For me, it all began on my 60th birthday when I decided to enhance my photographic skills in landscape and wildlife photography, preparing for the next stage of life after concluding my career as an architect. Initially, I hesitated, grappling with various "ifs" and "buts" until my daughter nudged me, saying, "If you really want to, then go!"
Over the following years, I found myself marveling at the northern lights in the dark and icy night sky of Finnish Lapland. In Masai Mara, I gazed into the golden eyes of a lioness drinking from a puddle in the early morning light. Seven years later, in February 2023, my biggest dream came true after two pandemic-induced postponements. Standing at the quay in Ushuaia, the southernmost town in the world, I was ready to embark on the M/v Plancius, which would take me to Antarctica. Excitement overwhelmed me, and it felt surreal that this journey was about to commence.
In the initial hours, I spent time on deck, my eyes and heart wide open, savoring the salty sea air and feeling the Arctic wind on my face. Suddenly, the sky darkened, and nature presented me with a magical rainbow stretching across the Beagle Channel—a warm welcome and an invitation to step into Antarctica through the open gateway.
Crossing the Drake Passage in this vessel felt like being in a nutshell, surrounded by 360 degrees of water for the next two days. This experience made me feel inconspicuous, as if nature didn't care about my presence. Petrels and albatrosses accompanied us as we reached the Antarctica Convergence, a fertile zone where plankton and other species thrived. The sea remained calm as the ship ventured further south through this almost mystical atmosphere.
Witnessing blows from distant whales for the first time, encountering a fur seal in the middle of nowhere, and observing jumping chinstrap penguins in search of food were extraordinary moments. Unfortunately, the abundance of maritime life remained hidden in the ocean's depths. Later in the afternoon, a pod of killer whales appeared beside the vessel. The captain stopped the engine, providing us with time to observe. In the frosty night, the clear sky, free from light pollution, allowed the stars to shine brightly. Above me, the Southern Cross gleamed, filling my heart with joy.
Finally, on the fourth day, I stepped out of the zodiac into the icy waters of the Southern Ocean, placing my foot on the seventh continent. Clad in thick rubber boots, I found myself amidst chattering Adelie and Gentoo penguins—a delightful welcome. Walking among these little creatures, previously known only from TV documentaries, was accompanied by a discord of noise and distinct smells. Weddell Seals relaxed on the beach, while Antarctic Fur Seals barked warnings to maintain distance.
As I continue walking a few steps further, I discover a small penguin chick standing in its fluffy baby plumage near the shore, gazing straight out to the open sea. What could have happened? Did its parents not return from their food hunt? If so, it might spell the end for this little chick. Covered in its soft plumage, the chick is not yet able to swim, as its molt is incomplete. It's disheartening to witness this scene without the ability or permission to intervene. After some time, the chick takes a few steps into the water and immediately loses contact with the ground. Now it's floating out into the open water, and I fear it may never return.
A Zodiac cruises along the shore of Kinnes Cove. Adelie Penguins stand in a row, staring intently into the spray of the waves, searching for any potential danger beneath the surface. Two leopard seals lie relaxed on an ice floe, with one of them peering over the edge towards us. From the Zodiac, I'm at eye level with the big predator, and through my telephoto lens, I can clearly see the dark spots on her gray fur, shimmering in the smooth afternoon light. With her round, dark eyes wide open, she smiles innocently at me. I cannot trust her. Not far away, behind her, a lonely penguin stands on another ice floe, bearing tooth marks clearly visible on its front. Small red drops of blood emerge and roll over the white breast feathers.
Snowhill Island, the southernmost point of my journey at the beginning of the pack ice. In winter, I could have witnessed a colony of Emperor Penguins here, but now, at the beginning of summer, they have already ventured out to the open sea. Icebergs silently float in the pink and blue morning light. There is no wind, and the view, the light, the silence—all are magical. Some Arctic Terns are fishing for krill. The current moves the icebergs, and from every angle, their shape changes.
What remains? A deep gratitude that I have been able to take this trip. As a mother, the wish that every child grows up with a mother or a person who awakens their curiosity to discover Mother Earth in all its beauty, the sensitivity to recognize her vulnerability, and the will to protect and preserve her. And for yourself? If you really want—go! Go out and explore, independent of your age; it will never be too late. Carpe Diem, as long as your body can follow your mind. What remains are memories.
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