessons are not just what I learned, but a continuation of that education beyond myself and my perspectives.

 ‘There are so many ways to see the world, and some you can only experience through others’ recollections,’ I wrote earlier. If only we could ask a glacier what it’s seen, and what makes up the oxygen trapped inside of it from 100,000 years ago. If only we could speak to the whales and understand the crippling effect of overfishing krill firsthand. If only we were more than an invasive species across the globe, wiping out native flora and fauna. But I can’t do that. And unless you’re harboring a superpower that would allow you to do so, you can’t either. (Side note, if you do have that power, that’s really badass, and if you need a sidekick or a confidante, you can tell me I can keep a secret.) 

But we can learn from what is here, while it is here. The cultivation of knowledge across ages, space, and time is the only thing that got us here. It’s the only thing that’s resulted in my feet on a continent less that 0.02% of the human population will ever see. History repeats itself, learn from the old, age is wisdom… if these are true, why is the exception our planet? 

I still don’t remember the cold:

Perhaps because the Antarctic Peninsula is the fastest-warming place on the planet. Perhaps it’s a sense that faded into the moment, much as many of those minutes did. But I do remember cruising in the bay, the wildlife, the perseverance, the vivid colors, my found footing on a new land, and the shockwave of the partial collapse of the desert continent. 

I’ve always loved deserts- the openness, the calm. I challenge the notion that the desert is not beautiful because it’s empty, lonely, and secluded, but rather because it isn’t. 

Antarctica is the same, anything but empty. Anything but lifeless.